Sam had arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back. There was a part of him that had instinctively checked his belt for a gun, but he couldn't even remember if he was supposed to be armed, or if Lucifer had eschewed the use of something so mundane. Needless to say, the fact that he was without his Beretta made Sam even twitchier, in spite of the gnarled, club-like root he'd picked up from the ground--after he had nearly tripped over it in his haste to get out of the corn maze.
He was acutely aware of his vulnerability in the middle of such a mess, and though he did startle at the woman's approach, his knuckles white around his makeshift bat, he did not attack. "Believe me," he managed to say, his voice hoarse, either from use or disuse--he wasn't sure which. "It's a hell of a lot better than where I've been."