Late night, a black Chevy Impala hurtles down the deserted highway.

Inside the car, the driver and passenger are having an argument about the music, currently Metallica, being blared at top volume.

Sam shouts so he can be heard "Dean! Just turn it down alright? Jeez, do you want to wake up the whole state!" Sam reaches out and turns the volume down himself.

Dean reaches back over immediately and turns it back up. "It's easier for me to tune you out when the music is up Sammy." Dean looks over and smirks at Sam.

"Ok Dean, I didn't want to have to resort to this, but you leave me no choice." Sam opens up the glove compartment and pulls out a couple of Dean's Motor Head cassettes, and holds them out the window, threatening to drop them to their shattering death.

"Ok! Ok!" Dean quickly reaches over and turns the volume down a bit in a desperate attempt to save his beloved music.

Sam grins with satisfaction, and tosses the cassettes back into the glove compartment.

The boys were moving on to find their next case . . . they'd just finished dealing with the angry spirit of an ancient voodoo priestess . . . She'd cast one of her voodoo hexes while they were attempting to banish her . . . but as far as they could tell . . . nothing had come of it . . .

The Next Morning

Dean pulls into a diner so that they can grab some breakfast.

Walking into the diner, Dean swipes a newspaper and sits down to read through it. When the waitress walks up to get their order, Dean barely even looks up from the paper as he orders, and Sam's eyes are fixated just a bit lower than her face the whole time she's standing there. When she walks away, Sam lets out a low whistle and Dean looks up at him.

Dean: scowling "It's rude to stare Sam. Women deserve more respect than that."

Sam: "Come on man! She was smokin' hot! smirking Bet you $20 I can get her number before we leave."

Dean: rolls his eyes at Sam "you are so immature Sam . . . I really don't know how we could possible be related . . ." keeps reading through the newspaper . . . hoping to stumble onto a new case to work . . .

Sam: "Hey Dean . . . pass me dad's journal . . ." he wanted to flip through it, make sure most all of the information was still fresh in his mind . . . just in case he'd need it for their next case.

Dean: "sure . . . here . . ." picks up the journal and hands it over to Sam . . . but as he picks it up . . . a few scraps of paper fall onto the table. Dean picks them up and looks them over, they all had a name and a phone number . . . and all were written on those little paper napkins you get in a bar . . .

Dean: "Sam . . . can't you find a better place to store your numbers?" tossing the napkins at Sam

Sam: looks them over "these aren't mine Dean . . ." looks up at Dean, smirking "they must be yours . . . "

Dean: "no way . . . you know I don't pick up random girls in bars . . . that's your gig Sam."