Sam Winchester was back at his usual haunt the next day. He had on one of his old t-shirts, a ratty blue thing with an AC/DC logo on it... a hand me down from his long absent older brother.

Azazel watched him from the corner, absently wiping the empty bar down with a towel. After a few days wearing this meatsuit, he had to admit that it seemed to be growing into a comfortable fit.

Sam's bangs were tousled over his forehead, falling into his eyes. He smiled brightly and sat down across from his friend. "Hey Brady."

"Hi." Brady snapped his text book shut and shoved it into the black leather bag he had hidden under the table.

Sam cocked his head. "Seriously? You brought your text books with you to unwind?"

Brady looked up, blue eyes red rimmed from lack of sleep. His hair askew. Only he didn't wear it like Sam. Sam's hair said that he couldn't be bothered to mess with it. That he just showered, toweled it off and let it fall where it may...which Azazel noted always resulted in the kid looking like a heartthrob from some boy band.

Brady's messy hair seemed totally out of place. It gave the impression that he was too stressed to comb it and put in his apricot-scented rich boy styling goop.

"Oh come on," Sam said in a tone meant to buoy his friend's sagging confidence. "You're not still stressing about finals? You'll do fine. They're not even coming up until after the break."

Sam leaned across the table and gave a playful kick to the young man's expensive penny loafer.

There was no return shove. "I'm not like you man, I can't learn by osmosis...or however the hell you learn." Brady looked tired. Very tired. A little unglued even.

Sam seemed uncertain, then kicked at his loafer playfully again in something mildly reminiscent of the way his older brother used to tease him. "You'll do fine."

A blonde cream puff of a teenage wet dream came to see if Sam wanted anything to drink.

The taller boy leaned back and ordered an Arrogant Bastard. Both youths seemed oblivious to the please fuck me signals she was giving off toward Sam.

Azazel smirked. Goddamn shame. That was one thing the older brother had been good for. He never would have let her get away without at least pointing her interest out to Sam. Tyson Brady looked like a completely ineffectual wingman. He seemed like an ineffectual everything, actually. Like someone who should have been a square-jawed popular jock but wasted it with his nose in a book. Just like his best friend. Those pathetic fucking goody two shoes didn't notice the opportunities at all.

In the couple days that Azazel had been wearing this meatsuit to gather intel on the young Winchester, he'd personally indulged in enough college pussy to keep him nice and warm in Hell for a few months. Being a bartender seemed like a little paid vacation.

The waitress set the ale down in front of Sam a few minutes later and tossed her long blonde hair over one shoulder, cocked her head at him with a smile.

He smiled back and it lit up his corner of the room. Damn that kid had charisma. Not quite so much as his brother but enough. And much more than his sad sack of shit father had had since Azazel had taken away Mary Winchester.

Talk about not getting over something. My god. You'd think the man couldn't have found another bitch to take her place in nearly 20 years.

The waitress turned to leave and Azazel caught Sam surreptitiously glancing at her ass as she left.

Bingo! The boy was alive.

So...Sammy Winchester had a type. Leggy blonde chicks like dear old mommy. The demon wasn't sure exactly what to make of that oedipal complex...only that it was there. He'd file that under useful information.

"I'm going to flunk out of pre-med." Brady declared, looking beleaguered.

Sam's brows knitted together. "What? Brady, that's ridiculous. You've got like a 3.8 or something."

"3.5"

That's not flunking out."

"If I want to continue to med school that is abysmal."

"You're overreacting."

"Yeah easy for you to say. You could probably take my tests now and ace them."

Sam shook his head. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Look, go home, have a restful relaxation period and come back and kick ass."

Brady shook his head and took a pull of his bottle. "Yeah. Restful. Home. Of course." He seemed to pull himself back out of his funk and seriously focused on Sam. "Where are you going for break? "

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. I figured I'd stick around here. Maybe pick up some more hours working at the bookstore."

Brady studied Sam a moment in a way that made the Winchester look distinctly uncomfortable. "I know you and your dad don't get along well but why don't you go hang with your brother?"

Sam started to shrug.

"I mean you do have a brother right? You didn't, like, make him up as an elaborate cover story to hide that you live in the cupboard under the stairs in your Aunt and Uncle's house, right?"

