Gemini (Supernatural Rewrite Sam x Reader x Dean)

Malleus Maleficarum

After nearly a week of quiet roads and no decent cases, the three of you have settled into the kind of motel-room routine that almost feels domestic if you don't look too closely at the weapons bag by the dresser.

Dean is sprawled across one bed with the TV remote balanced on his stomach, flipping between late-night infomercials and some old action movie he claims he isn't watching even though he keeps complaining every time the commercials come on. Sam sits at the small table with his laptop open, one socked foot hooked around the leg of his chair, still pretending he's doing research. You're curled near the foot of Dean's bed in your pajamas, towel-dried hair tucked behind your ears, absently turning your silver locket between your fingers while the low warmth of the room settles around all three of you.

It's nice.

That's the dangerous part.

Nobody is bleeding. Nobody is yelling. Nobody is trying to summon anything, salt anything, stab anything, or die heroically in a way that will piss you off forever. There's just the hum of the heater, the faint smell of takeout lingering from dinner, and the sound of Dean muttering at the television because apparently the guy onscreen is "holding the gun wrong."

Sam glances up from his laptop. "You've said that three times."

"Because he keeps doing it."

"You could stop watching."

Dean looks offended. "And let him keep embarrassing himself unsupervised?"

You let out a tired little laugh and nudge Dean's leg with your foot. "You're annoying."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It sounded like one."

Sam smiles faintly to himself, and for a second, the room feels so normal it almost hurts. Christmas was just over a week ago, but some of the softness from that night still lingers in strange little ways. Sam's tiny tree is gone now, shoved into the trunk because Dean refused to throw it out even though he said it looked pathetic. Your earrings are tucked safely in your bag, and the locket Dean gave back to you hasn't left your neck once.

The metal rests cool against your skin now, familiar and impossible all at once.

Eventually, you push yourself off the bed with a quiet groan and head toward the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "I'm going to bed before Dean starts critiquing reload technique."

Dean calls after you, "That's next."

Sam doesn't look up from his laptop. "Fair warning, the toothpaste is basically dead."

You pause in the bathroom doorway and glance back at him. "Basically dead?"

"You can get one more use out of it if you believe in yourself."

Dean lifts his head from the bed. "Wait, who killed the toothpaste?"

Sam's expression stays innocent in the way that means he absolutely knows what he did. "It had a good run."

"You used all of it," Dean says.

"I left enough."

You look between them, then toward the bathroom sink. "If I have to fight a tube of toothpaste before bed, I am going to sue. Someone."

Your bare feet wander across the cold tiles as you hold your toothbrush beneath the faucet, dampening the bristles before grabbing the nearly empty tube from the counter. Sam was being generous. There's barely anything left, but you manage to squeeze a decent amount onto the brush before making a mental note to buy more tomorrow. Then you toss the flattened tube into the wastebasket and continue your nightly routine.