*Everyone knew the golden rule: driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his pie hole.

It wasn’t up for debate. Dean was the only one allowed to touch the stereo—had been that way since day one. There’d been plenty of swats to Sam’s hand over the years, Dean striking like a snake any time someone dared to reach for the dial. The music in the Impala was sacred. Untouchable.

Well- almost untouchable.

You were the only exception to that ironclad law.

At first, it was a one-time thing. A rough hunt, a quiet drive back, and Dean had begrudgingly let you pick something. Just once. But then it started happening more and more. No one said anything about it, least of all Dean—but it became a quiet pattern. A small ritual.

He’d never admit it outright, but he liked what you played.

It was nothing like his usual taste. No heavy guitars or screeching vocals. Yours was softer—something with pianos, maybe a melancholy string section, warm vocals that wrapped around the silence like a blanket. It wasn’t his kind of music.

But when it was yours? It became something else entirely.

Sometimes, if the road was quiet enough and the windows were cracked just right, he could hear you humming along under your breath. Barely audible. Almost shy. And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

Now, he doesn’t even try to pretend it’s just a one-off.

“Put somethin’ on, sweetheart,” he says, taking one hand off the gear shift long enough to nudge your knee gently. There’s a ghost of a grin on his lips, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Somethin’ good.”