Summary: What if Sam had a heart problem that didn't surface until now?

Disclaimer: I'll have them home by curfew!

Author's Note: So you're all probably reading your e-mail going "Wait, what's this story about again?" Yeah, I apologize for that. It's been a long time. Too long, in my opinion. So, again, I'm extremely sorry. Things have been very hectic, and though I wish I could, I can't spend all my time writing. I've worked dilligently to get this next chapter up, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. Again, I'm sorry.
Reviews are love.

While We Can

Sam woke up at 8:32. It was common for him, though. Ever since the nightmares started to plague him, he had never been able to sleep in. Though, he'd be the first to admit that it was later than he usually woke up. He gingerly forced himself out of bed, took a long, hot shower, and went into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Being home from the hospital wasn't all that he'd made it out to be. Truth was, the hospital had some decent painkillers, much better than Advil, and he could use them right about now. His heart muscles squeezed and tightened, causing him to lose his breath at times.

He started making pancakes-"Sam, you know these are my favorite!"-flipping them over to get them nice and brown on each side. He pulled two plates out, placed three on each one, got the syrup and butter out, and set the breakfast on the table. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and stared at the breakfast, feeling stupid because Dean wouldn't be up any time soon, and he knew it. So why did he even bother making them?

Sam sat there for a long time, merely watching the pancakes like they would solve his problems. How the Hell had he managed to get himself into this mess? Why couldn't he handle himself? Everything felt like it was spiraling out of control and this whole 'no hunting thing for Sammy's sake' was really starting to piss him off. The pancakes were cold.

Dean had managed to appear in front of him, bedhead and all, slipping onto a seat at the table and eating the pancakes like they actually tasted good, warm.

"Up early?" Dean asked nonchalantly as he ate his food. Translation: "How long ago were these made, Sam? They're cold."

Sam shrugged and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Not long. Sorry if they're cold."

Dean continued eating them and shrugged it off. "They're not too cold." Translation: "They're disgustingly cold. But I'm gonna eat them so you don't feel as bad."

Sam pushed his own plate of pancakes away, then stood up and pulled out his laptop, sitting himself down on the couch and resting it on his folded legs. He was a bit wobbly on his feet, but walking around helped the circulation. He just needed a break from all this. But Dean was dying, and the research was a Hell of a lot more important to him.

Dean popped up again. "Physio?" He questioned, waggling his eyebrows with a smirk on his face. Sam sighed hopelessly. Sometimes he thought Dean got too much enjoyment out of this. He put the laptop back down, irritated that he had done less than five minutes of research, and hopped up, sitting himself down on the floor instead.

Dean's sitting on his folded knees, watching Sam with an eye of concern. "Alright, do a sit up for me." He instructs.

Sam raises an eyebrow hesitantly. But he sucks it up and he does it, because it pleases Dean and he simply needs to get better anyway. So more physio than he should be doing is alot better than doing less of what he should. Right? Dean nods approvingly, though Sam has done his best to hide the falter in his heart and the shakiness in his jaw from clenching his teeth so tightly together.

After about an hour, Dean pats Sam's knee and tells him to hit the shower, just like the day before. Sam willingly follows, heading in to relieve the tension. Seems the shower's the only place he can do anything for himself these days.

It's not until the steaming hot water is pounding down over his back that he realizes something is wrong. Unexplained tears find their way down his cheek, winding down an unmarked path of soft flesh. He doesn't cry. Or, he hasn't cried in the longest time, and it worries him that he's doing it now. All this stress with Dean and the deal, and the past few months' events have started to take their toll on him, and he simply feels hopeless. As the water temperature gets hotter from Sam's twisting of the knob, and the room starts to fill with thick steam, he gives up. 'Maybe if I die, the deal will be off' he tells himself in a twisted tone in his mind. Letting the water beat down, he shuts his eyes and hopes. Hopes for relief, release, escape...hopes for Dean to be saved, because he's really all he has left.

...Supernatural...

Dean has been pounding on the door for 2.6 minutes too long. Sam should be answering him, giving him some sign. But all he hears is the water running, and feels a sense of dread in his heart. It's when the time hits the 2.8 minute mark that he's busting down the door, moisture clinging to his face from the steam in the air.

"Shit, Sam." He says, rushing over and pulling the young hunter from the bathtub. His body is so hot to the touch, and it burns Dean's arms just reaching under the spray to pull him out. He takes one of the towels and wraps it around Sam's waist hastily, pulling him up into his arms and laying him against the bed. He's so hot, and so pale-even with the flush reaching his cheeks-and it scares Dean so much.

He picks up his cell phone, calls 911 because it's all he can think of doing. If you had asked him how the conversation went just after the phone had been hung up, he wouldn't be able to tell you, because every ounce of him was focused on Sam. Always.

He puts his cold palm to Sam's forehead, cursing at how hot he is, as they wait for the ambulance to come. With all that steam, Sam could have damaged his heart again. Boy, this kid was just itching to give him as many grays as possible, huh? Worry pulsed through him. Damn, just get here already.

Sam drew in a very shaky breath. Too shaky for Dean's liking. "Sam? Hey, Sam?" He whispered gently, brushing back the hair on his forehead. Sam opened his eyes like a blind man seeing for the first time. He looked sad and disappointed in himself and Dean didn't even know what to say to make that any better. Had Sam done this on purpose? Why?

"Hey, the ambulance is on their way. Just take it easy." Dean says softly, continuing to brush the hair off of his forehead, even though it's long since been out of his eyes.

Sam shuts his eyes slowly, not having any energy to reply to his brother. The ambulance arrives, taking Sam on a gurney, and the scene is all too familiar to Dean. God, this was killing him. Did this have something to do with the deal? His heart was on overdrive with panic, but his brother would be okay.

The worst part was wondering whether Sam wanted to be okay or not. Whether this was intentional or not. Would he do that? Would he go that far?

Frankly, Dean didn't want to know.

...To Be Continued...