A/N:Possibly first chapter for this story.

The sun reflected off the recent rain slicked road, drying it into uneven geometric patches turned into spray by the wheels of the Impala. Head laying against Dean's thigh, Buffy absently flicked through a Cosmo, laid out across the front seat as her bare feet bounced to the beat in the frame of the open window. Dean's head nodded in unison as he leaned back in the driver's seat, left hand resting on the wheel, right hand gently stroking through the strands of Buffy's wind tossed hair.

"She stood there bright as the sun on that California coast," Buffy sang, turning the page.

"He was a midwestern boy on his own," Dean followed, fingers drumming against the wheel.

It was a good day.

Another good day, in fact, in a long string of good days, great months, incredible years.

Since they had stopped the apocalypse (which Buffy liked to remind Dean was her dozenth), this had become standard operating procedure- Buffy and Dean, dusting and salting and burning across the back roads of the United States. With the Bunker now at their disposal functioning as a base of operations, and the library of knowledge provided by the Men of Letters, they had been knocking out big and little bads alike, thinning out the evil herd, just like the old days.

It was repetitive and predictable, and… really fucking nice.

"And those Hollywood nights," they belted together, "in those Hollywood hills. She was looking so-"

"-kkkkkkkkkkk - diamonds and frills," the radio crackled with static as the Impala rolled out of broadcast range. "All those big city -kkkkkkkkkkkkk- high rolling hills - kkkkkkkkkk- all the lights- kkkkkkkkkkk..."

"Damn… you used to be able to get this station all the way through Colorado," he sighed, reaching for the dial. " Sorry, Bob."

"I blame that Steve Jobs fella and his newfangled whatchamacallit," Buffy mocked in an old lady voice as she flipped another page.

Dean responded by flicking her nose. Twisting the dial, Dean was assaulted by a collection of pop and country stations that made him bristle.. A very nineties guitar riff cut through the static for a split second before Dean moved on the next disappointing station.

"Go back!" Buffy squealed, shooting up to her knees.

Backtracking slightly, Dean shot her a questioning look.

"One, two princes kneel before you, that's what I said now. Princes, princes who adore you-"

"Like hell."

"I love that song!" she protested.

Smacking his hand away, Buffy seized control of dial, holding it hostage.

"Marry him, marry me. I'm the one that loved you baby can't you see?" Buffy sang, eyes closed and moving to music rather ungracefully for such an agile slayer, "Ain't got no future or family tree, but I know what a prince and lover ought to be!"

Dean's face deflated into an annoyed, dead eyed glare.

"Are you done yet?"

Cranking the volume louder, she drowned him out, now practically shouting to be heard over the radio.

"-SAID IF YOU WANT TO CALL ME BABY, JUST GO AHEAD NOW!"

The Impala skid to a halt, throwing the loose rocks on the shoulder, billowing a cloud of dust that consumed the car.

"God damn, woman. Enough of your racket!"

Tackling her, Dean pinned her back against the bench seat.

"Driver picks the music, remember?"

"Shotgun withholds sex until she gets her way."

Dean rolled his eyes, smirking.

"Good luck with that," he breathed against her neck, running his lower lip along the length, smiling against her skin when he felt her shudder underneath him.

"Deviant," she growled, putting up her best effort to resist.

"Tease," he mumbled from behind her ear as his fingertips ghosted over the exposed skin of her midriff.

Doors slammed from the cherry fastback mustang that had been following behind them, and feet crunched against the shoulder rocks in pounding steps.

"Are you guys- ugh..."

"Get lost, Sammy," Dean threatened. "Busy."