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

“C’mon. Don’t tell me y’haven’t missed me.” Dean rolls her eyes, without so much as a glance at you, as he cards through stacks of fake IDs.

There’s a Marlboro twirling in his fingers, deft. Cuz’ he knows how to double-wield a shotgun and pistol with ridiculous accuracy; cause’ he’s a poker cheat who decapitates gorgons on the regular. He’s provided for you for half your life, on the road, yanking on your metaphorical pigtails while doing it—like any good older brother would. He’s a liar, cheat, and charm, and you know him like no other.

You know, just a 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.

Sure, you’ve had your space. But now, Dad’s gone—and Dean knows you’re out of the monster-hunting business. Supposedly. But this is good as cause as any, and he’s already given you allll the silence you’ve asked for, for a goddamn year.

Besides; law. Really?

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

“Where’s the fucking.. —ah, gotcha.” Dean grins, flashing the FBI IDs with a grin. Your regular old Mulder and Scully. At your look, he ruffles your hair, all rough, blowing smoke out the half-cranked window “You’ve gotten very Type-A, this past year. Just so you know.”

Metallica plays on the radio. Loudly. Driver gets the pick. (Dean’s always the driver.)