He was sleeping. They all were sleeping, but he was new. He was new to my room at least, maybe he had his own room before and they shifted him down with the other long term coma patients. I hated seeing new faces here. This room was the most depressing. Every poor comatose soul in the joint was mostly abandoned. I mean the families did come every now and then, sometimes on holidays, and birthdays of course. But who cares how often they receive guests? I guess I did, since I was there every day.

He looked so young. Not teenager young, he was defiantly a twenty something. They had him on oxygen and the stitches on his face looked rather fresh. He donned a head injury, bandaged above his ear on the left side. As far as faces went, his wasn't too bad, striking actually. Sculpted jaw and nose, nice cheek bones. He had short cut tawny brow hair that quaffed a little in the front. He was built, toned and clearly strong with defined muscles, which meant he'd only fallen asleep recently.

I just stared at him blankly for a bit. He was on his back, like all the patients were. He looked so stiff and unnatural lying like that. I didn't want to walk into his roomette just yet; I wanted to observe first. I was itching with curiosity as to who he was, why he's here, what kind of visitors should I expect. At the same time, I wanted to know nothing about the man because I didn't want him to be part of this room. I knew once he was here that's exactly what he would become, just another part of the room. Another body for the nurses to wash and check on and medicate. He would be another vegetable until he dies or wakes up, and I hadn't seen anyone wake up yet…

I figured it was rude of me to stand at his feet watching him. I'd introduce myself, but need his name for that. I gazed down at his chart that sat in its cubby at the end of the bed. I wasn't supposed to read them, I knew that. I had read them once or twice before… but I wouldn't this time. I wanted to know the new guy's name though. It felt awkward standing there so long without saying anything. I decided to ask a nurse.

"I'll be right back; I'm going to grab some coffee." I slipped out of the room with soft but swift feet.

"Hey" I said shoving my hands in my pockets. A nurse peered up from behind the nurses' station and gave a small smile.

"How's everything in there?"

"Everything's fine, everyone is… the same." I let out a tiny sigh, "But anyway, I noticed there is a new guy. I was wondering what his name is."

Her face dropped a little and she lost her smile.

"He's a John Doe. He was left at the emergency room door a couple days ago. Mid-twenties, severely injured, no ID."

"It's not a problem if I visit him right?"

"No, go right ahead." She looked shocked that I asked the question, "I'm sure once we identify some family they will be glad someone was there with him."

"Yeah, thank you." I turned to walk away.

"No problem." She returned to the papers she had been previously working on.

I grabbed some coffee out of the waiting area and stirred in close to four packets of sugar. I was in no way a coffee person, but it would have been awkward to say I'm getting coffee and show up coffee-less. I didn't want to start out my first visit with a lie. So coffee in hand I slipped back into room 245. He was right where I left him so I pulled the curtain. Sending up a silent prayer that he would wake up soon, I took a seat by the bed. I set the Styrofoam cup on the bedside table and sat upright in the vinyl chair.

"…Hi there." I said in a small voice.

He didn't respond; not like I was expecting him to or anything, but I have a hopeful imagination. I waited a moment, scanning his face before continuing.

"So you're a John Doe. We're not quite sure who you are. One of the nurses for this section said that someone dropped you off at the emergency room, that you didn't have any ID…" again, I waited for any form of interaction, but nothing came through.

"I'm Jane." Not a flinch.

"I'm not so sure what to call you. You are a John Doe, but you don't look like a John if you don't mind me saying. I apologize if your name actually is John... We can figure out a nick name later." I watched his chest rise and fall faintly.

"We're going to find your family okay? It'll be okay. You're going to wake up."

"So I thought of a few temporary names for you until we know yours." I said to him the next day. "What about 'JD'? You know, 'John Doe', 'JD'. Not supper witty, I know…"

I again waited for a response. I guess I always waited for a response when visiting patients.

"Or option two; we call you 'Hetfield'." I gesture to the Metallica tee shirt of his that a nurse had laid out on a dresser. I assumed that was what he was wearing when he was found. It was bloody and torn.

"Only slightly witty, but I think I'm going to go with that."

