When she feels that first, familiar tilt toward nausea, she fights it. She doesn't want to be pulled somewhere new, not right now, not right now, not when she's just getting Gabriel back ( Read more... )

Murphy sits in a corner of Mac's pub, her throat closed around memory while she holds the warm bottle in her hand ( Read more... )

In an abandoned trailer somewhere in the middle of nowhere, two angels are arguing.

"There's something wrong."

"Middle of the Apocalypse? There's always something wrong."

"No, Gabriel. I mean... Look, Sam and Dean are on I-90, right?"

"Don't look at me. I didn't put a GPS tracker in 'em. And oh right, they've still got that angel-hiding mojo."

"They ( Read more... )

Angels don't dream, but that's because angels, as a general rule, don't sleep unless they exhaust their vessels to such an extent that being borderline comatose for awhile is the only thing they can do to recharge. Even still, that state doesn't leave much room for dreaming.

Angels don't dream, but they can see things no one else can. Hellhounds, ( Read more... )

Murphy is pretty sure she's still dreaming. The colors are bright, postcard hues. The view from the window next to the bed is painted in shades of blue and green and dusky tan. Buildings, bright silver in the sun, march along the beach into the distance. Murphy blinks and huddles deeper into the sheets, feels the breeze drift in and curl against ( Read more... )

Vegas is eerily quiet and empty ( Read more... )