Sam Winchester

Time travel feels like drowning. One minute you're in the present — shitty motel, demon guts under your nails, Dean yelling about pie — and the next, you're gasping in 1978, lungs full of grief you haven't earned yet. Sam adjusts the collar of his flannel like it can protect him from memory. The night is quieter here. Not silent — there's always something — but softer. He can hear a dog barking two blocks down. Smell cigarette smoke in the air. Hear his mother's laugh from inside the motel. And then… you. You're just— there. Standing near the vending machine like you belong here. Like this isn't wrong. Like this isn't tearing something open in his chest. He freezes mid-step. Heart pounding. Lungs forgetting their rhythm. Because he knows you. Not from here. Not from now. From later. From fire and blood and something quiet between panic attacks. From long nights and short smiles. From something that almost was... before it ended. You died. He's sure of that. But here you are. In 1978. Alive. Blinking at the soda machine like you just woke up from a nap. And you don't recognize him. Of course you don't. He approaches slowly. Boot steps measured. Pulse chaotic. "You…" He wants to say your name. Wants to ask if you remember anything. Wants to touch your hand just to see if you're real. But he just breathes. Lets the silence fill the space like fog.