In which Sam crawls out of a hole.
[Set about four months after THIS.]
At first he was just working on instinct.
Out of the coffin, out of the small, cramped space, out, out, out, to the air where he would live. Never mind why he was living, or how he had gotten out of where he was, right now that wasn’t the important part. The important part was making sure he could live to figure it out later.
That first breath of fresh air rushed right to his lungs, and he coughed hard, both from the dirt in his lungs and from breathing too fast. He wasn’t fully out of the hole in the ground yet, and it was sucking at his clothing, trying to pull him back down again, but he just pushed his arms out, shifting them enough to give him some leverage before pushing himself out like he was trying to get out of a pool, except worse, and then flopping forward into the ground. It only took him a moment to roll over onto his back, legs still stuck in the hole, and he paused there a moment to try and catch his breath.
Everything was clear and bright. The haze of Hell seemed to have been abandoned for-something-something that couldn’t have been home because it all seemed far too good to be true. It seemed all too real. But there he was, he was breathing, his heart was beating, and he was here.
Eyes opening finally and looking around confirmed he was at Bobby’s.
In fact, he was about to be slobbered to death by Cheney.
The dog let out a slight growl which Sam should have expected. Whatever it was that put him back here was probably all over him, and there was no reason that the dog should like it. He extended a hand slowly, palm up, showing that he didn’t mean any harm. “Hey, boy. It’s just me.” His voice was raspy and rusty, but it was still his and at least he could still talk.
Cheney sniffed at his hand, then pushed his nose closer, almost as though there was something there he wasn’t quite getting, but after a minute he decided that Sam wasn’t a threat and looked up at him with a big doggy grin. He bounded forward as Sam started to sit up, licking at his face eagerly, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh.
He laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in what seemed like decades, but he couldn’t fight it, not even if he wanted to. “Yeah, buddy. Good to see you too.” He pushed him away and just scratched his ears lightly. “Though I’m not sure how. I’ve been gone for so long.”
Forty years. Forty years, yet from where he was sitting now it didn’t seem like it had been that long. The salvage yard seemed mostly as he had remembered it, and his mind was already starting to think that time had followed differently there than it had here. When his eyes finally landed on the house itself, he took a breath and tried to figure out the best way to do this.
“He’s gonna shoot me, isn’t he?” Cheney responded with a warm lick against the inside of his wrist, and Sam sighed before pushing himself up, swiping at the sides of his face with the sleeves of his jacket. “Well-better get this over with.”
At first he was just working on instinct.
Out of the coffin, out of the small, cramped space, out, out, out, to the air where he would live. Never mind why he was living, or how he had gotten out of where he was, right now that wasn’t the important part. The important part was making sure he could live to figure it out later.
That first breath of fresh air rushed right to his lungs, and he coughed hard, both from the dirt in his lungs and from breathing too fast. He wasn’t fully out of the hole in the ground yet, and it was sucking at his clothing, trying to pull him back down again, but he just pushed his arms out, shifting them enough to give him some leverage before pushing himself out like he was trying to get out of a pool, except worse, and then flopping forward into the ground. It only took him a moment to roll over onto his back, legs still stuck in the hole, and he paused there a moment to try and catch his breath.
Everything was clear and bright. The haze of Hell seemed to have been abandoned for-something-something that couldn’t have been home because it all seemed far too good to be true. It seemed all too real. But there he was, he was breathing, his heart was beating, and he was here.
Eyes opening finally and looking around confirmed he was at Bobby’s.
In fact, he was about to be slobbered to death by Cheney.
The dog let out a slight growl which Sam should have expected. Whatever it was that put him back here was probably all over him, and there was no reason that the dog should like it. He extended a hand slowly, palm up, showing that he didn’t mean any harm. “Hey, boy. It’s just me.” His voice was raspy and rusty, but it was still his and at least he could still talk.
Cheney sniffed at his hand, then pushed his nose closer, almost as though there was something there he wasn’t quite getting, but after a minute he decided that Sam wasn’t a threat and looked up at him with a big doggy grin. He bounded forward as Sam started to sit up, licking at his face eagerly, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh.
He laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in what seemed like decades, but he couldn’t fight it, not even if he wanted to. “Yeah, buddy. Good to see you too.” He pushed him away and just scratched his ears lightly. “Though I’m not sure how. I’ve been gone for so long.”
Forty years. Forty years, yet from where he was sitting now it didn’t seem like it had been that long. The salvage yard seemed mostly as he had remembered it, and his mind was already starting to think that time had followed differently there than it had here. When his eyes finally landed on the house itself, he took a breath and tried to figure out the best way to do this.
“He’s gonna shoot me, isn’t he?” Cheney responded with a warm lick against the inside of his wrist, and Sam sighed before pushing himself up, swiping at the sides of his face with the sleeves of his jacket. “Well-better get this over with.”