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Sam kept his eyes fixed on Dean as he backed into the street. Dean stood there staring as he put the car into gear, and instead of stopping, getting back out, Sam made himself drive. He went down the street and out of Dean's life, and he didn't look back.
The neighborhood was quiet, but there were two dead bodies that would need to be explained to the cops. Dean had probably left DNA on the scene, Sam realized — hair, but maybe blood. It would look bad, too, that he'd hustled his family out of the house and then let strangers in, right before the neighbors died. This was why Sam hadn't hunted at school. Hunting looked bad, from the outside. You needed to be able to get out of town when you finished.
He fished out his phone at the next stop sign, but wound up staring at the Compose a Message? screen without doing anything, like he'd done a thousand times in the past year. That wasn't really an exaggeration: he'd sat with his phone two or three times a day, since he'd come back, and stared at Dean's name, glowing on the screen. He'd had the number memorized. It would be the work of a few seconds to get in touch with Dean, and then no more than a few days before they'd meet up. Sam measured distance in how long it'd take to get to Dean's place, and no matter how far he was, they'd only need half the time, if he called Dean first. Dean would have met him halfway.
But it hadn't worked out like that. Sam had driven the entire two hours and seven minutes from their current hideout to Dean's place, and now he was leaving again. Dean was all the way behind him, at the center of Sam's map again, instead of a few yards behind him on the road. He didn't want to come.
And anyway, Dean knew how to handle a crime scene. Sam tossed his phone into the passenger seat and pulled away from the stop sign. He had plenty of practice in doing other things, instead of talking to Dean. Whether it was schoolwork, or learning to gank demons with his mind, or just hunting, the solution had always been the same: find some work and throw himself into it. It beat missing Dean, and it beat thinking about the cage. If he spent most nights getting out of bed to distract himself, well, it meant he was getting lots done. There was plenty that needed to be done.
Dean's neighborhood went on forever, street after street of similar houses and similar cars. It wasn't the most extreme type of cookie-cutter development, but this was definitely suburbia, and Dean had settled here. Sam knew he'd told Dean to come, but he hadn't expected Dean to take to it so well. He could barely remember what he'd wanted from this sort of life, when he'd imagined himself in the house with a kid and a curly-haired woman, and Dean as the brother who'd stop by without warning, leaving fear and old habits in his wake. In all the times he'd watched Dean in the past year, peeking through the windows, watching the lights turn out as Dean went up to bed with someone else, he still hadn't gotten the appeal.
But this safe life, holding down a regular job and paying off a house, was better than anything Sam could offer. Things ended hard around Sam, bloody, and he wanted at least one of them to get out. Dean had given his life for Sam before, and Sam had returned the favor. He'd given Dean's life right back to him, new and improved.
So his phone rode shotgun until he was all the way out of town, and when Sam did pick it up again, it was to text Mark: on my way. Dean's not coming.
He got his answer a minute or so later: ok. move your ass.
Sam rolled his eyes and tossed his phone back into the seat. The Campbells were decent guys, good enough partners, but he didn't know them well enough yet to read the tone behind all their text messages.
He put his foot down a little more anyway, edging up higher on the speedometer. The faster he got away from Dean, the less likely he was to turn around, to try to get Dean's arms around him again. It wouldn't be an hour and three minute drive this time, not since Dean sent him away in the first place.
He wanted to put the car on cruise control, but he was tired enough he thought he shouldn't risk it. It hadn't been the hardest hunt, but it'd been with Dean again. Working with other people, even people he'd come to care about, didn't stress him out, light him up, like hunting with Dean. Nothing in the world could touch the sick adrenaline rush of having Dean out of sight, knowing something was after him but not knowing if he was still alive.
Sam stretched his legs out, trying to keep one foot or the other on the gas while he pressed his back against the seat and stretched. The leather creaked underneath him, still new enough that it made noise as it adapted to him. Having a car of his own usually meant Sam was going through a shitty part of his life, but he liked this one. The seat was always in the perfect spot, no one messed with his radio, and the trunk was arranged exactly how he wanted. He'd even chosen it himself, pick of the lot after saving the owner of a dealership and his two sons, and it was a good car. It was his own.
It still smelled new, though. Sam rolled down the window as he kept going and the familiar scent of air at 75 miles an hour rushed in, keeping him awake.