Dean was losing his mind.
Sam had called saying that he had taken care of the poltergeist and was heading back to meet him.
That was days ago.
Dean had called him over and over again, leaving probably about fifty voicemails. Dean called Bobby and Bobby's friend that Sam had helped, but neither of them had heard anything. Dean waited at the motel for a day and a half after Sam should have shown up, hoping he would walk through that door at any minute. Dean tried to tell himself not to worry so much—Sam was a big boy; maybe he had lost his phone, maybe the car had broken down.
Dean didn't believe either of those for a second.
Finally he left Sam one more voicemail, telling him that Dean was coming to find him and that "If you're fine and just being a petulant little bitch, I am going to kick your tall ass nine ways to fucking Sunday."
Dean packed everything up, got in the Impala and sped off in Sam's direction.
Nurse Jenny Faith sat next to the young man's bed and studied his face sympathetically.
He'd been brought in several days ago, unconscious, with a torn up shoulder, a couple of broken ribs, and a concussion. The younger lady nurses had immediately taken a shine to him. Even though he was in a coma, the girls couldn't stop cooing over how sweet and handsome he looked. Jenny herself was already in her early sixties, but she did agree that he was quite the looker.
But Jenny had a more motherly attachment to him. She'd come to visit him more often than was necessary—during her lunch break and after her shifts she would come and sit with him, talking, reading aloud, or even singing sometimes. The poor boy was a John Doe, as he'd been found without ID and his phone broken from when he'd apparently collapsed on it.
John Doe had been brought in from a tiny town with a tiny hospital that hadn't been equipped enough to treat him. They'd been able to take care of his injuries well enough, but it was the coma that was the problem. His concussion had been mild—probably just the knock on the head he'd received when he collapsed—so there was no explanation as to why he'd passed out and just wouldn't wake up.
Jenny gently took the young man's calloused hand into her own and began rubbing his arm. She didn't know why she felt the need to spend so much of her time with him. Maybe it was because he reminded her so much of her own son. Maybe it was simply because he was all alone. Whatever the case, she'd made it her personal mission to care for him, and screw anybody who tried to stop her.
"Hey, sweetie," she smiled softly. "It's me, Jenny. Do you remember me?"
No response, unsurprisingly.
"Well, I brought another book with me today. Would you like me to read it to you?"
John Doe just continued to breathe quietly.
She let go of his hand to reach into her purse, pulling the book out. "Grimm's Fairytales," she read off the cover. "I don't know what kind of books you like to read, or if you like to read at all, but maybe you'll like these—I promise they aren't like the Disney versions. And besides," she chuckled, "If you don't like it, maybe you'll wake up and tell me to shut up."
Jenny opened the cover to the first story and began to read.
The town was tiny and there was only the one motel, so naturally Dean had started there. The manager hadn't want to say anything about a customer due to "company policy," but after glimpsing the gun tucked into Dean's waistband he suddenly developed a very loose tongue.
"The guy left a couple of days ago," the manager told him. "He checked out around nine o'clock at night." He fidgeted nervously.
"Well, what happened?" Dean demanded irritably. "Is that the last time you saw him?"
"No." The manager chewed his lip. "Like a minute after he walked out I heard a couple of gunshots."
Dean's stomach dropped.
"I heard him scream, and something else . . ."
Dean leaned forward with a glare. "What? What else?"
The man withered under Dean's murderous gaze. "I-I heard something that sounded like an animal. It screeched a few times."
"Did you see anything?"
"No. When I walked out your friend was passed out on the ground, his shoulder was all bloody and stuff—"
Rage boiled in Dean's gut at the thing that had hurt his baby brother. "So was he taken to a hospital?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
The manager gave him directions and Dean was out the door once again.
Upon reaching the hospital, Dean made a beeline for the front desk.
"What's your brother's name?" the receptionist asked.
"Sam Willard," Dean spouted off Sam's cover name.
She hit a few keys and ran her eyes over the computer screen. She frowned and shook her head. "Sorry, there's no one by the name 'Willard' here."
Dean's stomach dropped again. "Try Winchester."
The receptionist gave him a funny look, but typed the name in. She shook her head again. "I'm sorry, still no results."
Dean's worry was giving way to anger. "How the hell can there be no results?" he spat. "Sam is hurt and was taken to this hospital, so where the fuck is he?"
"Sir, please calm down—"
Dean exploded. "Calm down?" He smashed his fist down on the counter, causing her to jump and the people around him to back away. "My little brother is hurt and missing and you're telling me to calm down?"
The woman quaked in her seat. "I-I'm sorry—"
Dean shut his eyes and gripped the edge of the counter, fighting the urge to punch her fucking lights out.
"S-Sir? Are you okay?"
Dean suddenly deflated and he took a deep breath, fighting back tears. "I just want my baby brother," he croaked.
The receptionist swallowed and looked up at him. She took in his weary and sickened expression, and slowly realized that he was just out of his mind with worry for his brother. She relaxed a bit and gently asked, "What does he look like? Height, hair and eye color, stuff like that."
Dean gave her the best description he could and she wacked at the keyboard some more. Finally she smiled a bit. "Okay, there was one man of that description brought in on the same day you say he was injured. He was kept here for a day, and then transferred to another hospital."
Dean frowned. "Transferred? Why?"
"Says here that he was in a coma, and sent to that hospital for more tests and better treatment."
"Give me an address," Dean almost barked, and she wasted no time scrawling an address onto a notepad. She tore the page off and handed it to him with an encouraging smile. "Good luck," she said. Dean only nodded and ran out.