Chapter 8
I'm tearing up all the conversation patterns I've prepared for him. Poor guy, I feel sorry for him even a little bit.
- In the holy books it is written about how to comprehend God. Read it - he gives me a stack of colored pamphlets.
- Already comprehend? You seem to have promised to introduce us to each other - yes, I'm frankly mocking you, but my conscience doesn't bother me for some reason.
- God loves you, - says Mormon stubbornly. They are probably taught that every time a door slams on their nose, it values them even more.
- Well, let her love them.
- But God will condemn you if you do not follow the laws of the church.
I blink, feeling as if my body suddenly burst into flames with the heat of the day. I'm getting dark in my eyes with an instant rage. How dare he talk about what God will do to me?
- My God will not judge me. And it won't let yours, - I drop out a phrase, not quite understanding where it comes from in my tongue.
I heartily slam the door so that the echo from the loud sound continues to ring in my ears as I get dressed and cleaned up.
When I walk out into the hallway, the guy is gone. That's a good thing. I don't know why I got so hot...
***
I find the brothers quickly, on the first try. They are both in a bar on the underground floor of the hotel, where the music is rattling and quite stoned. Even strange: after a recent meeting with a mormon boy and the general atmosphere of the city, I expected to see something like a literary café where low-alcohol cocktails are sipping and whispered about the weather and politics.
The Winchesters are doing exactly what I thought they would do. Drinking. Dean pulls a beer from a sweaty mug, Sam warms up not the first portion of whiskey, a whiskey bottle is on the table next to him. This is a good sign, alcohol often helps to solve problems and omissions, especially between the closest ones. Here's just one detail that makes it hard for me to breathe and shake my head. The brothers do not just not talk to each other, they sit at different tables clearly in opposite corners of the room. And now it's bad.
For a while I'm thinking about who to approach first, but in the end I still choose Sam. For some reason, it seems to me that he is worse now. Or he'll just pass out faster from whiskey, and we won't be able to talk later. As far as I know, Sam doesn't actually drink much.
- Hi, - I wave my hand to make him notice me. It's too noisy here. - Can I sit down? - I point to the next chair.
He nods and catches a waitress running past her with a cunning smile, stealing her second glass from the tray. Sam generously splashes whiskey at me and salutes me with his drink. We drink. It's been a long time since I've had anything stronger than a beer in my mouth, and alcohol irritates my weaned receptors. I want to get something to eat, but Sam doesn't have any snacks on the table. He doesn't drink for fun, he gets drunk.
Hi lips move when he says something to me, but I can't hear a word because of the loud music.
- What? - I shout.
He presses his lips and moves his chair close to mine.
- I say, tell me what kind of girls you have there in the village. Anything for me?
Sam was already pretty drunk. Of course, the bottle on the table is not dead, but his tongue is woven from his strange habit.
- I don't know, - I answer with regret. He looks at me with surprise, and then, apparently, remembers about amnesia.
- To the girls! - Junior Winchester makes a deep toast and immediately drinks in a volley.
I stare at the far table Dean is sitting at. Maybe he's noticed me, and he's got something to offer to join in. But Dean studies the drawing of condensate droplets flowing down the mug and doesn't even look in our direction.
- Don't you want to know what a delusional day it is today? - suddenly asks Sam.
- Delusional? - I'm specifying.
- Well, I've been waiting for you to ask, and I've already prepared a phrase for you about glasses in return. You know what? The glass is either half full or half empty - he looks at me and smiles. His lips, his eyes are very different emotions. - So today it's like with glasses. My mother has either a birthday or the day of death. Convenient thing, you can choose, celebrate or grieve under the mood.
I open my mouth, but words do not go. So that's what it is...
- Are you even gonna drink? - Sam pushes me with his elbow into my side and refills my glass even though it's already a couple of whiskey drinks. - Come on, you're making a toast.
- Look, you wouldn't be in such a hurry, or you wouldn't be in such a hurry, and I'd have to drag you to my room, I'm trying to look carefree, but I don't think I'm good at it. Although Sam barely notices my attempts to control myself.
- Yeah, - he agrees. - It's possible.
- Keep in mind, - I say, - that if you and Dean get so drunk that I have to take you to your room on my hump, I'm going to take you down on the nearest bed, right in your clothes, and I won't even steal your sneakers off your feet. That's how you know it!