Tyson Brady stood against the rough brick wall of the alleyway, the intense cold against his back penetrating deep into his bones. He couldn't feel it, of course. Demons couldn't. He did, however, feel the intimidating presence of the demon-killing knife Sam Winchester was wielding, a glint of reflected moonlight dancing threateningly before his eyes as the Winchester advanced slowly towards him. Brady knew he should probably be careful, since the knife could kill him with a mere stab, especially with Sam holding it, but he didn't really care. His main priority, now that the Winchesters had coaxed the location of the next Horseman from him, and Crowley had blackmailed him into eternal torture, was to irritate and provoke the youngest Winchester as much as possible. So what if that was catalytic to his death? He had nothing to lose.
Sam glared hatefully at the demon as he ran through a long, insulting speech, mentioning how things going wrong were Sam's own fault due to him allowing demons to enter his life and trusting them. Brady honestly thought his attempts to get Sam angry were fruitless; Sam exuded an air of general self-control as he remained silent, however Brady was proven wrong when he started to bring up similarities between Sam and demons. That really struck a nerve.
"…deep down, you know you're just like us." At that comment, Brady smiled malevolently before lunging at Sam to get a reaction out of him, and he did: Sam nicked Brady slightly with the knife, yet surely enough that it inflicted pain. Brady continued his goading. "Maybe you hate us so much because you hate what you see every time you look in the mirror. You ever think of that?!" Brady laughed clearly and cruelly at his smart comment and the look of pure fury blossoming rapidly on the younger Winchester's face. "Maybe the only difference between you and a demon… is your hell is right here."
At those final words, Sam speared the demon's stomach with Ruby's knife, twisting the blade agonizingly as Brady gasped helplessly, his vessel emitting flashes of pink light as his life drained away fast. The corners of Sam's lips twitched up as he revelled in the murder of the one who he had trusted all those years at school, who had betrayed him and caused the death of his girlfriend. The demon slumped to the ground, dead, like a sack of immobile entrails, his features still contorted with the pain of the injury and shock of defeat.
"Interesting theory." Sam Winchester mused triumphantly as he strolled away, past his slightly concerned brother and over the line of salt that prevented Brady's escape. He never looked back once. After a brief moment of wary hesitation, Dean followed his younger sibling after running his angst-dulled green eyes over the demon's seemingly lifeless body.
As Brady's eyes glazed over, his thoughts turned to where he would go next; if there even was an afterlife for twisted and corrupted souls. He knew he wouldn't go to Heaven for sure – everyone knew that was reserved for angels and humans who hadn't sold their soul for some trivial matter. There were rumours of Purgatory, where centuries worth of monster's souls resided, however Brady didn't personally believe that was true, and if it was, there was no guarantee he would be sent there; he wasn't a monster, after all. Just a demonic soul. Some claimed that demons returned to Hell for eternity – maybe that was his destiny, but he hoped not, since Lucifer's gang would hunt him down and torture him for the rest of his death, thanks to Crowley. Who cares? Brady thought as he felt his vessel lose consciousness from blood loss. What matters is that he did his job; he helped the Horsemen of the Apocalypse for as long as he could, and managed to infuriate good old Sammy enough to satisfy him. So what if he gave away the location of Pestilence? That was their own problem, not his. Okay, it was his problem, but not anymore.
The demon's final thoughts as he faded into blackness were of satisfaction and contentment when he realised he had nothing to worry about. He was still kind of frustrated about Crowley of course, but he figured there was nothing he could do about it if he did go to Hell. If.
A few minutes later, just when Brady thought he had drifted into the comforting yet ambiguous arms of Death, he jolted awake. Was he in the afterlife already, wherever that was? No, he was still slumped on the cold, wet gravel of the alleyway, surrounded by autumn-browned leaves and the suffocating darkness of night. It must have been his vessel's brain having a final spasm as it shut down. However, during that moment, Brady realised, with a strange sense of clarity, that he didn't want to die. He still had the chance to save himself. Plus, no-one knew he was still alive, so he wouldn't be hassled by Lucifer's loyalists, or any Winchesters.
Brady couldn't smoke out of his vessel, since he still had Crowley's Binding Link carved into his chest, but his demon mojo had already attempted to close up the wound, though it was nowhere near enough to prevent excessive amounts of red liquid oozing out of him. But it was a start. Pulling himself mid-way up with his arms, the demon dragged himself along the ground, stones and generic street debris scratching into his skin, but he ignored the insignificant additions to the pain he was in. Brady had no clue where to go, since Hell was out-of-bounds for him, yet he figured he could probably find an abandoned house or something to hide out in while he healed and got his strength back.
Taking note of his self-recommending advice, Brady half-crawled, half-scuttled along the floor. Although the salt line that Dean had created would usually trap him in his 'death' scene, the harsh wind had cut straight through it, scattering the white crystals in every direction. Since this no longer was an obstacle, the demon edged past the dispersed salt with ease. Once he had made it to a few streets away, Brady decided that would be the appropriate place to find a hide-out. The buildings surrounding him emanated a sinister vibe, which naturally attracted a demon. That and the fact that they appeared run-down and neglected made them the perfect hiding place.
Scooting into the back door, Brady found himself in what seemed to be a basement full of dilapidated shelves, on which sat many ancient boxes and dust-covered artefacts. The demon just overlooked them as he settled in a corner, stretching his legs out as he examined his wound closer. It was pretty much the same as when he'd regained consciousness, apart from his shirt was completely soaked in blood now; more blood had been lost due to the movement of getting there. The healing of the injury had come to a complete standstill, as if his mojo had just given up even trying to mend something that simply couldn't be fixed.
