Gemini (Supernatural Rewrite Sam x Reader x Dean)

Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester

You do not really want to be here, sitting in your car outside Bobby's place while the Impala rests beside his truck and your own engine ticks quietly beneath the hood. For the past two and a half days, it has been easier to keep moving than figure out how to explain what happened after Castiel touched your forehead. 

You spent most of yesterday driving without much of a destination, letting the roads change around you while Dean filled your voicemail with increasingly irritated messages demanding some proof that Castiel had not dropped you into another dimension. You listened to all twenty of them this morning. 

The first few were mostly angry, then worried, then somewhere around the middle the two emotions became so tangled together that there was no point trying to separate them. By the last message, Dean had decided that if you did not show your face by the end of the day, he was going to break into your house himself and accept whatever consequences came with it.

You believe him enough that you are here now, both hands resting uselessly in your lap while you stare through the windshield and try to convince yourself to get out of the car.

Two and a half days ago, you were standing in a barn listening to Castiel explain, with a kind of detached calm that still makes your stomach turn, that Hell had not only tortured you. It had been teaching you. Training whatever Azazel left buried inside you until reaching for it became easier than refusing, until pain and power and obedience blurred together badly enough that even now you cannot always tell where one ends and another begins. He called you dangerous like it was an observation rather than an accusation, then admitted that whether Heaven should destroy you before Hell got another chance was apparently still something being discussed somewhere far above your head.

Dean stepped between you and him anyway.

That is the part your mind keeps returning to. Not because Dean had any real chance of stopping him. By then, all of you knew better. Bobby's traps had done nothing. Rock salt had done nothing. Ruby's knife had gone straight through Castiel's chest and might as well have been a butter knife for all the damage it caused. Dean knew all of that when Castiel's attention shifted toward you, and he still moved the second he realized what was about to happen.

You remember Dean saying no. You remember him lunging forward. You remember Castiel's fingers touching your forehead before Dean could reach you.

Then the barn was simply gone.

There had been no sensation of traveling anywhere, no warning beyond the pressure that gathered behind your eyes a second before Castiel moved. One moment you were watching Dean come toward you, and the next you were standing alone in the middle of your living room with afternoon light coming through the windows and your knees threatening to give out beneath you. Castiel was gone. Dean and Bobby were gone. The wind tearing through the barn was gone. Everything around you was so ordinary and quiet that for several minutes you could only stand there staring at furniture you had known for years while your body waited for the world to change again.

For the first hour, you expected Castiel to come back. During the second, you checked every room in the house even though you already understood how useless that was. Locks had not mattered to him. Distance had not mattered. Whatever protections you might have painted across the walls would probably mean just as little as Bobby's had. You kept the interior doors open anyway and avoided standing with your back to windows, waiting for the pressure behind your eyes to return or for another hand to touch your forehead and decide, without asking, where you belonged next.

He never came back.

Dean called instead.

Again and again, until your voicemail filled with his voice and the house began to feel too small to sit inside. You still do not know why Castiel sent you home. Maybe he wanted you away from Dean. Maybe he had decided the conversation was over. Maybe whatever authority he answered to simply chose the most convenient place to put you and never considered that you might have an opinion about it. That possibility bothers you more than you want to admit. Forty years in Hell taught your body exactly what it feels like when somebody else decides where you are allowed to stand, when you are allowed to leave, and what happens if you refuse. Coming back to Earth only to learn that Heaven can move you around just as easily has not done much to convince you that freedom means what you thought it did.