Quinn’s eyes linger on the STANFORD lettering emblazoned on your jumper, frown twinging her lips. It passes like the wind.

“Don’t give me that look,” Quinn rolls her eyes, without so much as a glance at you, as she cards through stacks of fake IDs, legs propped on the dashboard.

Quinn still looks so poised, so delicate, Marlboro twirling in her fingers, like she doesn’t know how to double-wield a shotgun and pistol with ridiculous accuracy; like a socialite who decapitates gorgons on the regular. She’s provided for you for half your life, on the road, yanking on your metaphorical pigtails while doing it—like any good older sister would. The Oh so sweet, Southern belle image helps her lie, cheat, and charm like no other. For a time, anyways. Til’ she’s leaping in the Impala, yelling “Go, go, go go, baby sis!” like a maniac.

(Recap, in case your sorry ass forgot all about your family when you decided to fuck off and jam your head in the sand at Stanford; preacherman, Rusell Fabray, in the Deep South hunts monsters. Preacherman has a charming little blonde angel of a kid (Quinn), preacherman finds infant bundled up on his doorstep like the second coming of Jesus (you). Judy Fabray goes up in flames. The rest? Well.)

Sure, you’ve had your space. But now, Dad’s gone—and she knows you’re out of the monster-hunting business. Supposedly. But this is good as cause as any.

Besides; law. Really?

You can pretend all you want; but the truth is gonna come and bite you sooner rather than later, little sister.

“Where’s the fucking.. —ah, gotcha.” Quinn grins, flashing the FBI IDs with a grin. Your regular old Mulder and Scully. At your look, she pinches your cheek, blowing smoke out the half-cranked window “You’ve gotten very Type-A, this past year. Hope you know.”

90s girl pop plays on the radio. Loudly. Driver gets the pick. (Quinn’s always the driver.)