I clasped my hand together, resting them at my knees. My dark hair fell into my face as I bent my head slightly to relieve some tension in my neck. I picked at a hole in my jeans and watched his breathing. The heart monitor was beeping rhythmically at a normal healthy beat.

"So Hetfield, I'm Jane as you already know." I bit my lip, "They say sometimes people can hear you when they sleep… I visit a lot of the coma patients. I'm here every day after class. I hope you don't mind me hanging out with you for a while." I took a breath.

"I'm a student at the college. I'm undeclared though, just working on my gen ed. classes first. I uh, don't have hobbies. I guess I like to draw sometimes. If it's any interest to you, my favorite color is green." I gave a stiff laugh, "You know I can never think of what to tell people when introducing myself. I'm sure you don't really care what color I prefer. I just run out of things to say sometimes, you know?"

I returned to watching his chest move with shallow breathing while picking at my jeans.

"This will get less awkward and weird I promise."

It was a few days after that, when I walked into room 245 and saw loads of other visitors. Everyone it seemed had someone to talk to. I was originally going to see Mr. Hobs but he was otherwise engaged in conversation with what I figured was his daughter. They needed their time. I was just a filler volunteer for when family couldn't make it. I peered down to the end of the room and noticed Hetfield was alone still. I felt conflicting emotions of relief and sadness wash over me.

I took my seat by the bed like I've done every day since meeting him. He looked a little haggard and rough. Someone had taken the stiches out of his cheek, but a long red streak of scab and scar remained. The bruise that formed around it was turning yellowish green with punches or red and blue. The bandage above his ear still remained.

"Hi Hetfield."

His brows tensed slightly, like he was thinking. Facial expressions were not normally seen in the comatose. I didn't move an inch; my breathing was sharp but as quiet as I could make it. I tried to listen for his breathing, but my own heart gave off loud pounds every few seconds. I didn't let myself think about what I was looking for; I never let the word "Awake" slip into my thoughts. I tried to calm my heart beat down. I was literally on the edge of my seat, but nothing happened. I felt deflated, although I knew better than to be that hopeful.

Instead of talking I grabbed my sketchbook out of my bag. The room was already too noisy with everyone else around. Not that I wasn't happy with family and friends visiting, but I felt awkward and unnecessary when the "real" visitors showed up. No one needed me to sit with them. Except for Hetfield, he needed someone. I wondered if it was only the pity that kept me coming to visit him.

Leaning back in the chair I began to sketch out the shape of his face, neck and torso. Slowly as the hours ticked away the rough shapes were softened, shadowed, and shaded. I followed the line of his jaw with my eyes, etching out its ridged structure. I shaded where his chin jutted out precisely. My fingers smoothed graphite across the page gently. For all of the sharp defined lines and angled in Hetfield's face, it sure was soft. It didn't house a permanent ruggedness, it was capable of change, I could just tell.

I stayed at his bedside silently drawing until visiting hours were over and a nurse kicked me out. I packed up my things but before leaving, I gave his limp hand a squeeze. I would be back tomorrow to finish my sketch.

It had been almost two weeks straight of sitting with him. Some days I would talk about myself and tell him about college. Some days the room would buzz with other guests and I'd opt to draw him again and again. He was the subject of many of my compositions. Some would be of his whole body lying in bed, some were close ups of his jaw, lips, or his hands, or across his brows and the bridge of his nose. I didn't dare show anyone, they would think it was creepy. Maybe it was creepy.

I drew pictures of most of the patients I visited; it was an easy way to remember them. Although I'd never made as many as I had of this John Doe. I would never admit it, but I had a thing for his jaw. It was eye-catching, especially to me. I had always loved to look at people and admire their features. There's something beautiful about every face I always say. For Hetfield, it was hard to find something that wasn't beautiful. He was a very attractive man.

Very attractive… between a jawline that could cut glass, his long eyelashes that were almost criminal, a sharp and defined nose, the symmetry of his features, his full kissable lips… kissable? I pushed the word "kissable" out of my mind. He's not kissable, he's comatose. I could not be sexually attracted to someone who was incapacitated. That was morally wrong on so many levels. But I couldn't help it as the image of his lips pressed against mine slid into my head. I fought against it for a few minutes before I looked around the curtain and saw no one was there. Being alone (figuratively) I let myself indulge.

