Sam grunted as he shoved his writing desk into a corner of his bedroom. Brady's connections had turned up a nice little apartment that was more like half a house on a suburban street. The apartment came furnished. Sam had never actually lived in a place this nice before with furniture this tasteful. He was used to crappy motel rooms with shag carpet from the sixties. Old chairs with the stuffing torn out. Or maybe the occasional space they broke into and squatted at for a few months. Bobby Singer's place was the closest to a proper home. Cluttered and dusty, smells of musty books and booze. But this place was clean and new and decorated with a careful eye.

Brady watched him work for a second before he entered and gave a scoffing laugh. "Sam... What are you insisting on bringing that monstrosity in here for?" He asked, eyeing the old ornate desk with distaste as if it may turn hostile at any moment.

Sam adjusted the desk drawers and shrugged. "I dunno. It just makes me feel settled in. Like this is home. I left all my other stuff in my dorm except for my clothes."

Brady eyed the scruffy t-shirt and threadbare jeans. "Should've left those too."

Sam looked taken aback and hurt shone on his features briefly before he ducked his head and gave a little huff through his nose.

Brady observed the flash of insecurity. -Realized that Sammy used that mop of bangs to hide under when he felt vulnerable. The kid was aware that he didn't fit in deep down. He tried to. He wanted to. He wanted to belong so badly that Brady could taste it off him in an aura of desperation. But he never would. These people were white collar and Sam Winchester-no matter how much he wanted to leave behind his roots-Sam was the son of a mechanic. The son of a blue-collar work like a dog Marine. And he would always be that no matter how much spit shine and polish you put on the boy.

The Demon loved that. Loved that Sam would always feel different. Always feel "other."

Sam recovered himself after a few moments of being stunned by Brady's remark "Well they tend to frown on people being naked on the streets in Palo Alto so bringing my clothes seemed to be the only viable choice."

The Demon smiled. Good. Deflect. Make it into a joke. Don't confront the hurt. Demon Brady was certain Sam had learned that coping technique from his brother.

Brady slapped him on the back in a friendly camaraderie. "Oh I don't know. There's some women around here that wouldn't mind that from you, I think." Brady paused. "Possibly a few men."

Sam flushed and shook his head. "Yeah, right."

Brady raised an eyebrow. "You are clueless, aren't you? Just completely clueless."

Sam scoffed and moved away to shove the chair he'd brought in under the desk.

"You didn't see the way the land lady was eyeing you like a wolf this morning?" Brady pressed.

Sam looked up. "What? No."

Brady shook his head, threw up his hands in a gesture of I give up. "Okay. Live in your denial. Rent space there."

Sam shook his head. "Can't afford to...this place cleaned me out."

"Hey, I told you I'd pay."

"Equal footing or I'm not moving in." Sam said firmly. "We've been over this."

"Okay, okay." Brady gave a long suffering sigh. "You like to make everything so much harder than it has to be."

Sam watched him for a second. "My brother says that."

"Well, he's right."

Sam's eyes fixed on a nail hole in the wall. Brady watched a reflective silence overtake the young man for a moment. He missed his brother. It showed.

"I want to do things right." Sam said, finally. "That's not making things harder: it's making them right."

Brady snorted. "By making them harder. The right path is always the harder one, Sam. Trust me on this." That was The Demon speaking his own centuries of wisdom, stating the unequivocal truth.

Sam's eyes slid over to him. He shrugged, a slight raise of his shoulder and then a drop. "It's how I'm built."

Brady cocked his eyebrow. "What do you get out of it?" He asked with genuine curiosity.

Sam's eyes widened just a little with his startlement. "My pride. My... soul intact."

"It's much harder for just a bit of pride. I'm learning that myself."

The Demon could hear Tyson Brady, the actual Tyson Brady, wailing in the background, imprisoned in his own psyche. Confused. Longing for family. At this point the confusion of his gentle soul locked inside this meatsuit was like white noise. Just static in the distance. The demon hadn't calculated how much longer he needed Tyson Brady in here sharing space.

This meatsuit was a long term assignment. This wasn't a quick possession, a convenient host, and then a hasty departure. No. The Demon meant to set up shop here. He meant to make this space his home. Eventually he would actually be Tyson Brady. And Sam's young friend would be smothered like an ailing grandmother with a pillow. But not yet. The demon intended to withdraw the reins soon and give Tyson a glimpse into what he'd become. Sam would respond to his friend's distress. He would not be able to resist the call to help. Certainly the demon could fake that distress to ensnare Sam, but no, sitting back and watching how upset Tyson was would be watching a gorgeous piece of performance art. Human suffering was so beautiful. And beautiful humans like Sam and Tyson suffered so beautifully.