A/N: This starts after Devil's Trap, but it's not really a tag, because I think it's pretty AU after that. This is for all those poor folks who think there isn't enough Sam in season 2.

Disclaimer: I guess I should say that I don't own them, and I'm not getting paid.

Summary: Sacrifice, what cost is too much to pay? Post DT. Sacrifice/Limp!Sam, Bigbrother!Dean, Wee!chesters, lotsa angst, and whumpage.

Anything in italics is either flashbacks or thoughts.

Watching the Lamb

Ripa J. Sattva

November 16, 2006

For there will be so many, in Jerusalem today. We must be sure the lamb doesn't run away…Then I said, dear children, watch the lamb.—Watch the Lamb-Ray Boltz

Chapter One

"Does Dean really do all of this?" Sam asked, dropping the hoe and rake into a clattering heap of garden tools, and wiping at a drip of sweat that he imagined was forming on his ten-year-old brow.

"Of course he does, Sam," Pastor Jim answered. "Your brother's a great hand to have around the garden, especially when there're weeds to be pulled, and vegetables to be picked," he added motioning toward the heaping bushel basket of tomatoes and cucumbers. "He's a whole lot better suited to the bending and stooping than I am anymore." He massaged a twinge in his aching back and lifted the straw hat from his head to release some of the heat that had boiled up under the late morning sun, before he shoved it back down forcefully over his longish brown hair.

Dean always said Pastor Jim wore his hair like that so he'd look like Jesus, and people would pay more attention to him in church. He wasn't sure that was the actual reason, but Sam kinda liked it. As far as explanations went, that one was just so Dean, and even though Sam wasn't as naïve as he used to be, he still wanted to believe everything his big brother told him. Even when it just turned out to be Dean speak and sarcasm, Sam still hungered for anything that was even remotely Deanesque and familiar in their ever-changing life.

So, Sam didn't know why Pastor Jim wore his hair long, and he didn't know too many grown men who wore long hair. He did think, though, that he just might try growing his own hair out when he grew up, so that he could comb through it and laugh at that joke he'd shared with his brother so many years in the past. As brothers, they shared a lot, but laughter was something Sam always wished they shared more of.

"So how come, if there's so much to do out here, Dean never asked me to come out and help him?" Sam asked, gazing with exhaustion at the amount of cleanup they had yet to do.

Jim thought about it with pursed lips and one cocked eyebrow, an expression that Sam had noticed Dean copying lately. "Well, Sam, why did you volunteer to do it today, without knowing there was so much to do?" He asked.

Sam's face scrunched, and he shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "Well," he started and paused, "I knew Dean was excited because Dad promised to take him out in the back forty and teach him to drive. But he was worried because he knew you needed him to help in the yard, too. I didn't want him to miss out." He shrugged again dismissively. He didn't think Pastor Jim had a brother. He probably didn't understand.

"And what are you usually doing while Dean helps me out here?" Jim asked leadingly.

"Reading," Sam answered without pause. "You got so many books, about everything I could ever wanna know, I think. And we don't get to read much except what Dad tells us to read and homework stuff. I love coming here."

"Don't you think Dean knows that, just like you know how much he wanted to go driving with your Dad today?"

Sam thought about it and smiled. "Yeah, I guess he does." He paused again, looking forlornly at the pile of tools. "Still, it's a lot of work. Seems like too much for a kid." A beat. "Doesn't the Bible say kids shouldn't have to do work?" He tried to hide his sarcastic smirk by ducking his eyes away.

Jim laughed, thick and bubbly, head tilted back slightly. John Winchester's boys were always such joys to have around. Sam's habit of questioning anything and everything always kept the pastor on his toes. While Dean's obedience and trust were refreshing and admirable, little Sam's stubborn refusal to accept anything that wasn't fully explained and deemed acceptable to his analytical mind was also admirable when so many children these days seemed indifferent and spoiled. "Actually," Jim explained, "children in the Bible had very important jobs, too."

"Like what?"

"Like watching the lamb," Jim answered thoughtfully. Noting Sam's puzzled expression, he clarified. "You see, Sam, God's people were called upon to sacrifice a lamb as atonement for their sins. People came from miles around to celebrate and witness the sacrifice. It was the children's job to make sure that the lamb did not escape its pen and run away before the ceremony."

Sam looked at him quizzically. "They killed a little lamb to make up for their sins? Why a lamb?"

