Where Your Treasure Is
Title: Where Your Treasure Is
Summary: From a prompt at an ohsam comment-fic meme by 4thejourney. Sam's heart has, like, one job, and it can't even beat right, apparently. Title from Matthew 6:21 - "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
Characters: Sam 'n Dean.
Disclaimer: I don't own Winchester & Co. (Yet.) Lack of medical knowledge.
Warnings: Language. Nothing too wild, though.
Word Count: 1,631
They’ve only been at the graveyard for an hour or so. There’s a restless spirit roaming the town, a man named Mr. Frederickson who’s got a nasty habit of going after the descendants of people who had wronged him in his life. A simple and uncomplicated hunt for once. Just the thing to get Sam’s mind off - well, everything.
Sam’s been quiet since they left Palo Alto. Dean can’t say he’s surprised; Sam’s always been a brooder. He’ll sulk and mope to his heart’s content. When he was a kid, not even their dad could shake Sam out of a mood when he really dug his heels in.
But this - this is different. This kind of tragedy, of heartbreak, isn’t something that’s gonna heal in a day. So Dean does the two things he does best: hunting and taking care of Sammy.
If he can do those both at the same time by dragging Sam into a hunt to take his mind off things - well, Dean’s not gonna say no.
Dean’s been digging for most of the past hour. They’d started out taking ten-minute turns, but before long Sam had started stumbling. Dean had watched as his shovel shook lightly under his brother’s hands.
“I feel weird,” Sam had told him. “Dizzy, kinda.”
Dean had frowned. “It’s probably just the leftover afternoon heat,” he’d said, though the evening air around them was probably only in the 50s.
“I don’t think leftover heat’s a thing, Dean,” Sam had objected.
“Sure it is,” Dean had replied easily. But looking at his brother’s pale, sweaty face, he’d frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I don’t think. Just a little lightheaded.”
“I swear, you’re delicate as a flower sometimes,” Dean had teased. But he’d taken the shovel from Sam anyway. “Go lie down for a second or something before you keel over.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll just, y’know, keep watch.”
“Fine.”
So Sam’s walking around the graveyard, only sitting down every once in a while. Dean keeps a discreet eye on him, fighting back the concern scratching in the back of his mind. Sam’s his little brother, but he’s also a grown man. Dean’s gotta trust him to tell him when something goes-
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice sounds off. Breathy, thready. Not normal. Not healthy.
“Sam?” Dean barks back, instantly on alert.
“Something’s wrong,” Sam chokes out. “My- my chest-“
Immediately Dean’s jumping out of the grave, grabbing Sam just before his legs can buckle out from under him. The unexpected weight forces them down to their knees, so Dean has to shift around a second before he can get a good look at his brother.
The dusky sun doesn’t give a lot of light, but Dean can see enough. Sam is pale. Not pale like Dean-pale (who will never be over the injustice of how Sam got all the good skin genes) but more like the half-decomposed corpse rotting in the hole next to them, and hell if that doesn’t get his blood pounding.
He’s sucking in these awful short gasps and clutching at his chest with one hand, the other grabbing at Dean’s shoulder.
“Sam, what’s wrong? What about your chest?” Dean asks in a panic.
His hand comes up to cradle Sam’s cheek, the unnatural coolness against his palm, before sliding down to Sam’s neck to find his pulse. It takes a second but when he finds it it’s racing. It feels like a goddamn racehorse against the pads of his fingers. Dean doesn’t know the numbers but he knows nobody’s pulse should be that fast, and God, what the hell is happening, where the fuck did this come from?
“Guh- Dean-“
“Okay, Sam, okay,” Dean breathes, trying to get his composure back. Help Sam. Help Sam.
Dean rearranges them with some difficulty so he can get his arm around Sam’s torso. He starts hauling them up, but before he can get them standing up, Sam sags heavily against him.
“Sam?” Dean demands, panic coloring his tone. “Sam!”
No response. Just that awful wheezing and, as Dean confirms when he slides his hand up to Sam’s neck again, the same rapid-fire pulse. Not dead, then, at least, he thinks a little maniacally.
It’s a battle to drag his unconscious brother the hundred yards or so back to the Impala. Dean curses their decision to park farther away under his breath the whole time, interspersed with the occasional question to see if Sam regained consciousness at any point. Kind of a fool’s hope, but Dean’s in the dark here.
He has no clue what’s wrong with Sam. That terrifies him more than anything. If he knows why Sam’s hurt or sick, he can fix it. This - this is a mystery.