Brady sat hunched in the corner of the dank room for minutes that soon turned into hours, waiting for his mojo to 'recharge', not quite knowing what to do other than rest. After what felt like days, he heard footsteps rather audaciously headed towards the door (not the one Brady had arrived through, another one at the opposite end of the room, which he assumed led to the rest of the building). Despite his desire to escape, the demon was far too weak to even stand up, let alone make a daring dash across the room and through the other door before his visitor caught him. Instead, Brady simply remained situated in his corner – what he had come to think of as his place of comfort.
As the footsteps approached, the demon also detected whistling coming from the same direction. Whoever it was apparently was whistling the tune of… Copacabana? They were clearly harmless, probably just a caretaker. Brady was mistaken – the place must have been inhabited after all. After a brief moment of tension, the person to whom the whistling belonged revealed themselves as the door swung open dramatically.
Strutting confidently through the door, a V-neck clad man in his mid-forties continued his nonchalant tune a few seconds before he noticed the demon crouching silently (or as quietly as he could – his breathing was still erratic due to his near-fatal wound) in the corner. On top of his V-neck, the man wore a velvety black suit jacket that was as suave as a salacious salamander, and in his hand was a glass of the finest whiskey, the colour of solidified sap from a flourishing oak tree. As the man's ice blue eyes scanned the room, Brady's draining condition jumped out at him immediately, and he stopped in his tracks.
"Ah, a visitor! How nice. So what have you come for: sex or stolen goods?" He spoke clearly in a posh British accent dripping with sarcasm. This was obvious due to the fact that it was evident that the demon was badly injured and required assistance. Brady remained silent, too weak to speak or even glare at the arrogant man.
"None of the above, I see. Well, I can see you got yourself into some petty fight – a hunter, judging by the stab wound. If it were a demon, you'd likely be dead already. Same with an angel." He wandered insouciantly over to Brady, examining his wound from a distance before his facial expression clouded over with confusion. "How did you find my humble abode, anyway? It's very well-disguised; I have to say I'm impressed… Ah, you were just passing by and needed a place to hide, didn't you?" The man resolved as his eyes followed the trail of blood leading from the back door. At this point, Brady decided he needed to at least try and say something to the owner of his hide-out.
"You… angel…" Those were the only words the demon could spit out before he erupted into a fit of coughing that brought up blood. But he was persistent. "What… are you… doing… here?" Brady asked inquisitively, a trickle of red gradually travelling down his chin, one single droplet hanging from it.
"I kind of own this place, darling. It's my happy place." The man brushed off Brady's angel remark, neither denying it nor confirming it. Because of the man's reluctance to pursue the subject, the demon assumed he was in fact an angel. He would normally be able to see his true form, but seeing as his mojo was running out, everything in general was blurry and ambiguous.
"I…" Brady's sentence was cut even shorter the second time as he had an even more severe coughing fit, almost choking on blood this time. The angel stared down at him, concerned, which was odd for him, since he usually had an extremely apathetic attitude, especially towards demons. After a moment, he crouched down beside him, inspecting the injury close-up, which revealed the fatality of the wound. Frowning, the angel laid his hands on the demons stomach, directly above the place where Ruby's knife had entered. Almost straight away, a pure white light emanated from beneath his hands coupled with a high-pitched noise, knitting the open wound together as if it hadn't been there in the first place. Brady – whose eyes had been half-closed due to pain and lack of strength – opened his newly-brightened eyes fully and breathed in deeply, revelling in his renewed condition. He gazed up at the angel, gratitude yet bewilderment evident in his expression. The demon simply couldn't comprehend the idea of an angel actually healing him.
"Yeah, on any other day I'd be quite happy to leave you alone to die there, or even hasten the process, but I guess you're lucky. You caught me in a good mood." The man straightened up, offering a hand to Brady, who was still fairly startled at the turn of events. Thousands of questions were racing around in the demon's mind, so he blurted out the first one to surface above the others.
"Why are you here though? I mean, shouldn't you be with the other angels, trying to stop Lucifer or something?" It was a valid question, but one the demon didn't think the angel would be willing to answer. He was right.
"First of all, I don't recall ever saying I was an angel. Secondly, it's none of your business." Conjuring up another glass of alcohol (this time champagne), the angel sipped at it, sighing contentedly at the satisfying fizz of bubbles swishing around his mouth. "I'm a hedonist, dear. I prefer to indulge myself in the pleasures of life. You're free to join me, if you wish, of course-"
"Oh, no, I couldn't. Besides, wouldn't it be slightly awkward, you know…" Brady trailed off, his typically supercilious persona completely dissipated after the whole demon-being-healed-by-an-angel ordeal.
"Your loss." The angel shrugged, pretending not to be hurt after his rejection. "Well, you know where the door is. Actually, I'd get cleaned up quick if I were you. Walking down the street covered in blood doesn't go down well these days, I believe." Brady briefly glanced down at his suspicious-looking suit, internally agreeing with the man. "I'd also appreciate it if you, you know, kept quiet about this place. I dislike getting involved in the affairs of others, angels in particular, and if they knew where I was…" The way the angel trailed off seemed threatening, despite him being the one in danger if Brady did decide to rat him out. But the demon nodded anyway.
"Okay, well it was nice meeting you – I tell a lie, it wasn't really. Adios." The man's body language and posture made it obvious he was about to teleport away, but the demon still had so many questions to ask. He just couldn't let him go, not yet. Brady hadn't even thanked him for helping him. Not that that was his style anyway.
"Wait - hold on a second!" The angel turned to look at him expectantly. "You haven't even told me your name!"
"Now, that would be telling." Winking at the demon, the man in the V-neck vanished, taking his glass of champagne with him. Brady sighed, exasperated.
"Damn it." He grumbled, standing still for a moment, reflecting on the past few minutes, before finally heading towards the door.