Chapter 6. Continuation 3
- As you can see," Dean says businesswise, "we have a lot of connections across the country. And there are sources of information that ordinary people don't know, so we'll find your mother. All we have to do is...
- Don't, - I shake my head. - I don't want to.
- Why not? - Sam is amazed. It seems they are really trying to help. Or they perceive it as another matter.
- Sharon went home," I explain. - That's where we'll meet. If I get ahead of her, well, I'm ready to wait.
"Even if it takes many years to do so," I add to myself. I'm sure she'll come back anyway.
- But if you give me a lift, it'll be awesome.
- Well... - Sam barely makes any noticeable comparison with Dean, who's putting down his eyelashes in the affirmative, okay. Where is your home?
- In Idaho, I shrug my shoulders. They picked me up there.
Sam is smiling:
- Idaho is a large state, and he makes a gesture as if he were circling a precinct. - Where do you want your majesty to go exactly?
"Yes, I am truly King Idaho, who else but myself knows my property better," I think and suddenly I realize that I don't remember the name of the village where we lived. Scott didn't ask where we were going. He just came with me. I can remember the address on the postcard my mother sent my brother - no, I can't call him father. The postcard was left in my backpack stolen, and the ink in my memory faded into one spot.
– ... I don't remember the name," I'm reluctant to tell my brothers. - But I remember how to get there. I'll show you.
We decide to go on the road tomorrow morning and go to bed. I sneak around watching Dean undress. I'm always surprised at the number of scars on his body - it's the scars that make him perfect. Without them, in my opinion, anyone is imperfect. Scars are evidence of the mistakes people make in life. I don't have a single scar on my body. It's as if I didn't live.
I can't sleep for a long time, remembering the winding dirt road covered with soft dust and drowned in wheat on the sides of the road. It's where this road rests that I want to be. Only this place belongs to my heart.
Chapter 7.
2 November, 9.44 a.m.
Something is wrong.
The sun hasn't risen yet when Dean pulled me out of bed this morning, almost by the skin of my bed with such a dissatisfied look, as if I were his hated cat who pissed in his slippers at night, and now they're going to peck his nose in them.
And yet he poked me with his nose. Not in my slippers, of course, but in the car, I was pulled out of the motel by his evil voice, it was about "if your ass is not immediately in the parking lot, I'm something there, and you will regret it. At that point, I just put a disposable toothbrush with pasta on my cheek, and I couldn't rinse my mouth anymore. Probably wanting to get rid of the unpleasant taste on my tongue, I'm just like a cat who wiped his own puddle, and now he has to lick it all off.
And what did I do? Still, it was good.
We've been driving for an hour now, and there's a deadly silence in the car. I think I'm beginning to understand the difference between not talking and not talking. Winchesters don't talk to each other. And what I would have called "Sam Looking Out the Window" yesterday is much more like "Sam Looking Out the Window, Not At His Brother.
They're both brooding and saddened, except that Sam chose to shut himself up, and Dean's angry about it. He snapped at me a couple of times. At first, for having a pen fall on the corner, slipped out and rolled under his feet. Then I turned around to get the card out of the back seat (at his own request), and accidentally hit my lord with my elbow.
Sam wasn't protecting me. I thought Sam hadn't even heard us fight.
We were on our way to the four-lane track.
It was very unexpected, we'd never been on a big road before, and we'd all sneaked into the corners of godforsaken villages. What had changed?
It seems that Dean is also used to the flow of cars, we are repeatedly alerted from all sides, when he, apparently having forgotten where he is, is automatically trying to change the speed or to rearrange into another row. And this is on the highway, on which trucks are allowed to move. At the back of the truck, at the front of the truck...
I'm scared.
I can't influence anything by driving Dean, but at least I'll look forward, not in the notebook. I'll write later. If we survive.
By the way, it looks like we've turned off the old route and now we're rushing southwest.
Idaho is in the north.
Where the f..k are we going?
November 2, 12.33
I think I'm going to find out if it's true that there are only Mormons in Salt Lake City. On the signs along the route, only this city is marked with an arrow up, the number of miles to it is decreasing, and Dean doesn't think to look at the map from the moment we got on the highway. He became calmer when we changed direction. Now he looks at Sam much more often, as if he were waiting for something. Waiting for Sam to notice where we're going? I don't think so. The younger one looks like he doesn't give a damn about it.