CHAPTER TWO
Dean hates hospitals. They're too clean. The air is too sterile. Something about the musty air that permeates the rundown motel rooms they stay in on the road, comforts him. Hospitals just make him nervous. It could just be that the only time he ever goes to one is because he's about to die.
He looks over at Sam, who is sitting in the chair next to him. He's covered in dirt and blood stains from the woman. Hunched over, elbows on his knees, he stares at his hands, oblivious to Dean and his surroundings.
"Come on," Dean clamps his hand down on Sam's shoulder. "Let's get you cleaned up."
Sam jumps with the contact, yet only looks up at Dean, his eyes glazed over and empty, and then quickly looks away.
"Come on," he says, a little more gently. What's wrong with him? We see worse stuff than this every day.
Dean sits on the counter, while Sam washes his hands. "Are you ok, man?" Dean asks.
Sam clears his throat as he dries his hands. "Yeah, it's just..."
"What?"
"It's just weird. It's just really weird."
"What? You had a vision. Then, it came true. It's not like it hasn't happened before."
"Yeah, but we don't know her. She isn't connected to us," Sam looks down at his hands again as he says this.
"Well, obviously she is, otherwise why would you dream about her? Huh? Look, we'll it figure out. Worse case scenario we have to go hunt some tall, fugly, decomposing beast. And decomposing green is my favorite color," Dean hops down from the counter. "So what do you say we go talk to this hot chick. Hell, I'll even give you dibs. After all, you did dream about her first."
"You're such an ass," Sam replies as he walks out of the bathroom.
"One of my many talents," is Dean's glib response.