Chapter 1: I'm SEM. Continuation 2
- Papers are bad, - says Sam. - But not critical. Did you have anything else of value with you?
- Notebook, - I'm honestly answering for something, though I know how stupid that sounds. What's the value of written sheets of paper? The other one, if I were me, would be much more grievous about the missing clean underwear. But now I want to tell the truth, even if I make an idiot out of myself. - I kept some sort of diary there for several years, writing down everything that happened to me. The notebook was gone.
Dean listens to my words, but doesn't comment on them, Sam shrugs his shoulders, he doesn't understand me, but he looks at me with sympathy.
- Look, I'm not torturing you, but you'd tell me a little about yourself. Who you are, where you're coming from, and how much you don't care, where you go to go "straight ahead, - Sam feels uncomfortable asking these questions. Apparently, Dean is usually responsible for communicating with strangers in their pair.
I move the potatoes that I never touched, though they smell pretty good, and I say, weighing every word:
- Mike Waters. I lived in Portland, but now I'm the only one who won't like it.
- We're in Idaho, - Dean reminds me. - It's a long way from Portland. - He's looking at the visitors with a bit of a squint and a little bit of attention, as if each of them were a potential threat.
- In Idaho, - I agree. - This is my parents' home. Well, now it's just my father. Nobody knows where my mother is.
- Did you want to find her? Is that why you came here? - Sam gets excited, puts his elbows on the table and for a while forgets about the food.
- I wanted to, but it's useless. I have no leads. So now I really don't care where I go next.
Sam takes his finger on the lips, thinking about something. He's cute too. Not as pretty as Dean, his face is coarser, and his chin is too big. He looks like a farmer's son or a cowboy, but the last comparison must have come to my mind just because of his shirt.
- There are always leads, - he says quietly, looking nowhere. He doesn't tell me.
Dean squeaks his teeth. Even I can hear it, even though we are separated by a table. He finishes his "something" and wrinkles a paper cup in his fist. Dean still looks into the room and doesn't participate in the conversation. Or is he? I get the feeling again that they communicate without words. They are arguing at the moment. Dena doesn't like me. He probably would have kicked me out a long time ago if it hadn't been for Sam. Although, I'm not sure about that. But I'm sure there's something going on between them right now. Dean's eyebrows are frowning, and Sam is stubbornly and methodically poking one potato worm after another on the fork, but he never sends them into his mouth.
- Mom's looking for... - says Sam to the plate, and Dean can't take it.
- Tell me, Michael, how did you make a living in Portland? - he turns around and looks me in the eye. The answer is well known to him.
- I was selling myself out, - I said calmly. I have a lot of experience in answering this question. And not to blush turns out to be a long time ago. Sometimes I'm sorry I forgot to blush.
- Women? Men? - Dean cynically clarifies. Sam is snotting around, he doesn't like what's happening, but he doesn't interfere.
- To the one who pays.
Dean nods, sticks his hand in the pocket of his jacket and takes to dig through it.
Have I passed the test?
- Wait in the car - he puts the keys on the table, goes up and goes to the cash register.
Apparently, he passed.
Sam pushes a fork into his mouth, on which a whole bunch of French fries are strung, wipes my lips and bloated cheeks with a napkin and waving at me to follow him, chewing him on the move.
I sit in the front seat. Sam doesn't ask me to move, and I'm not in a hurry to do so. You can see the road better from here.
I try to shake off the dust and small pieces of asphalt that pierced my feet when I hear the sound of the trunk closing, and then a pair of worn sneakers appear in front of my nose.
- Take it, - says Sam. - I'm not sure it's the right size, though. But Dean doesn't have a spare pair, so you don't have much choice - he smiles embarrassedly and then puts his sneakers on the ground in front of me because I'm so surprised at what he did that I'm sitting there with one foot on my knee and unable to raise my hand.
He sits at the back, pulls out his netbook and starts playing some kind of toy. Shooting, judging by the sounds.
I open sneakers and shoes. They are two times larger than necessary. But it's better this way than digging out stones from socks.
- Thank you, - I say.
- Yeah, - Sam's absorbed in the game.
Dean shows up unexpectedly, I shudder when he opens the door abruptly, throws something at my lap, and then sits down. I look down.
- We're going where we planned, we need to get as close to the Montana border as possible before dark. We'll spend the night in a motel and we'll look for your mother's information online. - He starts the engine. - Objections?
From the cover of the big thick notebook that I hold in my hands, smiling, licking puffy lips, busty blonde in a vulgar transparent top and loose jeans. A handle protrudes from the spring that holds the sheets together.
- There is no objection, - I say hoarsely.
Dean's been watching me for a while, and then he's humming. The car pulls out of the courtyard of the cafe on the highway. He clicks a lever, including turn signals, although the road is still deserted.
I press down on my notebook and look forward in silence.