-
“Mr. Slade?”
Dean jolts, head rising from his hands at the sound of the approaching doctor. “Yeah, that’s me. Sam - is he-“
“Sam is going to be fine,” the doctor says gently.
For a second Dean can’t breathe out of relief, one hand coming up to rub at his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers. Then, louder: “What the hell was wrong with him?”
The doctor glances down at his clipboard. “It seems Sam was suffering from a condition called tachycardia. Do you know what that is?”
“Cardia - that means your heart, right?”
“It does. Tachycardia specifically means a rapid heartbeat. In some cases, it’s relatively dormant; it’s possible someone could go their whole life without seeing a single symptom. Other times - like your brother’s case - it can cause serious problems. That’s what happened here. From what you’ve told us, it sounds like a particularly bad flare-up. An episode, if you will.”
“So the paleness, the racehorse heartbeat, the passing out - it was just an episode?”
“Of sorts. It’s also possible that it could’ve been a mild heart attack.”
Dean gapes for a second. “Sammy had a stroke?”
“No. A stroke occurs in the brain, while a heart attack occurs - well, in the heart. Tachycardia can increase the risk of heart attacks.”
Dean rubs at his forehead for a second, trying to process everything. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Can I just - can I just see Sam?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
Sam’s long frame is still in the hospital bed and he’s hooked up to at least six different machines, but he’s got his color back and thank God, there’s no ventilator. There’s an oxygen mask over his mouth, but the doctor assures him that while Sam can breathe on his own, the mask will help while Sam’s heart recovers. Dean can work with this.
“We gave him something to help him sleep after the EKG. I’ve also prescribed aspirin and nitroglycerin, which will help in case this was an actual heart attack and not just a flare-up.”
Dean’s eyes are glued on Sam’s chest, the rhythmic rise and fall soothing his frayed nerves. “So, uh. What do we do now?”
“I’d like to keep him overnight for observation, but I’m not particularly concerned about a relapse or another attack. I also want to put him on a couple anti-arrythmics, which will help regulate his heartbeat. Anti-coagulants, too. But rest will be key over the next few days. The less strain put on his heart, the better.”
“No wheelchair races, then?” Dean jokes weakly, relaxing at the sight of Sam alive and breathing next to him and the idea of a plan.
The doctor smiles. “Not for a while. I would advise avoiding exercise for the immediate future.”
No hunting, Dean translates mentally. “Will do.”
The doctor nods and glances at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my other patients. Let me know if you have any more questions.”
Dean nods back and thanks him as he leaves. He turns back to Sam, left hand covering his brother’s right one. “Hear that, Sam? You’re gonna be fine.”
And with that, Dean settles down to wait.
-
Sam takes his sweet time waking up. It’s 2 PM the next day when Sam’s hand shifts under Dean’s, his eyes starting to move around under the lids.
“Sammy?” Dean asks hopefully. “Sam, you awake in there?”
“Mhmm,” Sam slurs. His eyes slowly flicker open, moving around the room before stopping on Dean. His hands finds their way up to his face, prying off the oxygen mask. “Dean?”
Dean feels a grin break out on his face. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s me. How ya feeling?”
“Like a tow truck ran over my chest,” he mumbles, words still slightly slurred. “What…”
“Happened? You had a fuckin’ heart attack, Sam. Way to scare the shit outta me.”
Sam’s eyebrows raise. “A heart attack?”
“Well, that’s what the doctor thinks. Either that or a -get this- a ‘tachycardic episode’.”
“Tachycardia?” Sam asks. “Shit.”
“You know what that is?” Dean asks, only slightly surprised. Friggin’ nerd.
“Well, cardi-whatever is your heart, right?”
“Yeah. Apparently your heart was beating too fuckin’ fast or something, so you keeled over while we were digging up Mr. Frederickson in the graveyard.”
Sam blinks. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. You’re on, like, ten different drugs now to fix your heart.”
Sam blinks again, longer this time as whatever drugs he’d been given no doubt kick in again. “Did we… get the ghost?”
“No,” Dean admits. “But we can go back later to burn the bones, when you’re not weak as a kitten and fainting like a girl anymore.”
“Screw you,” Sam says around a yawn. Dean smiles.
“Now that’s not very nice, Sammy. All I’m trying to do is help you. You could even say you’re being pretty… heartless.”
“That was lame, Dean. Even for you.”
“What, you don’t wanna talk about it? Have a nice little heart-to-heart?”
