The radio receives a distrustful look when it gets turned on, but so long as it stays away from Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead, Stark might not have to smash it. He makes a noise of understanding for Winchester's response, canting his head to the side some. "Yeah, but, you were gone for a couple months. Maybe he just had to switch phones."

The silence didn't bother Stark nearly so much as the tension and discomfort pouring from the man in the passenger seat, which is much more noticeable now that Stark's started noticing things outside his head. This time, he actually turns his head to watch Winchester, noting every tiny, invisible-to-the-human-eye twitch of leg muscles, the incessant eye movement, the way the jaw flexes impatiently.

Giving in after a couple of miles, Stark inexplicably directs the car into the break-down lane, but leaves it running as he gets out. Waits for a few trucks to go by, then circles around to the passenger side and yanks the door open. "Scoot over. You drive."