Chapter 5: Dallas. Continuation 1
People in Dallas are weird. They have helpless eyes and tight lips, their fingers are constantly moving, and I wouldn't say exactly what to expect from the locals - a blow or money, because some of them are trying to save, while others are still trying to kill their Kennedy.
The Winchesters should not be from here. I asked them. Sam turned to me with surprise: "No, of course not. How could you think? We're from Lawrence, Kansas. We were a lot cooler than Dorothy in her cabin, though. So I don't think we still have the accent.
While he was saying that, Dean didn't even look in my direction. Sam was much more friendly to me than he was. Talking to me is easy and fun.
Why do I like his older brother better?
I guess I always choose harder tasks. Take Scott, at least.
Wandering around Dallas looking for the right address, we drove past the Kennedy Memorial. Unclear, ugly box. I asked the brothers, do they think the CIA really killed Kennedy? I asked Sam, of course, but for some reason I answered with a short laugh, Dean.
JFK killed Shapeshifter, he said. And whoever hired him or cursed him didn't recognize any hunter.
I didn't expect a normal answer from Dean. I was just glad he answered at all. He had a good voice, a low, tickling voice. I would have given it to him for free.
At least to pay for this fucking notebook. Or to thank him for not dying in the woods a week ago.
When we arrived at the department store where my mother was supposed to work, I asked him to leave me to sit in the car for five minutes. I closed my eyes and was getting ready for everything. And to the fact that Sharon wouldn't be there. And the fact that she would be there. And to the fact that she was never there. Maybe I should have given up the whole enterprise, then I wouldn't have been sitting here and typing some cramped words in my notebook? No one will read them anyway, even I will not read them myself.
Dean and Sam are standing near the car and discussing something quietly but emotionally.
Suddenly, I notice Sam taking Dean's hand by the hand, and he's got his brother's fingers around his hand. But just a few seconds later, his fingers unclench and slowly turn out of his strong grip. They look at each other confusedly, then Dean turns around and shouts to me, "Michael, stop making snotty fists and go back to being with your family.
I have to go. I have to go.
October 29, 15.03
I knew she wouldn't be there. I would have felt it if she had been somewhere nearby. And so - the building of this shop was cold for me, and I didn't even want to go there.
But Sam and Dean handled the situation interestingly. They introduced themselves to the supermarket director as the film crew for the Kids Looking for Parents program. Even the camera was taken from somewhere. It was fun watching this guy get in front of them and go to the bathroom with his hair down. He told me, looking at the lens with devotion, how wonderful and punctual Sharon Waters was, and how she was constantly talking about her exemplary son, who was forced to leave because of difficult family circumstances. While I was looking at the shelves, because I knew it wasn't about my mother.
It's strange that the shopkeepers were reluctant to talk about Sharon... As if they barely remembered who she was. Or didn't remember at all. They talked and rolled their eyes to the left, a clear sign that they were writing, thanks to my life practice.
As I left, I pulled a chocolate bar and a pack of condoms off the register. And not to be lied to.
Surprisingly, Dean noticed. I thought I'd trained myself to drag the little things out of the stores just as well as the pro thieves. He shook his head and asked, "Can't you live without rubber bands?"
And why didn't I resent him at all?
The director said that while working here, Sharon Waters rented a room in a village near Dallas and came to work every day by bus. This village probably knows where she went. The fat director was very eager to come with us in search of her, and apparently wanted to light up his fat pussy in front of the camera a little bit more, but the Winchesters said a firm "no". The village was called Yellowhouse Village. We shouldn't be going there.
That's right, we came for nothing. The village is dead. Dead, of course, is allegorical, no one lives here. I don't see any yellow houses here either: the former residents seem to have decided to laugh at the name on purpose. In Yellowhouse Village there are houses of all colors except yellow, which makes the main street look like a parrot's tail. Or Bob's clothes. Somehow I don't remember him at the right time, well, amen to him that.
I get out of the car and scream: "BO-O-OB!"
Echoes carry my scream all over the empty village. It seems that somewhere the door slams, as if one of the abandoned houses was scared.