Little child
Dry your crying eyes
How can I explain
The fear you feel inside
-"When the Children Cry" by White Lion

Kid was falling apart. Taken longer than Azazel would've guessed, but that just meant that he'd been right to pull Sam Winchester back into the game. It was interesting to watch their little family dynamic, in an etic sort of way. John was keeping his distance, Dean-o was putting on a brave front for all his fear, and Sam? Sam was slowly starting to unravel, piece by piece.

"Just the way I like it," Azazel said. He was near the driveway, his eyes locked on Sam through the window. The property lines were defined and he wouldn't cross them. Not even when Sam was alone and ripe for the taking. Besides, he wasn't the violent, forceful guy everyone pegged him to be. He wasn't about to throw Sam into a bag, haul him over his shoulder and run off with him to tie him to railroad tracks. Please.

No, the fun part was getting Sam to come to him. Because Sam would. Oh, Sammy would. It was only a matter of time.

And right now, time was on his side.

Sam had taken to pacing back and forth in his room. What the preacher had told him had obviously sent him reeling, just as Azazel had hoped. Originally, the preacher had been bait, but Azazel wasn't a patient demon by any means. Besides, letting the gentle man tell the truth and decimate Sam, leave him anxious and scared and pulling his hair out? Much better than his original plan.

Azazel began to smile. He almost felt sorry for Sam, so scared and so alone. Unfortunately, it was a tad necessary. He had to see what the kid did under pressure. If he caved like everyone else, then it was all for nothing, and he'd have to wait another couple of decades for the next batch to grow. This entire thing was far more difficult than baking cookies, and none of the kids tasted nearly as good as chocolate-chip heaven. Well, closest Azazel was ever getting to Heaven.

This one, though. This one had always been different. Good family. Hunting instincts. And just that touch of sympathy and heart that made him as sweet as it did bold. It made him as courageous as it did victim to swaying emotions.

It made him easy.

"Keep going," Azazel murmured. "You're doing just fine, Sammy." This one would be the one. This one wouldn't be a failure like the others.

He'd stay a little longer to watch his handiwork in motion (because he was a narcissist and an arrogant son of a bitch, he wasn't going to deny it), then he'd leave. The bungling earlier had possibly given him a door of opportunity, and hey, he was never one to look opportunity in the mouth. Or eye. Or some other bleeding orifice. Whatever.

The wind picked up and Azazel smiled. Couldn't have asked for a better night.

Ten minutes after fighting with himself, Sam finally gave in and admitted that the room didn't feel safe anymore. The wards seemed to mock him from the windowsill. They looked easy enough to break. He began to pace, fingers clenching into random fists. The entire room was too small, everything too neat and wrong, and he couldn't take it. Sam angrily kicked his desk chair away. When it flew much father across the room, only to smack into the closet door, Sam stopped fretting. He stared at the chair on the opposite side of the room for a long moment. Fear didn't fill him, but resignation did. He stumbled back to the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

It was all so out of control. All of it. Sam felt like he was spiraling down and down into an abyss he'd never come out of, getting pushed even further down without a way of climbing out. He was going to be left feeling stuck and trapped, a demon on his trail, a freak-

He forced himself to breathe. Other people were chased by demons all the time. Sure. He swiped at the tears in his eyes and tilted his head back. Above his head were the black painted lines of the demon trap. Nothing evil or demonic could get out of it; it rendered them harmless as soon as they stepped in.

Sam would love to make a permanent one that followed him around all the time. Especially now if what Jim said was true.

It wanted Sam. Dean if it could, but mainly Sam. And just that small thing meant that Dean was in danger. Sam's stomach threatened to rise past his throat, but he swallowed past it. God. If the demon got a hold of Dean...

Images of his brother laid out, covered in blood, screaming and begging and dying were enough to push Sam off the bed. No. The demon only wanted him. The mere thought of that made Sam shudder and want to hide. God, whatever it wanted him for had to be bad. And it wanted him alive, which only made the now permanent knot in Sam's stomach tighten even further. He'd already known that it was bad, known for some time. But to have it laid out just sent any hope Sam had back into the recesses of despair.

It was best if he left. He'd save everyone else that way. Save his dad.

Save Dean.

