As a sleek, black car hurtled down the highway somewhere in Colorado, a cassette ended. The man in the driver's seat reached out to put in another, but a second man riding shotgun stopped him.
"Hold it," he said. "I am not listening to that thing again. If I hear 'Highway to Hell' one more time in the next week, I might just lose it."
Dean shrugged. "Sucks for you, Sammy. Driver picks the music-"
Sam rolled his eyes. "…Shotgun shuts his cakehole, I know. But I stopped by a music store back in South Fork and grabbed this." He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a different cassette. "You have no idea how long it took me to find this."
Dean eyed it suspiciously. "What is it? Some new-age jazz crap? What's this new junk that's all the rage these days? Not in my baby, no way." He patted the steering wheel affectionately.
"Trust me, you'll like it." Sam switched the cassettes out and pressed play.
"I swear, Sam, if you're playing Britney Spears in my car, I'm gonna-"
Suddenly the music started. Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
They then grinned simultaneously, banging on their thighs and the wheel to the music.
Somewhere in Colorado, a loud beat rang out down a long stretch of road, along with the loud, not-quite-on-key singing of two men: "WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!"
