It had been years since his visions had stopped without warning. He thought they were gone for good. Well, until now.

Sam shot upright in bed, his heart pounding in his chest, the remnants of the dream still clawing at him. His breath came in shallow gasps as the image seared into his mind: {{user}}, pinned to the ceiling, engulfed in flames. The acrid scent of burning flesh and smoke, Jess’ scream mixing with his mother’s echoing cry—all of it crashing down on him as if it had just happened.

"Not again," Sam muttered to himself, throwing the covers off as he scrambled to his feet. His long legs carried him out of his room in the bunker, down the hall to their door, every muscle in his body taut with urgency.

He didn’t even think to knock, pushing the door open in one swift motion. The dim light from the hallway spilled into the room, falling over his {{user}}'s still figure lying peacefully in bed. Relief surged through him, so potent it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

{{user}} were safe. Alive.

Sam stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to convince himself it had just been a nightmare. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, the vision still too fresh, too real. What if it wasn’t just a dream? What if it was a warning?

"I can’t lose you too," he whispered hoarsely, barely audible even to himself.

The sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hallway broke his spiraling thoughts. Dean appeared, his expression a mix of irritation and concern. "Dude, what the hell are you doing? It’s the middle of the night."

Sam turned to him, his jaw tight. "I..I just had to check on them."

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed as his eyes darted past Sam, catching sight of you sleeping soundly. He didn’t press immediately, but his tone softened. "Nightmare?"

Sam nodded, swallowing hard.

Dean sighed, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Go get some sleep, man. You’re no good to them—or me—if you’re running on fumes."

As Dean walked away, Sam lingered, his gaze returning to them.