A/N: Hey guys! I'm still alive! Hoping to finish this story and have it up very soon. Let me know what you think. Reviews mean more than you'll ever know. I might not always respond, but I go back through and read them! , I can't tell you how much I enjoy your reviews, I tried to tag you the last two chapters, but for wahtever reason it didn't want to work. So thank you so much!

Alright, spiel over, hope you guys enjoy!

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Sam opened his backpack as Ms. Lynderson dismissed class.

"Extra credit if you do the practice Final Exam! Come grab one up front before you leave. It will be due BEFORE you take your final or you will NOT get any credit!"

Sam paused in putting away his books long enough to scribble the info down. Extra Credit was always a good thing. As he bent over to shove his textbook deeper into his backpack, a chest-tightening cough overtook him, causing him to almost fold in half in his seat over the bag. The cough that had started out as a really minor nuisance had quickly become a concerning wet, crackly cough that impeded his ability to breathe. Even when he wasn't coughing.

It reminded him of when he was 15 and had gotten soaked to the bone on a hunt and ended up with pneumonia. As the coughing fit continued, his vision grayed out along the edges, static filled his ears with the feeling of the air shredding its way in and out of his lungs in stuttered bursts. By the time he had finally dragged in a few slow, albeit shallow, breaths of air and his vision finally cleared enough to see clearly, the classroom had emptied.

He stood up cautiously, bracing a hand on the flimsy desk to hold his balance as his vision swam with the effort of transitioning from sitting to standing. With herculean effort, he lifted his backpack and pulled it onto his back. It pressed his shirt to his achy skin, which prickled in protest as only fevered skin would. Finally making it out of the classroom, he swiped a hand across his face, a habit which had increased as his sleep-deprived in a linear relation.

On his walk home, all Sam could think about was Dean.

He missed Dean.

More than he thought he would.

He missed the taunts with no real heat behind them that were muttered even as Dean took expert care of Sam. Sam may not need the comfort his big brother had provided, but that doesn't mean he didn't miss it like an amputated limb. Sam hadn't realized just how much Dean was his fail safe until he no longer had him. Of all the things he left behind by coming to Stanford, Dean was what he missed.

Not the adrenaline rush of a hunt, not the triumph after a successful hunt, or the puzzle each hunt presented. It was Dean and his support that he missed. Even when Dean didn't agree, he might let Sam flounder and fall, but he was always there to patch Sam up; never leaving him to mend on his own. Sam snorted, great job he has done on his own. Can't even afford to visit the Stanford medical clinic. Or take care of a common cold. Dean would be so disappointed if he could see him now. God, what even would Dad say.

Just proving him right.

Sam stumbled over an uneven patch along the road, his eyes starting to moist up and his vision blurring. This close to his shitty apartment, there was no sidewalk. Construction was underway for it, but until it was finished, according to one of the signs put up when construction had just started, in September, anyone walking the path, had to walk in the road. Traffic was not like it was near the college here, not a steady stream of cars, but also not deserted. The cars had to yield to the pedestrians here, and people in California knew it. Sam just didn't get the people here. They wouldn't even check the street before brazenly crossing. None the less, he always glanced left and right before crossing.

Call it an ingrained habit, one he had learned from Dean at a young age, but he would much rather not tempt fate, for she was a fickle wench at times. He sped up as he recognized he was almost to his apartment, just around the next block now. Seeing nothing coming in either direction, he started crossing the street. He glanced up at the sky, taking in the rapidly darkening sky and hurried his steps, even as his chest rumbled and vibrated with every breath he took in protest.

The weather certainly wasn't on his side right now, he thought with a scowl. The clouds that had earlier looked mildly threatening had somehow darkened and picked up pace along his walk. Thunder boomed as the first few raindrops fell, landing on his upturned face.

He was broken out of his reverie by the sound of an engine. Sam whirled around, towards the sound of the rapidly approaching engine only to realize with horror that the car that rounded the corner didn't seem to be slowing as it should. The car was too close, there is no way he can make it to the other side. All he could do, was prepare for impact. As the fender hit him, Sam recalled all the times he had been tossed around by the supernatural. He instinctively rolled up the hood and off the side, everything screaming in agony at the unforgiving strike by metal, the air driven from his lungs in a painful burst. As he hit the tarmac in an ungraceful heap, the world faded to gray to the sound of squealing tires and yelling.