Sam had no idea where he was. One minute he'd been roasting like a marshmallow with Michael and Lucifer for company--or had he been freezing in liquid nitrogen? He could never quite make out. The next minute, he was lying in a cornfield, with dirt under his nails as if he'd literally clawed his way up from the grave.
Was he alive? Was he...alone?
His eyes darted rapidly from shadow to shadow, his ears ringing with the sounds of shouting. Not the wailing and screaming that he'd been assaulted with before, nor the sensory deprivation that had been a favorite alternative of his captors. Or were they his fellow captives? Sam didn't know, and he wasn't sure he cared.
Dragging himself to unsteady feet, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and worked his jaw, as if trying to will away a headache and get his ears to pop at the same time. A few torturous steps later, and he realized he could walk. All he had to do was put one foot in front of the other, and eventually he'd have to come out on the other side.
If this was a real cornfield, and not some kind of hallucination of freedom.