Jim shrugged, bending to pick up the basket of fresh vegetables they'd picked and starting toward the house, Sam trailing along behind him, enrapt. "It wasn't so much that it was a lamb. It was really what the lamb meant to them." He set the vegetables on the porch that wrapped around his ancient Victorian farmhouse. "God's people were poor. They didn't have a lot to give. Livestock was very valuable. For many of them, a lamb was all they had to give, so sacrificing it was a powerful message to God. And many people believed that the greater the sacrifice, the greater their rewards would be in Heaven."

Sam sat beside the pastor and pulled his knees up to his chin, wrapped his arms around them tightly, and settled his head atop them, deep in thought. "Pastor Jim?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"We're poor, too, aren't we?" His eyes were barely visible as he gazed downward at the wooden steps, long, dark lashes sweeping over his cheekbones.

Jim nodded slowly, pursing his lips again. "Yes, in many ways, you are. Your lifestyle is hard, I know, but all wealth is not measured monetarily."

"So, if I wanted to give something to God, what do I have to give? We don't have any sheep."

The last part could have been a joke, but Sam kept his gaze down and lidded, obviously serious. "It's not what you give that matters, Sam, or what it's worth to God. The only thing that matters is what it's worth to you."

"Huh?" Sam asked, raising his head and turning a puzzled face in the man's direction.

Jim thought for a way to explain. "Well, it's like this," he said. "A rich man can give away all of his money, but money means nothing to him. So even though he gave everything, his sacrifice is worthless. He who has only one penny, and gives that penny, will feel the loss of it more than he who gives a fortune." He paused, realizing he was probably reverting to sermon speak. Sometimes Sam got his mind working in ways that made Jim forget the boy was only ten. "I don't think it's what we have to give that God notices," he finally said. "It's what we have that we wouldn't give. That one thing that we wouldn't give, is probably the most valuable thing we have. That one thing you hold dearest in your heart, also holds a place in God's."

"What thing is that?" Sam asked, and Jim laughed. Leave it to Sam to expect a textbook answer.

"That's for you to decide, Sam. Only you and God will know."

"When will I know?"

"When you're called upon to make the sacrifice, the lamb will show itself, Sam."

"And if I make it?"

"God will smile."

break

Sam's long finger trembled against the cold steel of the Colt's trigger. He tilted his head slightly to the side, assuring that his aim would be true, despite having one eye swollen shut, and breathed in harshly against clenched teeth.

"I can't hold onto it much longer…You shoot me in the heart son…SAMMMMYYYYYY!"

His father's voice roared like an approaching tornado through the tiny cabin, barely deadened by the bare, splintered wood of the walls. It was backed by the steady, walking bass of his own raspy breathing, almost as loud in his head as the thud, thud, thud of his heart pounding in his ears, each beat sending waves of agony through his battered skull. The rising tide of tumultuous sound rolled over him until even his own inner voice was drowned out, rendering him almost helpless in the face of the overwhelming decision.

But one sound, weak, thready, and too quiet, wafted over the din.

"Sam…no."

The pain lacing the words, and the way they seemed to take every ounce of his brother's strength, magnified them a thousand fold against Sam's internal sounding board of reason. Dean was his brother. The ties of blood and years of seeking shelter beneath that all-powerful, big brother net, could turn a whisper into a roar.

Every ounce of strength that Dean forced into producing that waning, dying, plea, settled over Sam like a bomb blanket, and his hands stilled in their trembling. He settled the hammer back out of the cocked position, lowered the gun, and waited for the Demon to make its next move.

It didn't miss the opportunity. Within seconds, John's head snapped back violently, and a thick, black cloud of pure evil spewed from his gaping mouth. Sam cringed inwardly as his father's guttural cry of violated anger shook him to the core.

The room spun around him as the atmosphere thick with the Demon's essence. Sam kept the gun half-raised, but he knew it would be useless against a non-corporeal entity. The cloud rolled up along the ceiling and gained velocity as it felt its way into every corner of the room, searching for an out.

It found none, and Sam knew why. It had taken over ten pounds of salt to completely seal the cabin. Over five pounds of that had been poured through the cracks in the wooden floor, completely covering the foundation beneath, and the sigils painted across the ceiling prevented an upward exit.