Sam smirked and took a drink. "No. Dean is very real, I promise."

"And..." Brady let the question hang, his blue eyes showing a bit of interest. A bit of spunk somewhere in that good boy exterior.

"And what?"

"You've never even like talked to him since I've known you... why?"

Sam shrugged. "He's busy... and we just... we're just really different people."

"Ummm." Brady pointedly let his eyes skim Sam's disheveled blue-collar appearance. Such a distinct contrast to his polo shirt and tailored pants and penny loafers. "Genius, so are we."

"Yeah, but..." Sam shrugged, almost flushed a little-the unease pouring off of him in waves.

Brady pushed his fingers through his blonde hair and rolled his shoulders, fighting a muscle knot. "Look, I know you hate to talk about yourself."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do."

"Yeah," Sam conceded. "Maybe."

"But I mean we've been best friends for how long now?"

Sam ducked his head and looked up under his fringe of bangs. "A while."

"So it's time you spilled a little. What's the deal with your brother?" Brady took another sip. "He an asshole or something?"

"What?" The kid looked a little startled by the question. "No. Dean's...he's great."

"And yet you never talk to him."

"It's complicated." Sam peeled at the label on his beer bottle, his fingers sliding on the cold sweat of the glass. "He was kinda mad at me when I left and just..." he huffed in discomfort.

"You don't think he's over it by now?"

Another huff and a shrug. "I don't know."

Brady seemed to be able to read how close he was skating to peril with his interrogation. He broke off and changed the subject. "I'd ask you to my house over break..."

Azazel swallowed a wave of annoyance. It would be so much harder to get to Brady with Sam Winchester around as a buffer. The more isolated Tyson was the better. The more stressed about grades, the more stressed with family, the easier to play with.

Brady continued his sentence. "I'd ask you but it's really just for..."

"Family," Sam said a bit sadly. "I know. I get it. I do."

Oh poor Little orphan Sammy. Almost enough to tug at the heartstrings.

"So maybe you should make up with yours before you die a lonely old man with only a few Stanford buddies to visit your law practice: Scrooge and Associates."

"Actually, I think Ebenezer Scrooge worked at Scrooge and Marley." Sam corrected automatically.

"See," Brady said, pointing with his bottle of Arrogant Bastard, "That shit. That shit right there is why your brother doesn't talk to you."

There was a little hurt in Sam's eyes behind the laugh. "Yeah. Probably."

God. He was so soft. Such perfect material but so goddamn soft.

For all Azazel know, he hadn't even killed yet. Sure a couple of salt and burns, a few hunts where he'd watched his brother and father do the dirty work. But he hadn't killed. Not really. He hadn't driven a knife through flesh, felt the blood spatter on his skin and the unholy tremble and shake of the death throws underneath his hand. Until then, Azazel felt that Sam Winchester was a virgin, no matter how much training he'd had.

Azazel knew that he needed to set the dominoes up carefully to assure that when he tipped one the whole stack would fall over. He needed to hurt Sam badly enough that he would have no real hesitation about throwing himself back into The Life when the opportunity arose, when the time grew close to set a master plan in motion. Sam was going to be so fun to play with.

All his life Sam had been easy to herd. Azazel simply needed to put put a few pawns into play, give Sam the choices and he'd consistently chose the correct path. Sometimes the kid's moral fortitude amazed him. But it was that same fortitude that made him ridiculously easy to manipulate.

It was like throwing throwing a puppy into a road and knowing that Sam would stop and save it. Of course he would. So easy to predict. It would be the sweetest victory if that sweet gentle soul ever turned. If Azazel, himself, could do that.

Stanford had been a slight wrench in the flow of the Yellow- Eyed Demon's plans but it could work to his advantage. He just needed that first domino.

He would need Dean later, but for now Sam needed to feel safe and secure in his pointless life here. He needed something to anchor him here and then cause him enough pain to override that sweet, sweet nature. To make him want revenge. To make him want to kill.

Azazel knew how to set that up. He'd take him down the way he'd taken down his father.

All he needed was a sweet, innocent blonde piece of ass.

TBC... thanks for the reviews guys. Tara, Mckyd, Michele, cmr. :) I'm not expecting much feedback for this because it's so Sam-centric, but my muse won't leave me alone with it. :)