He began to pack things into a small backpack. He didn't keep a lot of clothes here (most of his things were now in the charred rubble that had been his apartment) but there was enough that would keep him cool and warm. Other things, such as flashlight, first aid kit, and other necessities were shoved in.

It was the picture that about did him in. A small photograph of him and Dean sat on his desk. They were grinning, arm wrapped around each other, Sam leaning in towards his big brother. Sam picked the photo frame up and gazed at it for a long moment. They'd been happy that day. Carefree and fear free and happy. His brother grinned up at him, smiling almost infectiously.

His brother deserved to live. Leaving now was the best thing he could do for Dean.

When he realized his fingers weren't going to put the photo back down, Sam bit his lip and finally shoved it into the backpack on top of everything. The top was zipped up a moment later. Shoes were shoved on, a jacket was pulled from the closet, and then he made his way to the door.

Thank god the door didn't squeak anymore. Still, he pulled and opened the door as carefully as he could, casting his gaze down to the left towards the stairs. Off to his right and down the hall were the other rooms, which meant he'd have to sneak down the stairs. He pursed his lips but nodded to himself; he could do it. He pulled the door open a little more and slid himself out through the small opening he'd given himself. All he had to do was carefully shut the door, and then he was-

Not quite free, and he couldn't stop the shudder. No. For Dean. He had to do this for Dean.

As soon as he was through the door, however, he realized that there was a pressure that wasn't usually there. The door snapped shut suddenly, and Sam's head whipped to the right. The big rubber band that someone had put around his door knob had effectively closed the door with a bang, and the pan that had been holding the other end of the rubber band in place now fell from its precarious position on top of a pile of books. It made a huge clattering sound as it hit the wood floor, and in the two seconds it'd taken for all of that to occur, Sam froze and cringed. Goddamn his brother.

"Going somewhere?"

Smug dastardly son of a bitch. Actually, he didn't sound nearly as smug as Sam had thought, and still wincing, Sam turned towards the stairs. Dean was standing at the top, arms crossed, glaring at him. "You obviously thought I would," Sam said.

"Guess I was right," Dean snapped, and underneath the anger Sam could see the worry for what it was. "You stupid sonuvabitch. Did you really think I was gonna leave you alone in your room to what, ferment in moodiness so you could take off and do something stupid? And I swear to god, Sam, if you try and lay some trust crap on me I will pour Nair all over you-"

"They want me," Sam said, his fingers clutching at the backpack still in his hands. "It wants me, Dean. Not anyone else. If they take me, they'll leave everyone else alone."

"You don't know that they will, Sammy, and on top of that, you don't know what it really wants with you," Dean insisted. The knot was back in Sam's stomach, screaming at him to answer Dean, and he forced it down. One thing at a time.

"You don't know that they won't leave you be. I'll make it keep its word-"

"It's trying to break its word to take you!" Dean exploded. Sam felt the backpack slip from his fingers in shock as Dean tried to heave in air. "You want the truth? Fine. I'm scared. I'm scared shitless here, Sam, for all of us. I don't know what to do, and I feel like I've had my legs kicked out from under me.

"But the thought of that thing getting its hands on you? Leaves me completely terrified," Dean admitted, and Sam fought to swallow even as it got hard to breathe. For Dean to come out and say it, for his brother who held onto bravado like it was his middle name...

"Don't take off," Dean pleaded. "Just...don't. We'll figure something out. There's gotta be something we can do. So don't take off."

They stared at each other, both fighting to breathe. When Sam finally closed his eyes, Dean let out a sigh of relief.

"If you boys are done yellin' at each other, I need Sam."

Sam turned to where Bobby stood in the hallway, gazing at them both with understanding. "What's up?" Dean asked roughly, then attempted to clear his throat.

"It's Jim," Bobby said, and Sam's chest felt like caving in. "He wants to talk to Sam."

Ellen and Jo were coming down the hall now, Missouri behind them. "I'll stay up here with you," she called softly. Sam nodded as best he could and stepped forward, then paused. He could feel Dean's eyes on the back of his neck, probably trying to gauge where Sam's emotions stood and what he should do.

He solved that by reaching back and picking up the discarded backpack. "Make yourself useful and put it all back," he tried to joke, but it fell flat. The small smile Dean gave in return was worth the attempt, though: he understood what Sam was saying. I'll stay. But you have to help.