“Christ, please shut up.”
Summary: From a prompt at an ohsam comment-fic meme by 4thejourney. Sam's heart has, like, one job, and it can't even beat right, apparently. Title from Matthew 6:21 - "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."
Characters: Sam 'n Dean.
Disclaimer: I don't own Winchester & Co. (Yet.) Lack of medical knowledge.
Warnings: Language. Nothing too wild, though.
Word Count: 1,631
They’ve only been at the graveyard for an hour or so. There’s a restless spirit roaming the town, a man named Mr. Frederickson who’s got a nasty habit of going after the descendants of people who had wronged him in his life. A simple and uncomplicated hunt for once. Just the thing to get Sam’s mind off - well, everything.
Sam’s been quiet since they left Palo Alto. Dean can’t say he’s surprised; Sam’s always been a brooder. He’ll sulk and mope to his heart’s content. When he was a kid, not even their dad could shake Sam out of a mood when he really dug his heels in.
But this - this is different. This kind of tragedy, of heartbreak, isn’t something that’s gonna heal in a day. So Dean does the two things he does best: hunting and taking care of Sammy.
If he can do those both at the same time by dragging Sam into a hunt to take his mind off things - well, Dean’s not gonna say no.
Dean’s been digging for most of the past hour. They’d started out taking ten-minute turns, but before long Sam had started stumbling. Dean had watched as his shovel shook lightly under his brother’s hands.
“I feel weird,” Sam had told him. “Dizzy, kinda.”
Dean had frowned. “It’s probably just the leftover afternoon heat,” he’d said, though the evening air around them was probably only in the 50s.
“I don’t think leftover heat’s a thing, Dean,” Sam had objected.
“Sure it is,” Dean had replied easily. But looking at his brother’s pale, sweaty face, he’d frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I don’t think. Just a little lightheaded.”
“I swear, you’re delicate as a flower sometimes,” Dean had teased. But he’d taken the shovel from Sam anyway. “Go lie down for a second or something before you keel over.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll just, y’know, keep watch.”
“Fine.”
So Sam’s walking around the graveyard, only sitting down every once in a while. Dean keeps a discreet eye on him, fighting back the concern scratching in the back of his mind. Sam’s his little brother, but he’s also a grown man. Dean’s gotta trust him to tell him when something goes-
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice sounds off. Breathy, thready. Not normal. Not healthy.
“Sam?” Dean barks back, instantly on alert.
“Something’s wrong,” Sam chokes out. “My- my chest-“
Immediately Dean’s jumping out of the grave, grabbing Sam just before his legs can buckle out from under him. The unexpected weight forces them down to their knees, so Dean has to shift around a second before he can get a good look at his brother.
The dusky sun doesn’t give a lot of light, but Dean can see enough. Sam is pale. Not pale like Dean-pale (who will never be over the injustice of how Sam got all the good skin genes) but more like the half-decomposed corpse rotting in the hole next to them, and hell if that doesn’t get his blood pounding.
He’s sucking in these awful short gasps and clutching at his chest with one hand, the other grabbing at Dean’s shoulder.
“Sam, what’s wrong? What about your chest?” Dean asks in a panic.
His hand comes up to cradle Sam’s cheek, the unnatural coolness against his palm, before sliding down to Sam’s neck to find his pulse. It takes a second but when he finds it it’s racing. It feels like a goddamn racehorse against the pads of his fingers. Dean doesn’t know the numbers but he knows nobody’s pulse should be that fast, and God, what the hell is happening, where the fuck did this come from?
“Guh- Dean-“
“Okay, Sam, okay,” Dean breathes, trying to get his composure back. Help Sam. Help Sam.
Dean rearranges them with some difficulty so he can get his arm around Sam’s torso. He starts hauling them up, but before he can get them standing up, Sam sags heavily against him.
“Sam?” Dean demands, panic coloring his tone. “Sam!”
No response. Just that awful wheezing and, as Dean confirms when he slides his hand up to Sam’s neck again, the same rapid-fire pulse. Not dead, then, at least, he thinks a little maniacally.
It’s a battle to drag his unconscious brother the hundred yards or so back to the Impala. Dean curses their decision to park farther away under his breath the whole time, interspersed with the occasional question to see if Sam regained consciousness at any point. Kind of a fool’s hope, but Dean’s in the dark here.
He has no clue what’s wrong with Sam. That terrifies him more than anything. If he knows why Sam’s hurt or sick, he can fix it. This - this is a mystery.
-
“Mr. Slade?”