I was curious as to what his voice sounded like, curious how he would say my name, if it would just roll off his tongue. I wondered what kind of kisser he was. Maybe he wasn't as great as his killer good looks led me to believe. That would be a horrible disappointment. But maybe he was tender and sweet but still demanding, taking charge of the kiss, holding me in my place as I echoed his movements. Maybe if I stood up and leaned over him, I could have planted a soft one on him and he would have woken up… Oh gosh who was he Sleeping Beauty? Well he was sleeping and a beauty… that's beside the point! Seriously, what were the odds someone like him would kiss a girl like me anyway?

My insecurity killed the ridiculous daydream. I was just some undeclared college wallflower that preferred to hang out with the comatose than spend time mingling with her peers. I made sketched of sleeping people and forced myself upon them because they couldn't run away. It seemed sad and cruel, although that armchair psychology is not the reason for my visits. Even putting aside my questionable hobbies, I was still the kind of girl who wore wire frame glasses and never had the commitment to cut her hair into anything other than the long side parted style she'd been sporting since seventh grade. The edgiest thing about me was my ripped jeans, which weren't purchased like that, just well worn.

He was gorgeous. Built and beautiful, he could have any girl he wanted just from looks alone. Heck he probably had some tall, thin, bottle blond with big boobs and a Barbie face, who was killer in bed. That thought deflated me completely. I dropped my head, discomfited. I was wearing my crewneck "awkward turtle" tee-shirt; a blue shirt from the juniors department that had a turtle on its back and the word "awkward" above it. At the time, it seemed humorous, now it just screamed "child".

A hot blush rolled up my neck and into my face as I processed all the thoughts that had recently gone through my head. I was mortified that I had even entertained such ideas. The guy was in a freaking coma! I hid my face in my hands, not saying a word to him. I'm an idiot. I shook away the embarrassment and picked up my pencil again.

I got lost in my latest drawing, a simple sketch of the heart monitor. I needed to focus on something other than Hetfield for a while. I guess I was seriously focused because when I looked up visiting hours were over, but no one came in to shoo me away. The responsible thing to do would have been to leave, but I didn't have class in the morning and I wasn't ready to return to my dorm. My roommate was probably out to some party anyway. So taking advantage of some nurse's negligence, I cradled into the wildly uncomfortable chair and snuggled in the best I could to rest my eyes. I knew that I wouldn't sleep long in this position so I wasn't worried about ending up spending the night here accidentally.

It wasn't working though. I was pinching something somewhere and different parts of my body kept doing numb every time I readjusted. The bed looked fairly comfy… I peered behind the pulled curtain once more and again saw no one. I shifted the chair over and rested my head at Hetfield's knees. It was so much better, far more comfortable, I felt my eyes grow heavy and in an instant I was out like a light.

A few hours later I faded back into consciousness. Something stirred by my face. I heard the sheets rustle slightly, the nurse must have been checking on him… I adjusted my head on the mattress, eyes still closed, trying to slip back into another nap. I was surprisingly comfortable in my current position. Maybe if I pretended to be asleep completely the nurse wouldn't bother me?

"Wha… Sam...?"

That voice wasn't a nurse. My body jolted upright and I involuntarily let out a squeak.

"Who are you? Where's Sam?" His voice was hoarse, but deep and gruff, not exactly what I was expecting. He coughed, looking confused, "Damn it, why is my mouth so dry?"

My mouth stutters wordlessly. I've never been in this situation before. Odd squeaks and moans flew off my vocal cords. As he sits up in bed, his brow furrows and his "kissable" lips form a straight line. He blinks at me. Oh man… I'd never seen his eyes before. An extremely understatement, would be to say they were a hansom green. I sort of lost myself in them for a second; I didn't hear what he was saying but noticed his mouth moving.

"I.. uh, what? I'm sorry?"

"Where am I, Sweetheart?"

"Pennington Memorial Hospital, room 245."

