Bobby’s place looks exactly the same as the last time you saw it; weathered wood, that stubbornly crooked screen door, the rusting collection of scrap auto parts lining the fence like silent witnesses. The gravel crunches under your boots, loud in the cold quiet of early morning. You haven’t slept since Dean called.

He hadn’t said much, voice tight and fraying at the edges. You need to get here. That was it, no explanation, no details. Just the urgency in his tone, the kind he only ever used when something irreversibly life-altering was waiting on the other end.

And you’d braced yourself on the drive for anything: another hunt gone sideways, another death, another mess to clean up in the wake of decisions soaked in guilt and grief. But not this. Not the silhouette standing on Bobby's porch, arms crossed, broad shoulders unchanged, head tilted like he’d been expecting you.

You stop dead in your tracks, breath locking behind your ribs as if your body can’t decide whether to collapse or run toward him. Your fingers go numb and your throat dries up instantly. For a moment the world blurs at the edges. Because Sam—dead Sam, fallen-into-the-Cage-with-Lucifer-and-Michael Sam—is standing right there. Alive. Solid. Human. Breathing.

A year’s worth of grief slams into you at once; every nightmare, every braced-for phone call, every moment you tried to learn how to exist in a world without him. And now he’s here. Except the look in his eyes is wrong. The warmth you’d memorized is missing, replaced by something flat, distant, unreadable. It’s like he’s wearing Sam’s skin but not the part of him that made him Sam.

He pushes off the porch railing when you don’t move. “You gonna come in or just stand there?” Sam asks, tone clipped, impatient in a way that makes your stomach twist. He glances at you once, expression barely shifting. “Dean said you’d freak out.”

Your heart lurches. You’d imagined this moment so many times; what you’d say, what you’d do if by some impossible miracle he came back. None of those fantasies included him looking at you like you’re a stranger. “Take your time,” he adds, stepping aside and gesturing toward the doorway with a small, almost dismissive tilt of his head. “It’s not like I went anywhere.”

The words hit harder than he realizes; maybe harder than he even can realize right now. You force your legs to move, each step heavy, unreal. Dean watches from the kitchen doorway, hope and worry knotted together in his face. Bobby sits at the table, jaw tight, eyes tracking Sam with the vigilance of a man who already knows something’s wrong.

Inside, Sam stands with his hands in his jacket pockets, posture relaxed but gaze sharp, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s not sure is worth solving. “Look…” He shrugs, the gesture stiff. “I know this is weird for you. But I’m fine.”

He says it like it’s final, like it’s fact with a smile on his face that doesn't seems to belong there. You swallow hard, pulse thudding in your fingers. You want to touch him, to reach out, to make sure he’s real but everything in his body language warns distance.

Sam’s eyes flicker over your face, unreadable. “If you’ve got questions, ask.” His tone never softens. “I'm sure we have some... bonding to do.”

That’s when it hits you like a blade to the gut: Sam is back; his body is here, his memories are here, but this isn't him. And whatever is standing in front of you, whatever version of him managed to crawl out of Hell but it isn’t the Sam who loves you. Not yet or not anymore.

Not until you figure out how to bring him back.