Chapter 5: Buffalo!
I see a small church on the edge of the village. Unlike all of Yellowhouse, it looks well-groomed, and I think a dark figure flashes in the distance.
- Maybe we should go there and ask about Sharon Waters. - I ask Sam and Dean, who are walking around the car looking around. - Churches always know what's going on around them.
Brothers look at each other: Dean is angry, but he's always angry, and Sam is worried, worried... very carefully. It's like he's afraid for his brother. His mouth articulates an unspoken question, but Dean doesn't see it, he looks at his feet and cuts it off:
- No.
I guess I still have the look, because he throws it as if in an explanation:
- We do not go to church. In general. I advise you to remember.
I shrug my shoulders and rush to the neat white building behind the openworked grate. But I can't go through the last ten feet. The grass suddenly grows under my feet and turns out to be literally on the belt. It seemed to me that it is very low, and on this one it is even hard to walk. The grass clings to my jeans, wraps my ankles, rips off sneakers, which are already large - we have not bought new ones, but on what?
Is it grass? It's some kind of vines. Or even the extremely flexible, thin hands that grab my legs. They absorb so much that they can be felt even through the fabric.
Suddenly something splashes on my shoulder. I shudder, I look at my shirt - my coat has been lying in the car in the corner of the back seat for a long time - and I see a wet spot. I raise my eyes to the sky: it is only a minute ago innocent blue and high, now black and black, and the gap is not visible. I saw such a trick in the movie about tropical storms. When everything is enveloped in clouds in a second, and no one has time to hide. I think I saw this movie in a roadside cafe, where we took Scott. Only now we're not in the tropical latitudes at all. Although the downpour that blew up doesn't agree with me. He hits me on the head, on the shoulders, like a professional boxer. I put my shirt on my head and go back to the car.
The guys are already inside. I dive into the backseat as if I had been soaked in water all day in the Atlantic.
- I couldn't make it, - I told my brothers.
Dean snorts. Sam's cheeks are dimpled, but no more.
- Drive me to the federal highway, I'll find someone there to take me to Idaho, - I say, feeling a strange emptiness inside. Dean Winchester scares me with his mark, tries to inject me at the earliest opportunity, awakens all my low instincts when I look at his eyes, lips, wide shoulders... Sam annoys me with his millisecond readiness to come to the aid of the person he sees for the first time in his life, beating all the fuses out of me, showing me in all their glory that the perfect people exist, I almost hate him ... And I will be sorry, I will be fu...ing sorry to part with them.
- Buffalo, - Dean says briefly.
- What? I don't understand, coming off feeling sorry for myself.
- We're going to Buffalo, - Sam explains. - We have one... a friend at the airport. According to him, Sharon Waters, the previous destination was Italy, landed at Buffalo airport. According to other reports, she checked in at the hostel and still hasn't left. Do you agree to check this lead?
He looks at me questioningly. In the mirror above the driver's seat, I catch Dean's tense gaze.
There's still water running down the windshield in front of him, but the rain is over - just as quickly as it started.
Buffalo...
Hello, new road.
31 October, 9.28 a.m.
Buffalo Buffalo
Buffalobuffalobuffalobuffalobuffalobuff!
We are going somewhere to Canada, forward, to beavers, to snow, to policemen with funny hats. The scenery outside the window is so homogeneous, fading green that you unwittingly start yawning, even though you just slept in a motel for the full nine hours.
So I'm not looking out the window, I'm looking at Dean.
Although, I think it's worth the most luxurious and exotic landscapes. It's much more interesting to look at than all the world's attractions combined. The only thing is that Dean's shoulder is obviously not okay, the wound is still making itself felt. He twitches, even when he just touches the back of the seat with his elbow. But if it stops without movement, it looks like a model from the cover of a magazine, but it is a very tired model. I asked in Dallas how old he was. He frowned, trying to figure out why I needed it, but honestly he said 34 years old. If I hadn't looked him in the eye, I would have said he wasn't even 30. His eyes tell me he's older. A deep old man who has lived his whole life.
Come on, I'm exaggerating, of course.
Someone told me, back in Portland, that love is always an exaggeration. But I didn't fall in love with Dena, actually. I'll write this statement down, so it will be. All my exaggerations stayed there in Portland with Scott. If I started writing about Scott, it's a bitch. Or am I exaggerating again? Who told me that fu...ing phrase?