"What state and city?" his expression never changed, but his voice sounded strained.

"Uh," I had to think for a second, suddenly forgetting the city name, "Ohio… Akron, Ohio!"

His brow furrowed ever more and he breathed out a soft swear under his breath that he probably thought I couldn't hear. I pretended I didn't. Glancing up at the clock I saw that it was close to 1:30 in the morning. His cough and wheeze caught my attention again.

"Can I get some water?" He croaks.

"Yes, of course, just stay there." I get up gesturing for him to remain where he is.

I was gone all of five minutes, but when I returned to the room it was swarming with nurses. Two were checking his vitals and the other was shining a flashlight in his eyes. He was fidgeting and pulling at his tubes and I.V.s.

"Sir, please don't pull those out." One of the night shift nurses said.

"Damn it Lady! I need to get out of here." He was aggravated, but also seemed anxious.

"Sir, we need to wait until the doctor comes in to see if there were any complications and if you are stable."

"Complications from what?" His hoarse voice spit out, "I need water. It's like the Sahara in my throat." He spotted me, "Oh, thank god!" he gestures greedily for me to bring him the Styrofoam cup.

I worked my way over to him, squeezing by the nurses who looked agitated by my presence. Hetfield grabbed the cup out of my hands and drank the entire thing down in an instant. I just stood in the way, watching as his neck muscles stretched and jolted with each gulp. I admired his jaw as it clicked back and forth as he talked to a nurse. I hadn't been listening. I just basked my eyes over every inch of his face which had so much life to it. At the moment it was full of irritation.

A tiny grin spread over my lips. It was beautiful to see him awake. His lips moving, his jaw flexing, his brows furrowing, his eyes active and dotting back and forth between nurses as they yelled at him. I felt a feather light weight rise in my chest, and I was…crying? Yeah, I was standing there all glassy-eyed with waterworks coming down. Part of me was embarrassed, but more of me was in awe at seeing someone wake up for the first time. When I reigned my focus back in, I realized that he was staring at me with a raised eyebrow and stiff expression.

"Excuse me, who are you? If you are not family you need to leave. Visiting hours are over." One of the nurses barks at me.

I was shocked by her voice. I stumbled for the words of a response that would allow me to stay. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow afternoon to see Hetfield again. He could be long gone by then. I looked at him almost pleadingly, still trying to form a sentence. Maybe he picked up on that, because he answered for me.

"She's a friend of mine, I want her here." His gruff voice sounded smoothed and dare I say sexy now that his throat wasn't so dry. The nurse just made a prissy face and glared at me for a nanosecond.

"Now will someone tell me what I'm doing in this damn place?"

All three nurses looked around at each other as if they were trying to decide whether or not to tell him what happened. It seemed pretty unprofessional, although maybe they had to wait for the doctor or something and it was protocol. When they didn't give him a straight answer, I said screw protocol and responded myself.

"You were in a coma for a little over two weeks. It's March, 14th." His eyes switched from irritated to shaken, I went on before he could ask, "Someone dropped you off at the ER, pretty severely injured… They said you didn't have an ID or phone or wallet. You're a John Doe currently."

The nurses stopped what they were doing. The one that had yelled at me left the room. Hetfield didn't say anything he just nodded, rubbing his hand down his face. He looked less shocked though almost like he was cool with what just happened. He turned his head to talk to me, but the nurse returned with a clip board. She sat down at the bed.

"Honey," she said sweetly, "I'm going to ask you some questions okay?"

He nodded and crossed his arms at his chest.

"Do you know your name?"

"Dean Winchester" He gave a smooth, full of himself half smile and winked at the nurse.

"How old are you?" she asked ignoring his wink.

"Twenty-four." He looked over at me with that same grin.

I nearly lost my footing. I didn't listen to any more of the questions they asked him. He seemed to know the president and how to count to ten or whatever. I just took my seat again and waited for them to leave. It took a half hour, but they finally asked him all the questions, did all the tests, blah blah blah. All the while Het- …Dean, smooth talked and charmed them. He seemed to exude charming, the worst kind of charming. That panty dropping devilish kind that coupled with his good looks could get him anything in life, probably anyone.

