The modern world sort of bores her. Less focus on the old forms of worship, more time spent to waste on frivolities like consumerism and advancement of technology.

She rarely trusts the modern world (much less, the Western one), but the being she does trust with idle time has a habit of… introducing her.

Her blood-red fingernails tentatively peel apart the greasy, sauced layer of mozzarella cheese from doughy crust.

"And you find this abomination to human creation… appetizing?" Kali asks, raising a doubtful eyebrow.

Across the restaurant table, Death dabs his mouth with his napkin and smiles politely.





He's made like hard lines and contours with bony hips and knobs of spine against Dean's lips.

"You're a good boy, Dean," hisses the siren, cupping his sweaty cheeks, partly grinning at the unfocused, pupil-dark eyes of his newest victim.

"Such a good boy."

The praising words and venom they carry easily strike Dean's core — and nothing else on the goddamn planet holds more vital importance than Nick Monroe.

"You're my big brother. You'll protect me, won't you?"

Nick's grin skates across a jaw and cheekbone, and he delights in the shivers of arousal.

"We have unfinished business, Dean."




Nothing else could explain it other than miracle. Where she had once been on the crosswalk — before the heel of her shoe found itself wedged impossibly deep into a street crack — the community bus roars by where she could have been standing and blows her long, undone golden hair from her mesmerized features.

Her arms wrap around her pregnant stomach, automatically, protectively.

"Allow me," growls a blue-eyed, solemn-looking man kneeling down to yank her shoe free with a single tug. "Are you unharmed?"

Mary Winchester exhales, smiling widely at his kindness, fingers caressing where her little, unborn Dean kicks faintly.




Hell is a lot like Heaven — everyone's got their preferences.

(—Crowley believed in the desolate hope of reaching a satisfiable end never to come; Alastair patiently used years upon years of excruciating torture to mold a Righteous Man into his pet assistant)

Sam understands that aspects of his brother's Hell had been vastly different from his experience — a blindingly dark pit, complete with two all-powerful entities sharing a mutual grudge.

Lucifer clearly enjoyed the taunting… embedding the illusionary seeds of freedom and security before tossing them into the flames, laughter shrieking… far more than he did violating Sam physically.




They're amateurs compared to the Winchesters. Roy had tried to talk his partner out of hunting them. They were stone cold dead when he and Roy left the motel room reeking with stale beer and congealing gore. Those sons of bitches were supposed to stay dead.

"You killed my little brother in cold blood—" Dean's eyes glint feverishly, the whites growing rapidly as he cracks an elbow across Roy's face, knocking him unconscious.

"—right in front of me—" The guilty bile rises in Walt's clenching throat.

"—what the HELL did you think was going to happen?"




They will never be able to vacuum every speck of glitter from the Impala's seats.

And though Dean's clearly awesome herpes joke gets snubbed, he's in no downer mood. Not with his brand new toy.

"This is embarrassing," Sam mutters, peering into the backseat window as Dean lounges out and cackles happily to himself, bouncing the rainbow slinky between his hands.

"Come on, seriously, this is like watching you masturbate."

A soccer mom pushing an grocery cart sends him a disgusted look before hurrying off.

"Wait, no—" Sam calls after, "That wasn't—!"

He glares at Dean cackling louder.