So…..I don't know where this went wrong but it did somewhere when I posted this. I just checked it and realized it wasn't the edited version of this chapter. Sorry!

Hey guys! I have another update! This story isn't moving in quite the direction I had originally planned, but it's still coming along and I have a basic outline for how I want it to go. Sorry for the wait! I've started up two more jobs so my time is a little limited. I tried to check this over but again, I only manage to work on this late at night. So if there's any mistakes you guys' catch let me know! Also, if there's any direction you guys want to see this go let me know, I will definitely try to incorporate it into the story. I got a suggestion from the that gave my muse a kickstart.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings! The boys have potty mouths

Dean gustily sang along to "Black Betty" by Ram Jam as he rolled down the road; a big smile stretched across his face. One arm hanging out the window and the other loosely gripping the top of Baby's steering wheel as he cruised down a no-name two lane back road.

He had successfully just finished a case involving a werewolf that had him stumped for over a week in the same small town. Small towns suck, Dean concluded. It had only two bars and all the bar-goers were locals, which was an issue because it made hustling nigh on impossible because the bartenders always remember who makes trouble. His funds were only a little low, nothing to be concerned about for quite some time to come. He had made it unscathed out of the hunt. Well, mostly unscathed, he flexed his hand on the wheel in emphasis of the slightly bruised knuckles and grimaced as he shifted to not pull on the pissed off back muscles.

Damn, although the werewolf was just one fugly and not in a group, he certainly moved fast, the wily bastard had managed to bowl into Dean and careen him into a table before Dean managed to potshot him with some silver. Fun times. But, one more fugly in the ground. One more solo hunt completed. Dean frowned, his good mood faltering at the aching reminder of group hunts. Back before Sammy brutally split the family unit apart.

Dean shook his head slightly and snorted to himself. The fight that night had been brewing for a long time. Dean had known something had been up with the kid, but not in a million years would have guessed it to be college.

Hindsight, being the little karmatic bitch it is, is 20/20 and looking back, Dean has to admit Sam threw up a lot of neon flashing signs warning of his departure. As much as he tries to blame the collapse of their family on Sam, he can't in good conscious put all of the blame on Sam. If he had paid more attention to Sam's increasing hostility and surly silence and not just blown it off with a shrug and his typical quip about "Sammy's time of the month."

It's after Sammy left, that Dad left Dean to his own devices and set him on his first solo hunts. They check in weekly, sometimes daily if it sounds like a dangerous hunt. Well, dangerous by their standards, not your typical civvy standards.

Dean misses Sam.

Has actually stopped by both the college and its massive, snobby occupants and by Sam's own apartment to check on the kid. Make sure he is doing alright. The stupid kid doesn't set up the majority of the wards that they grew up using and marking in their shitty motel rooms. Dean glanced at his busted knuckles, then to his gas gauge. Maybe it's time for another swing-by.

Besides, with all that college population, it was always a good hunting ground.

XXX

Sam startled awake.

Falling on the floor in a tangle of sweaty sheets and a resounding thump that echoed much louder in his head than it probably should. He tried to blink the cobwebs out of his eyes but they remained deeply rooted.

Sam rubs at his gritty feeling eyes, trying to make sense of all the blurry blobs sitting on the cold hard floor with him. He lets out a mournful groan and jerks his hand back as one of his fingernails blearily stabs him in the eye. Shit! What time is it? Sam's knees tangle more in the sheets and he slips and lands on one of his arms as he lunged for the alarm clock on the nightstand. 3:12 stares in haughty, bold red numbers back at him. He curses beneath his breath as he carefully extracts his arm out from underneath him and starts untangling himself from the errant sheets.

Is it worth it to go back to sleep for two hours, he contemplates, or should he stay up and try to crank out some studying before going to class.

God. How is it only Tuesday? Seriously, it feels like it should at least be a Thursday. Sam lurches as he comes to a slouched stand, still absently rubbing his eyes and squinting them as he considers staying up or going to bed now. Another glance at the clock.

Pro of sleeping, he definitely needs it, he sniffs to test how congested he is and gets a pitiful whine and coughs when it fails to actually supply oxygen to his sleep-deprived brain. An image of an exhausted brain with neurons sparking out and shutting down dashes behind his closed eyelids. Which is when he realizes he had to have closed his eyes to result in having to open them.