As John slumped back onto the floor, exhausted, Sam realized with rising horror that their effort to keep the Demon from entering the cabin had now trapped them inside with it. Holy water may have had no effect on the bastard, but salt was apparently older than the Christian God, and the monster in the room couldn't cross it. Useful information for the future, Sam knew, but hardly helpful when the future was likely to consist of what he could only hope was a very quick death at the hands of the Demon.

Sam shook his head to chase away the defeatist thoughts that had started to creep in. His own defeat didn't really matter to him. Hell, even Dad's defeat, Sam could take, but Dean… He knew Dean would never give up, and Sam wasn't about to make the decision for him. Desperate, the youngest Winchester's eyes darted to the window. He needed to get to the sill. If he could just break the salt line, the Demon could leave, and he could still have time to save his brother.

But there was no opening between himself and the window. The Demon's essence had formed a thick wall of impermeable blackness over every surface of the room. They were completely boxed in.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, and allowing the power of his own fear drive him forward as Dean's breath became ragged and uneven behind, Sam raised the gun. He knew there was only one bullet left. It could very well be the only thing ever made that could kill this evil. Once it was gone, that was it. But if he didn't try this, they wouldn't have much time left to regret the loss.

He tilted his head, jutted his jaw out defiantly, and pulled the trigger, tensing his muscles to leap through the hole he hoped would form in its wake.

The bullet passed through without making a ripple and embedded itself deeply in one of the thick log walls.

The disappointment he felt was beyond emotionally draining. It was as if every quivering muscle fiber in his lean body suddenly blanched to the consistency of cooked pasta. The air whooshed from his lungs as the gun fell from his limp fingers and clattered to the floor.

"No…oh, God, no…" Their last hope for victory in this battle was wasted, and if there was any chance at all of the Winchesters living to fight another battle, it was up to Sam to find it. The weight of the burden was overpowering.

As the Demon began to swirl frantically around its cage, Sam's knees quaked, and he stumbled backwards. His foot landed with a thick squish and slid out from under him.

He caught himself on one outstretched arm, only to feel his hand slide through a sticky, wet substance. The tang of iron permeated his nostrils, and he realized with sudden horror, that he was covered in blood - Dean's blood. Dean's breath was ragged beside him, wracked with pain and near-sobbing with fear and helplessness.

Demons prey on the weak. Physical and emotional turmoil make you ripe for demonic possession.

As Sam watched the Demon frantically search for an escape, he realized exactly what was to come, and no way in hell was he gonna let it happen.

Sam leapt back to his feet, body braced against the rising demonic wind. "No! No way, you son of a bitch! I won't let you have him! Not him!" His mind steeled with purpose and determination.

There was only one way the Demon was going to get out of this cabin and leave any Winchester alive, and that was on two legs. John had a mystical bullet lodged in his leg, and Dean needed to get to a hospital. That only left Sam. He might have walked away from his family once, but he wasn't about to do it again.

Gritting his teeth, Sam assumed a protective stance over his brother's prone body. "You want outta here?" He growled, his one open eye glaring defiantly. "Take me." He nodded his chin toward the floor. "Let them go, and I'm yours. I'll get them to break the salt line, and we'll walk outta here." As the cloud darkened and roiled closer, he felt his resolve begin to crumble, but he maintained his stance, the fear of what was to come choking him despite his brave façade. "Please…" He begged without meaning to. "Take me…"

For a second, the room became perfectly still. Then with a roar that Sam realized, too late, was his own voice screaming, the world went red. A thousand railroad spikes were driven into him simultaneously, and his raw throat collapsed as every ounce of breath ripped through the constriction. His body was paralyzed with the pain, and he couldn't draw against his clenched ribs to continue the scream, but his mouth hung open, screaming mutely as he fell with a thud to the floor.

Dean opened his eyes weakly as the sound of Sam's body collapsing shook him from his pained stupor. Through a haze of disorientation, he found himself face to face with his brother, and the sight of Sam's blank eyes, wide open and dripping blood, made his heart clench.

"S-Sammy," he whispered weakly, but got no response. Reaching out one trembling hand, he touched his baby brother's face, hoping for any response at all, some sign of life, but Sam did not even blink. "No…"

--

Oh never have I seen such love, in any other eyes. Into thy hands, I commit my spirit, he prayed, and then he died. –Watch the Lamb, Ray Boltz

TBC

Um, well, this is my first Sam story. I would very much like to know if I did the boys, and especially Sam, justice. Reviews would be huggled and snuggled, of course.

Oh, and does anyone think I need a beta reader? And where do I get one?