Author's Note: based on a superb digital/watercolor piece by madame-petite on tumblr/livejournal. Unbeta'd.

He is unconscious, and the name written on the chart at the end of his bed reads Doe, John.

He was brought in days ago, and so far, he has slept and remained a mystery. They are waiting for his fingerprints to come back from the authorities, see if they can pull a match for missing persons, maybe men presumed dead. He is beat up and scarred, a real bad-boy. Not just some white-collar with a leather jacket.

They wait for someone to come and claim him. A girlfriend wailing, a mother wringing her hands. No one comes. The man still sleeps.

They had to put eleven stitches in the back of his head, like someone tried to take a swing at him with a blunt object and just barely missed. That wasn't the worst of it, though—the five broken ribs are much worse. And worse than that? The blood trying to collect in the lung that got punctured when one of those ribs fractured so brutally that it sent bone shards in some five or six directions.

They check his cell phone after he's stabilized and they're sure he's not a DOA. There's a meager list of names. The one highlighted in red, an emergency contact, says Sammy.

A doctor dials the number and waits as it rings through. A young man's voice comes across, recorded, from the other end.

Hey, this is Sam. Leave a message. If it's an emergency, call Dean or Bobby.

No numbers, just names. The doctor pages through the phone again, looking for a Dean or a Bobby. Bobby is there; Dean is not. Perhaps it is the name of the John Doe bleeding in the hospital room.

The doctor dials the cell number listed as Bobby's. This rings through as well, to a similar message.

You've got Bobby. Leave a voicemail or try again later. If you can't wait, call Sam or Dean.

No numbers, again. No last names. Well, at least the John Doe had a name now. Dean Somebody. He tries once more, the home number for Bobby. This time it doesn't even ring. There's only a recorded message from the phone company.

I'm sorry. This number is not in service. Please check the number for errors and try again.

With a sigh, the doctor placed the phone on the man-Dean's-bedside table. Perhaps it would ring. Perhaps Bobby or Sam, whoever they were, would call back.

He would try to keep Dean alive until then.

But trying was all he could do.