Gemini (Supernatural Rewrite Sam x Reader x Dean)

All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2

It's been two days.

You've barely moved from the corner of Bobby's spare room. You don't eat. You don't sleep. Every time your eyes close, all you see is Sam's body in the dirt. All you hear is Dean's scream. And all you feel is that slow, sick realization that everything, the blood, the pain, the silence, it's your fault.

Dean left almost immediately after. Took Sam's body and the Impala and drove until he couldn't anymore. Now he's holed up in a cabin miles into the woods, not answering calls, not responding to anyone. Bobby tells you to give him time. You think he means well, but even he's afraid of what Dean might be doing out there alone.

And the worst part? You can't blame him.

You haven't told Bobby everything. Not the vision. Not the truth about your mother. Not that you were with Azazel when Sam was stabbed. That your body went cold the moment Sam did. That you knew something was wrong and still couldn't stop it. That you laid there, frozen, while the only person who ever really saw you bled out in the dark.

"Get up." Bobby's voice breaks through the fog. You're curled up on the bed, wearing the same blood soaked clothes since Cold Oak. Your fingers are trembling around the edges of some old lore book you've been pretending to read.

You blink at him, slow and unfocused.

"I said, get up. You sittin' around sulking won't bring him back." His voice softens a bit, but not much. "You didn't do this, girl. Hell, none of us saw it coming. Go get Dean, bring him home."

You don't answer. Just close the book and stare at your lap.

"I think I'm the last person Dean wants to see right now," you murmur, your voice flat. "And you know it."

Bobby grumbles something under his breath before tossing a clean shirt and jeans on the bed. "Tough. You're going anyway. I want you to check on him. Change your damn clothes first, you're starting to smell."

You hesitate, but he's already walking away. You know there's no use arguing.

-

You drive through the trees with white knuckles and a stomach full of broken glass. The bag of food you picked up on the way is still warm in the passenger seat. Burgers, fries, pie...Dean's favorites. A peace offering. A distraction. A desperate attempt to reach the man you love before he vanishes into his grief for good.

The cabin is small and crumbling. Overgrown brush presses up against the sides. The place looks like it's been abandoned for years, but the Impala is parked nearby, and that's how you know he's inside.

You kill the engine. Take a breath. Then another. You wipe your hands on your jeans. Your palms are sweating.

You step up to the front door and knock once, softly. No answer. You try the handle. It creaks open.

Inside, the air is thick with silence and rot. The stench of stale liquor clings to the walls. And there he is. Dean. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, shoulders tense, back turned. He doesn't even flinch when you enter.

"Dean?" you whisper.

He turns slowly. His face is hollow. Bloodshot eyes. Three days' worth of stubble. The same flannel shirt from Cold Oak. But it's not his appearance that guts you.

It's his expression. Like he's already dead.

"I brought food," you say quietly, stepping toward the kitchen.

Dean doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

You set the bag down. Try again. "You should eat."

"I'm fine." His voice is sharp. Dangerous.