The motel room smelled like cheap whiskey and old leather, the air thick with the remnants of another long hunt. The TV flickered in the corner, casting shadows across the walls, but Dean wasn’t watching. Not really. The battered laptop was open on the bed, angled just enough so Sam couldn't see the screen. The glow lit up Dean’s face, the way his lips twitched—just a little—as he listened.

A guitar riff snarled through the tinny speakers, sharp and reckless. A voice followed, husky, dripping attitude, slinking through the melody like smoke curling from a cigarette.

"God, she sucks," Dean scoffed, dragging a hand down his face as if the sound itself was offensive. He leaned back, propping his boots on the table, tossing a look at Sam, who was nose-deep in some lore book. "I mean, have you heard this crap? They’re killing rock, man. No soul, no grit. Just another sellout band with a hot lead singer.”

Sam didn’t look up. “And yet, you’re the one playing her album for the third time this week.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Research,” he muttered.

But his fingers twitched against his knee, tapping out the drum beat he definitely didn’t have memorized.

She was everywhere—on magazine covers at gas stations, on stage, draped in neon and sweat, the crowd screaming for her. And Dean? He told himself it was nothing. A passing interest. A joke.

But later, when Sam was asleep, he’d put his headphones in, let her voice pour over him like sin.

And when he saw her again, backstage, all dark eyeliner and lazy smirk, he’d pretend he wasn’t standing there wearing her band tee under his flannel.

“Rock ‘n’ roll’s dead,” he’d tell her.

But damn, she made it feel alive.