Chapter 2: Motel. Continuation 3
From the cockpit are the clubs of steam. I look over and distinguish wide shoulders, strong back, narrow hips - without details, but even from this I get up, rises to all 180. I move closer - and at the same time, Dean sticks his hand out of the booth, shaking a towel that hangs next to me on the hook.
And I see a human handprint on his shoulder. What is this? A tattoo? Burn? The print is clear, scarlet, seemingly pressed into the skin.
I'm being carried out of the bathroom.
I fly into my room without even remembering the excitement. Now everything that possesses me is horror, pure horror. I lie on the door from the inside with my whole body as if I were being chased. I'm pounding. I don't really understand what's going on. But it's hard for me to even focus on what I saw. I can barely gather my thoughts and realize what this print looks like to me.
It's a brand. The brand that animals mark.
I slide down the door, trying to clean myself up. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine... and I will never write in my diary what I saw. The Winchester brothers don't need to know that I know their secrets.
19 October, 17.55
"Denver - 350 miles" - this afternoon this index became the first swallow from the "big land", it brought me back to reality and made me remember that we are not so cut off from civilization by the endless road of gray-brown asphalt and a chain of tiny settlements, as I would like. Somewhere nearby are big cities and highways, which for some reason brothers avoid with all their might, and that's why I think we are winding strange broken roads between farmlands and significantly extending our way, as if hiding from someone and confusing the trail. I don't mind, but... I know who I'm hiding from. And from whom do they run? Not the first year and not the first thousand miles. They run, but they can't run away. I would like to ask, but I will not. Because I think I know the answer.
October 20, 6.22
We're back on the narrow road and we're going to the east, this night turned out to be quite a lousy one. Dean picked me and Sam up at dawn, and we ran out of that nasty motel without even paying the price. We'd have to pay for that kind of thing, too. The three of us were accommodated in a room with five beds, like in a poor man's ward, and at night a drunk trucker with a defrauded hooker ran into a room without knocking for an hour. Dean tried to convince him to leave, but the man said that the owner of the motel shack was a friend of his, so if anyone should go, it was the three of us. Senior Winchester went downstairs to talk to the owner, and Sam and I were waiting in the hallway barefoot, accompanied by monotonous groans and puffs coming from the room. Dean was gone a long time, at least twenty minutes, and he came back with such anger on his face that I was scared for a second. Dean came up to us and easily punched Sam in his sleepy squat. A random gesture? Well, well...
They didn't give us another number. Having discussed the option of sleeping in the car, we decided that the bed is better, even if it is. Or rather, they decided, and I just nodded as a sign of what I heard.
The whore left in exactly an hour, gazing at Dena on the way. Sam made a rude joke about the built-in timer between the tits, and she showed him the middle finger in return.
It stank in her room. Sperm, then nauseating strawberry perfume of cheap condoms, something else. The truck driver fell on his side and snorted as soon as his strictly measured entertainment was over. I fell on my bed, and the brothers were still standing at the door for a long time and whispered quietly about something, not daring to go further. I didn't try to eavesdrop, but I did hear some phrases. Dean talked most of the time. He said he wouldn't let this happen anymore, and they would be much more careful when choosing a place to stay overnight. He called his brother Sammy, and I'd bet Dean touched him.
October 20, 14.56
We're rushing down the Colorado highway to the banging of rare large droplets on the glass. It's a very strange rain, I've never seen one before. It's as if the sky is gathering with strength for every new portion of water it drops to the ground. But when it does, a huge drop falls with a heavy knock on the windshield and spreads in all directions with an impressive blot. Then Dean lazily turns on the wipers for a couple of seconds. They are not needed all the time. Drops are rare, like the trees around them.
Sam sleeps in the back seat. He passed out right after our snack in another roadside cafe: a standard set of potatoes, burger and cola. Do they even eat anything else? I'm not complaining, I'm just curious. Sam curled up in the back seat, which is already a feat with his size, and peacefully falls asleep. Dean keeps fixing the rearview mirror to look at it. The car is quiet, only the engine is evenly humming, and the wheels are vibrating fast. I write in a notebook. I am very calm now.