Dean jolts, head rising from his hands at the sound of the approaching doctor. “Yeah, that’s me. Sam - is he-“
“Sam is going to be fine,” the doctor says gently.
For a second Dean can’t breathe out of relief, one hand coming up to rub at his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers. Then, louder: “What the hell was wrong with him?”
The doctor glances down at his clipboard. “It seems Sam was suffering from a condition called tachycardia. Do you know what that is?”
“Cardia - that means your heart, right?”
“It does. Tachycardia specifically means a rapid heartbeat. In some cases, it’s relatively dormant; it’s possible someone could go their whole life without seeing a single symptom. Other times - like your brother’s case - it can cause serious problems. That’s what happened here. From what you’ve told us, it sounds like a particularly bad flare-up. An episode, if you will.”
“So the paleness, the racehorse heartbeat, the passing out - it was just an episode?”
“Of sorts. It’s also possible that it could’ve been a mild heart attack.”
Dean gapes for a second. “Sammy had a stroke?”
“No. A stroke occurs in the brain, while a heart attack occurs - well, in the heart. Tachycardia can increase the risk of heart attacks.”
Dean rubs at his forehead for a second, trying to process everything. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Can I just - can I just see Sam?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
Sam’s long frame is still in the hospital bed and he’s hooked up to at least six different machines, but he’s got his color back and thank God, there’s no ventilator. There’s an oxygen mask over his mouth, but the doctor assures him that while Sam can breathe on his own, the mask will help while Sam’s heart recovers. Dean can work with this.
“We gave him something to help him sleep after the EKG. I’ve also prescribed aspirin and nitroglycerin, which will help in case this was an actual heart attack and not just a flare-up.”
Dean’s eyes are glued on Sam’s chest, the rhythmic rise and fall soothing his frayed nerves. “So, uh. What do we do now?”
“I’d like to keep him overnight for observation, but I’m not particularly concerned about a relapse or another attack. I also want to put him on a couple anti-arrythmics, which will help regulate his heartbeat. Anti-coagulants, too. But rest will be key over the next few days. The less strain put on his heart, the better.”
“No wheelchair races, then?” Dean jokes weakly, relaxing at the sight of Sam alive and breathing next to him and the idea of a plan.
The doctor smiles. “Not for a while. I would advise avoiding exercise for the immediate future.”
No hunting, Dean translates mentally. “Will do.”
The doctor nods and glances at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to my other patients. Let me know if you have any more questions.”
Dean nods back and thanks him as he leaves. He turns back to Sam, left hand covering his brother’s right one. “Hear that, Sam? You’re gonna be fine.”
And with that, Dean settles down to wait.
-
Sam takes his sweet time waking up. It’s 2 PM the next day when Sam’s hand shifts under Dean’s, his eyes starting to move around under the lids.
“Sammy?” Dean asks hopefully. “Sam, you awake in there?”
“Mhmm,” Sam slurs. His eyes slowly flicker open, moving around the room before stopping on Dean. His hands finds their way up to his face, prying off the oxygen mask. “Dean?”
Dean feels a grin break out on his face. “Yeah, Sammy, it’s me. How ya feeling?”
“Like a tow truck ran over my chest,” he mumbles, words still slightly slurred. “What…”
“Happened? You had a fuckin’ heart attack, Sam. Way to scare the shit outta me.”
Sam’s eyebrows raise. “A heart attack?”
“Well, that’s what the doctor thinks. Either that or a -get this- a ‘tachycardic episode’.”
“Tachycardia?” Sam asks. “Shit.”
“You know what that is?” Dean asks, only slightly surprised. Friggin’ nerd.
“Well, cardi-whatever is your heart, right?”
“Yeah. Apparently your heart was beating too fuckin’ fast or something, so you keeled over while we were digging up Mr. Frederickson in the graveyard.”
Sam blinks. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. You’re on, like, ten different drugs now to fix your heart.”
Sam blinks again, longer this time as whatever drugs he’d been given no doubt kick in again. “Did we… get the ghost?”
“No,” Dean admits. “But we can go back later to burn the bones, when you’re not weak as a kitten and fainting like a girl anymore.”
“Screw you,” Sam says around a yawn. Dean smiles.
“Now that’s not very nice, Sammy. All I’m trying to do is help you. You could even say you’re being pretty… heartless.”
“That was lame, Dean. Even for you.”
“What, you don’t wanna talk about it? Have a nice little heart-to-heart?”
“Christ, please shut up.”