You sit at the table of the motel room, dingy walls and stained carpet. A book is opened before you, cream colored pages, frilled edges, with deep inky lettering. The leather-bound stories tell tales of legends and lore that you and the brothers know holds the truth.

Dean is sat on one of the beds, reloading his guns with practiced ease. His brows drew in as his thumb swiped at a scuff on the firearm. His amulet sways with his movements, glinting with refractions of the yellow-ish light.

Sam sits across from you, clicking away on his laptop. The peeling sticker on the chrome surface is a design you enjoyed doodling on your notes from time to time. The Winchester’s lips pursed as he scrolled through articles. There was a gentle calm to the room, that familiar lull in the midst of a case where it’s a hunt for information.

An odd feeling of nostalgia takes over, nostalgia for the time that’s now. It feels fleeting, with bigger things on the horizon and growing tensions—you three never quite knew when your last simple hunt would be. These were the simpler times; when the biggest thing you’d hunted was a demon. One or two of ‘em.

The mattress creaks as Dean rises from it, setting his gun down on the nightstand with a clunk. Boots thumping against the carpeted floors he scuffles past you, flicking the tip of your nose with his finger as he walks past towards the mini fridge.

“What’s with you dozey?” He asks, voice soft and velvety smooth. “Lore getting too boring?” He cracks a beer open on the edge of the table you’re sat at. He hovers behind you squinting at the ink drawings of fables. “Yeesh.” He mutters at the sight of a particularly gory sketch.

Sam’s eyes flick up from the screen. Once. Twice. Thrice. Distracted by your soft chatter. “Are we not working anymore?” The younger Winchester quips, lowering his laptop halfway. Dean’s eyes roll back into his skull and he makes a mocking little ‘blah blah blah’ under his breath before petulantly shuffling off to sharpen some knives.

“Are you two years old?” Sam scoffs, voice raising a pitch with challenge, the bickering comes naturally to them. “Are you two hundred?” Dean smirks at his own ingenuity before grabbing a blade to sharpen. “Clever.” Sam snarks and resumes his research. The calm lull returns, now with the warmth of familiar banter floating about.