what is this? his demand doesn't drag them away from their guitar, carefully plucking the strings, nor does the sound of paper hitting the table. little more than a glance is spared before she's right back at it. " uh . . . a newspaper? "
' you know that's not what i mean. '
reacclimation to the walking and waking world has come with tremendous difficulty. the cage is a hostile, amorphous, ever shifting environment; it moves as if flesh tarped over joints, writhing and grotesquely maladapted to the laws of God and physics. heaven, hell, purgatory, the cage, the pit, the rack, all of it was an infinite stone's throw from earth and reality: it's sameness only extended to what the mind could tolerate.
the cage was the worst of all. it was God's wrath manifest, a sepulcher of nails thrust into every inch of sam's fleshy, soft body. it was a seedy hotel room in michigan over the winter, or a sun soaked highway looping the impala in listless circles, or the bathroom sam had his first period in, or the bedroom he lost his virginity in. it was brady's mom's house and the expensive waiting room where she sketched him in acryllic oils, and then it was his and jessica's apartment.
he still wobbles when he walks, like he's waiting for the floor to give in, or its too hard. sam doesn't hide it as much as dean did; he still jumps when someone says his name too gruffly, reflexively wringing away from embraces he cannot see coming, palms playing samba over his breastbone when the cold seeps into sam's very core. he's not okay, but he isn't lying about it.
sam folds his arms over his chest. the posture he adopts is virtually maternal, and sorely displeased with her response.
' tara. '
