Gemini (Supernatural Rewrite Sam x Reader x Dean)

Born Under a Bad Sign

There's cold air rushing past your face, sharp and fast, it feels like you're driving with your head stuck out the window. Only... you're not in the motel anymore.

You're behind the wheel.

No—he is.

But you're inside him. Watching. Somehow.

Sam's hands are clamped around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from the pressure. His heart beats too fast, pounding in your ears like a war drum. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, fogging the windshield of a beat-up sedan that doesn't belong to him. The interior smells like old fast food and gasoline. The floor is littered with receipts and cigarette butts.

This is not his car.

This is not his mind.

But you're here. And you can't look away.

The headlights cut through an empty road that winds through the outskirts of some forgotten town. Strip malls and chain gas stations blur by in the dark, indistinct and meaningless. The speedometer needle climbs. He's going too fast. His foot is heavy on the pedal, and his hands shake, but he doesn't slow down.

His mouth tastes like metal. Like blood, maybe. You can feel it on his tongue, even though your own body is still lying limp somewhere miles away.

A phone rings. It's not his. He lets it ring. Doesn't even glance toward it. In the rearview mirror, you catch a flash of something you can't quite place, his own eyes, but wrong. Darker. Distant. The way they drift over his reflection, checking to make sure he's still there.

You feel your stomach twist with a nausea that doesn't belong to you.

He presses harder on the gas. Ahead, a traffic light turns yellow. He doesn't stop.

You feel it before it happens: the crash of adrenaline in his bloodstream, the anticipation of something terrible. He's not running from a crime, he's racing toward his next one. The wheel jerks slightly in his grip. His lips move, but no sound comes out. You think he's talking to someone. Then it's gone.

You jolt upright in bed with a strangled gasp, your hand instinctively reaching for your own chest to make sure it's yours. The air is still. The room is quiet. But your heart is racing like you've just come back from war.

Dean's sleeping next to you, face down, buried in the pillow. The motel light over the sink hums faintly in the dark.

You press your shaking hands to your thighs, grounding yourself. Sam is out there somewhere.

Covered in blood.

-

You sit in the passenger seat of the Impala, fingers fidgeting with your phone as rain taps steadily against the roof. Light and steady, almost soothing, but not enough to quiet the storm building in your chest. You scroll through your contacts again, even though you already know there's nothing new. It's been eleven days. Eleven days since Sam disappeared without a trace. The longest you've gone without hearing from him since the three of you reunited.

He was supposed to grab food. A quick late dinner run, nothing unusual. But he never came back. His duffel bag was missing from the trunk, and there had been no word since. You were worried the first few days, sick with it by the fifth. Now, fear is clawing at you from the inside out.

You finally shove your phone back into your jacket and glance up. Dean sits on the hood, phone pressed to his ear as he calls the few hunters Sam might trust. Ellen, maybe Ash. You aren't sure who he's trying now. You try not to hope too hard. Then you hear it.

"Sammy, where the hell are you? Are you okay?"

Your heart kicks into overdrive. Dean's still talking, his voice tight. "Hey, hey, hey, hey. Calm down. Where are you?" A pause, then something mumbled on the other end. Dean nods. "Don't move. We're on our way."