After they left he gestured for me to sit down on the bed. I tentatively took a seat at his knees.

"So who are you?" He asked me, "Because I know you're not family, and I'm pretty sure you weren't involved in my latest job." His voice is demanding of an answer, but silky.

"I'm Jane. I just come around and visit the coma patients…" My voice was smaller than I had expected. He raised his eyebrows at me and pursed his lips together.

"For kicks?"

"I used to visit my mom and I guess it just became a habit." I nervously picked at my jeans; I had no clue what to say to him. Even when he was out, it had been weird to carry a conversation.

"But you were here when I woke up?"

"Yeah… I guess I… fell asleep." I tried to avoid eye contact with him. This was awkward.

"Is there a phone around here? I should call my family." I handed him mine and walked out of the room to give him privacy. When I returned he seemed edgier. I took a seat in the vinyl chair.

"Did you get ahold of anyone?"

"What? Oh, yeah. I left a message for my dad." He handed me back my cell.

"You just left a message? Do you want to try again?"

"No. I don't think he's picking up…" His face shifted to concern for just a second before he was back to charming. I saw through that though. Flirty was a façade. I raised my eyebrow at him.

"Is there any other family you want to call? You just woke up from a coma." The words felt arid coming out of my mouth. I still couldn't quite believe it.

"Nah. It's just me and my dad right now…" He shook his head with a small and I assumed, fake smile. I figured he was trying to be reassuring, but to who? Me or himself?

I pocketed the phone and we sat there for a moment. Not saying anything, just sitting in an awkward silence. It was one thing to sit quietly when he was sleeping, but now that he's awake and kicking, I felt obligated to make conversation. Real two way conversation. I was curious about him and what his story was, but I didn't want to pry at anything. I was trying to get at 'How did you hit your head so hard you fell into a coma', but he asked me a question first.

"Is that…me?" He pointed to my sketchbook that had fallen open on the floor. I was more or less mortified and mentally kicked myself. Blushing for sure I tumbled over my words.

"Yes. Er… well, yeah. It's… you were… asleep. And I just… It's just a doodle…" I literally bit my tongue to stop myself from spewing more talk. He just flashed me another charming smile that made me melt.

"Can I see?"

I was hesitant, but I couldn't withhold them from him. It was weird enough to have sketched him while he was asleep, I didn't want him to think I was hoarding it for myself. I picked it up and handed it to him. His fingers brushed mine in the process, causing me to instantly pull back. He chuckled to himself lightly. He must have known the affect he had on me; which was a terrifying thought. I watched his face as he studied the picture. It was serious at first then softened which made him look ten years younger.

"Well aren't I lucky? To have a pretty little Van Gogh at my bedside this whole time." He threw me another wink. I personally didn't find my work to be similar to Van Gogh's in the slightest, but the way he said it made me feel sweetly sick. I was never one to flirt, so I had no clue how I was supposed to respond. I felt like I should be some sort of sexy back at him, but I just nodded.

"It's really good though. It's like a photo." He said bringing it closer to his face to take in the detail. I like most artists, am very critical of my own work. I cringed inside having him look so closely.

"It's not that great. I've done better portraits." That was true, in my opinion, although this one had something special that others lacked. It was probably my interest in doing the subject justice. It gave it a little spark.

"Can I keep this?" He asked me. I nodded, pressing my lips together. He admired the drawing a little more but then set it down on his lap. He turned to me. His face was without its flirty charm; instead it seemed grateful? Maybe it was relief? Whatever it was, it made him look so innocent.

"Why did you stay with me?" He asked looking me dead in the eye. I forced myself to hold his gaze.

"Because you were alone. No one should be alone."

He licked his bottom lip and smiled dropping his head. When he lifted it, his expression was sincere.

"Thank you."

A/N: My inspiration was from Petite-Madame's "Male. Late Twenties. Severely Injured. No ID in his wallet. (Dean Winchester)" Total props to her for such an inspiring image.
(She is the Queen of SNP Fanart, in my opinion. Check her out if you don't know her work already)

Like it, review it, share it, yada yada.