What's supposed to be a frustrated sigh suddenly became a jaw-splitting yawn.

Con of sleeping. Less time studying. Sam keeps a mental tally of the tick marks under each heading as he carefully eases himself onto the bed.

Shooting a glancing look to the opposing bed and a comfortably snoring Brady, Sam can't help but feel a little resentment seep in. Brady shouldn't be throwing his GPA, which is essentially his life, down the crapper just because of one bad semester. But certainly that shouldn't mean that Sam should suffer for it. Sam tries to hold onto that anger to stir himself into some form of action, whether it be crawling back under his disgustingly sweat soaked sheets, or dragging himself over to the sad excuse for a desk.

The anger seeps through his grasp like water through sand. His brain like a porous stone rather than the typical absorbent sponge. It just dripped through his exhausted brain. Not leaving more than a slight lingering sadness, but suddenly seeming to drop a barbell on his shoulders and his vision swam as though he were falling down a hole.

Like that time he had been on a hunt. Sam had been bait, much to Dean's anger and horror, and he had ended up running fast and hard. The supposed ghost of a boy drowned on a river hadn't turned out to be a simple ghost, but rather a water wraith. A type not confined by water. Dad had wagered on it being stuck in the water which led to Sam desperately running away, trying to get away as Dean and his Dad dashed after them. Sam had fallen down a deep hole. He woke to Dean holding his head in his lap and murmuring reassurances, even as he sent angry glares of accusation at John.

Sam's head pounded, strongly in favor of sleep. And choosing to remind of the fact that humans are funny things, requiring food and sleep, by not allowing his vision to clear and by marching a shiver down his body, causing goosebumps to line up like soldiers up and down his sore body.

Sam glanced at the laptop sitting inauspiciously at the desk. He needed to do well. Lest he fall down the steep slope for success. He heaved another deep breath, clasping his hands together and shivering again. Sleep, or study. Either way he risked falling.

Smack, a slight noise, familiar as a skin to skin contact and the numb-warm feeling of his hand and face helped his mind resurface. His palm scratched at his face. Sam glanced at the blurry image he knew to be the desk and his computer. He squints his eyes in concentration, trying to read the stickers on his laptop. He only manages to make his eyes water.

Screw this.

Sam will sleep for the next two hours or however the hell long he has left. With how fuzzy his vision his and how...ughck... he feels, trying to study won't accomplish much but give him vague memories of sitting at his desk come exam time. Sam scrubs his forehead and scrunches his eyes closed. Dean had always said he could tell when Sam wasn't feeling well because of the facial expressions he made. Dean probably would have already drug his ass into the nearest cheap clinic by now. Sam heaves a sigh, honestly he should go to a clinic or a doctor. There's one on campus for students fairly cheap. But Sam doesn't have time or money. And honestly, doctors have never brought along supremely good news. There's something wrong for people to end up at the doctor's office. And there is nothing wrong with Sam. He will make it just fine. Because this is just a cold that's going to go away very soon. Regardless of the amount of sleep he gets.

Except Sam knows he is falling into an ever-growing hole despite his best attempts at denying it until it's true.

He knows it. He is not afraid of falling, it's the landing he worries about.

"Ughhmmmm", a muffled moan sneaks out, a deep, nasally, and quite honestly, pathetic sound as he finally concedes. Studying isn't going to happen tonight. Hopefully the sleep helps. The world through his vision still is spinning and flashing like one of those cheap, flashy tops he used to play with as a kid. The world swayed like he just came off one of those spinny playground things. They type Dean used to push around. The corners of his lips twitch up at the fond memories. Dean would always make sure he had a firm grasp on the bars before pushing it in its circular path as fast as he could and hopping on himself. Sam felt himself list as the memory of the motion screwed with his brain, making him feel as if he was spinning beneath him, even as he sat firmly planted on his bed.

Sam falls.

He pulls a bit on the sheets his fell on, not caring that he only gets a little bit of the cloth. It's enough to cover his core. A shiver wracks his body, making his feet slide on the cold floor.

Sam fell then too, he fell off the stupid spinny thingy at that one park, the details long lost in a mirage of city names and states. But the difference between falling now, and falling then, is that he had Dean to catch him then.