"Go," Dean said softly as he nudged him towards Missouri. "I'll play maid."

Sam nodded more firmly this time. Dean was upstairs with him, only a few rooms away. Downstairs wasn't far either, but somehow his being on the same floor helped. He moved down the hall towards Missouri, stepped around her, and into the spare bedroom where Jim was.

The lights were dimmed. A few towels had been tossed over the lamps, and the covers on the usually pristine guest bed were rumpled and bloodied. The wave of sudden grief made Sam sway in the doorway. Jim was breathing, from what he could see, but the possibility of his not being there was enough to raise tears in his eyes.

He moved closer, settling into one of the chairs that was beside the bed. Jim had always been one of their closest friends, next to Bobby. He'd always been there for Sam, the nearest thing he'd ever had to an uncle. He tried to breathe through the sudden burning in his nose, a sure sign that he'd lose the fight with the tears in his eyes.

"It's not your fault, Sam."

Sam raised watery eyes to Jim. The older man was smiling, despite the obvious pain he was in. His face was pale, his lips near bloodless, and every word sounded like it took effort. "None of it," Jim continued in a weak voice. "Your dad's disappearing, everyone having to run. Me," he added with a cough. Sam half raised from his chair, fingers itching to do something, but Jim settled a moment later. He smiled once more, and the bright red blood on the inside of his lips made Sam's next inhale shake.

Jim gazed at him before slowly sliding his arm out from under the blankets. His hand reached for Sam's and Sam took it, feeling stupid and low for having Jim comfort him when Jim was the one...

Sam shut his eyes and felt tears trail down his cheeks. His next breath was a little more steady, and when he was in control he opened his eyes again. Jim's smile was nothing but quiet understanding. "How is it not?" Sam whispered, needing to say something. Anything. "It wants me-"

"It's breaking its promise, son," Jim said softly. "You've done nothing to make it do what it's doing. What you have to...have to do," he continued after a deep breath. "You have to go from here. You can't change the past, Sam. Have to go forward."

Have to accept everything that the demon had done. Accept it, move on. It was the logical thing to do.

Not something Sam was sure he could do when he knew he was watching one of his mentors fade in front of him.

"Do you remember when you came to my home all those years ago? After the fire?"

Yeah, not something Sam was going to forget anytime soon. "John...he fought hard with the decision he made," Jim said, and Sam's eyes met his again in surprise. "He thought about hunting it then. To keep you safe. But the demon gave him a choice. John angered it, and it retaliated as a warning. It left you alive for a reason, Sam: to teach your father a lesson." He took a few deep breaths that weren't deep enough, and Sam felt like he couldn't breathe at all.

"He gave up the hunt. It was...was one of the options the demon gave him. This, what it's doing now, Sam...this wasn't one of the options."

Sam swallowed around the knot in his throat. Jim's eyes were fluttering shut, though his grip on Sam's hand wasn't loose. "I should let you rest," he managed, barely rising. His legs felt like jello, and his chest was heaving with stuttered breaths.

Jim's hand tightened around his a little harder than before. "Stay with Dean," he murmured. "Your brother was the one who..." Another pause, another inhale. "Who pulled you from the fire. He'll keep you safe." He gave Sam one last smile before he let go of Sam's hand. He didn't close his eyes completely until Sam nodded. "Good."

Words tried to form on the tip of Sam's tongue. Thank you and Please rest fought with the childish pleas Don't go and I need you. He moved to the door in a numb state, not surprised when Missouri was waiting on the other side. She grasped his shoulder with a soft, sympathetic smile, and Sam slid past her, barely able to breathe as he fought to keep it in.

By the time he made it to his room he couldn't see. He stumbled into a surprised Dean's arms and latched on, the sob bursting forth. Dean clung back with a ferocity Sam hadn't felt since the fire years before, and the thought of the man who'd been there to help them through it, the man who was currently dying a few rooms away, only made him cry harder. Tears spilled and he fought to breathe through it.

"I'll kill it," Dean whispered hotly in his ear, the only sound that made it through Sam's grieving. "I swear to god I'll kill it, Sammy."

Sam merely hung on and cried.