A/N Just a quick piece I whipped out, I apologize for any mistakes. Let me know what you think! If you spot any mistakes let me know and I will fix them, they drive me nuts when I see them in other people's writing. I'm sorry for the long wait! I am going to try to update more regularly now that I am not in classes.

Almost Done

It's ok. Sam can't feel his hands. Or his face. But that's ok. Because he got an 89.5 on his last English test. He hasn't been able to feel anything for the past two days. But as soon as the next two weeks are over, everything will go back to normal. So for now, the fact that his skin feels like its crawling doesn't matter. Because he needs to end the semester strong. Not getting good grades is not going to happen. It would be unacceptable. Sam can't afford for that to happen. This has been a bad semester.

All capital letters. A BAD semester. This is his second year here, he can't afford to fall apart now like some newbie. There's only two weeks left. That's 10 school days left. Sam rubs his arms, trying to get rid of the static-y feeling that the strong concoction of sleep deprivation and extreme amounts of caffeine have left him. The feeling doesn't leave. Even as he realizes that he is leaving red marks on his arms and face from scratching. But that's ok. Because he did well on two out of the last three tests he took. Sam puts his hands in his hoodie's pockets. His face is tingly now. But that's ok. He will drink some more coffee soon. And Redbull. Oh thank God or any other entity out there for Redbull and coffee. Sam starts as he realizes he is literally wringing his hands as he stares at the computer screen. The current demon is Business Calculus. Why a lawyer needs Business Calculus is well beyond him. What use could he possibly have for it. Seriously, what is he going to ever need Business Calculus for? He is going to be a lawyer, not a Business major. Sam heaves a sigh in frustration. Which somehow turns into a yawn... which turns into a yawn...His eyes don't want to open again and the tingling is slowly disappearing...SLAM! Sam jumps into consciousness like a reluctant 6th grader to the dreaded speech. Curse words he had learned long ago on hunts fell unbidden from his lips as the homework assignment stares him down. There is only 3 hours left before the assignment closes. Sam scoots his rickety chair forward. It squeaks in protest and Sam winces, glancing over to Brady, his jock of a roommate, trying to make sure he didn't wake up. Brady stirs, but stays asleep after shifting to face the other direction. Sam sighs. His hands scrub his face. The exhaustion feels like its weighting his eyelids down. He can HEAR them clink together. A hysterical giggle escapes him at the sound. Blink. Blink. He can't help smiling, even as he rubs his hands together again to try to rid them of the pins-and-needles feeling that refuses to leave. Sam remembers being young and watching Tom and Jerry with Dean in run-down motels and laughing at the way Tom or some other character would act when they were tired. Using toothpicks to hold their bloodshot eyelids open. But now, some wonders how well that would work. If the toothpicks weren't in the kitchen, halfway across the small apartment, Sam would be sorely tempted to try it. Sam picks up his pencil and squints his tired, scratchy eyes at the question on display and then back to his notebook and the textbook spread haphazardly across his foldable desk. Almost done with this semester. He can't focus, he is so tired. But he is almost done with this math assignment. He is almost failing. He has a 72% in this class. Sam hasn't had a C since Home Ec in Freshman year of high school. Sam drops his pencil in favor of scrubbing his face again. Clink. Clink. He can't help but smirk as he hears the effort involved in just blinking and not staying asleep forever. His arms are still crawling and a furtive glance at his watch tells him its only 1:57. He will be in this class in 5 hours. A glance back at the dull laptop screen shows that he has one problem left. Sam starts to rewrite the problem on his notebook, only to realize that he had already written this problem...Except the numbers are backwards. A careful rereading of the problem tells him yes, he wrote that wrong and that would most likely be why the problem was marked wrong. He can't help but jump when he tastes iron in his mouth. Shit. What the hell. His knuckles are to his mouth. And evidently bleeding. Again. To stay awake, he had applied a little distraction method. Caffeine isn't always enough to keep him awake, it makes him jittery. So to combat that, he had taken to lightly biting his knuckles. He grimaced down at his knuckles, little indents leaking red stared back at him accusingly. Look how useless you are. You aren't good at anything. Not school, look at that class! You're going to fail it! Then you'll lose your full ride. And then! Hah! Then you'll be paying for college all on your own won't you. Sammy the little fuck up. Oh and what will daddy dearest and dear big brother think of that then. Look at that Dean, can't even learn a simple mathematical concept. Sam dug his finger nails into his other hand until he felt liquid well up. Just great. Now he has two bleeding hands and no doubt eyes to rival a raccoons. Sam grit his teeth. He won't fail this class. Sam swigs the last of his coffee, relishing the bitter taste even as he grimaces at the acidic taste it leaves. He digs in the small pocket of his backpack with new fervor until he finds what he is looking for. He won't fail. He will not be the fuck up. Swiping his hair back, Sam sets the red ink pen on the table beside his homework. He won't fail. It will be ok. One problem left and then he can sleep. He forces all his focus onto the problem, looking at the previous one and rearranging the equation until it looks compatible. Sam writes the math down on the index, they don't allow calculators in this class. He double checks his work. Triple checks it to be sure when he finds he wrote the numbers in the wrong order, shaking his head at his stupidity. With trembling hands fueled by caffeine and hope, he types in the answer he got and hovers his finger over the enter button. With eyes closed, he pressed the button, steeling himself for the alert that says its wrong. Eyes now open, he checks it, it's right. A half hysterical laugh flies out before he can suppress it. Finally, he can sleep until tomorrow. Closing the laptop, he doesn't even bother to take off shoes before he flops onto the bed across from Brady's. It'll be ok. He's almost done.