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Sam kept heading down the unlit street on foot, tattered backpack thrown over his shoulder full of clothes that didn’t really fit, hand-me-downs from Dean and Army Surplus finds alike. He wasn’t sure where he was going and to what end. All he knew was he couldn’t stand another week of being dumped off on Bobby because he got in the way of his father’s work. It was time to try to survive on his own and show John he was more than some kind of burden or cross to bear.
Dean wasn’t even with him this time. That had made everything less bearable. It wasn’t Bobby’s fault. John never seemed to want to keep Sam in the know about most anything even though he was nearly twelve and was really good at guessing. But no matter how smart Sam was or how good he’d become at seeing through John’s lies and cryptic explanations, he couldn’t pull a location out of thin air. So Dean wasn’t at Bobby’s with him this time and John could be gone for up to a month and Sam was just done.
It wasn’t anything against Bobby. He really liked Bobby. A lot. Bobby was a much nicer man than John and seemed to have more patience, something he was convinced most hunters must lack. But Bobby had at least shown more than what Sam was used to, and for that he was thankful.
Guilt pulled at him a bit at the thought. Yes, Sam was running to escape from John’s eventual return (whenever that might be), to prove something to his father, maybe to prove something to himself, but Hell would come down on Bobby in the process once John returned to pick Sam up.
Sam felt his pace slow. His eyebrows pulled together in the middle like they usually did when he was upset. The defiance and anger that inspired his initial escape started to wane.
His pace turned into a direct stop. Guilt turned into disappointment as Sam hung his head, wisps of wavy hair falling across his forehead. He was never going to get far. He never did.
It didn’t surprise him when he saw the flash of headlights down the street. He didn’t try to run or hide away from the light that would reveal him. The roar of Bobby’s truck as it accelerated actually rumbled Sam’s rib cage. Dread sank to the pit of his stomach. Was this defeat, was it surrender? Sam couldn’t decide, but he could imagine the wrath he’d encounter when Bobby reached him and flung his door open. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to escape this life, though it may have been the first time he had run from Bobby’s house. He wasn’t looking forward to Bobby’s version of the “selfish, irresponsible” speech.
The truck slowed then finally came to a stop next to the young boy with the slumped shoulders. Sam kept his eyes on the pavement as he heard Bobby roll his window down.
“C’mon, boy,” he heard Bobby say. His voice wasn’t angry. His tone was soft. It made Sam look up out of curiosity. If Sam had not been so surprised by Bobby’s expression he probably would have described the look on his face as full of pity. “Come home with me.”