Dani really hadn't expected to be back at work before Crews.

Adam’s problem is that he keeps fucking people he really just wants to be friends with.

Two weeks out, both Augie and Jane pack their bags.

Hal's still searching for words, but he seems to have found Ben in the meantime.

Truth be told, this is probably the most ‘normal’ thing he and the Doctor ever did together – sitting and tinkering with the TARDIS. Amy isn’t a morning person, and so Rory would almost always wake up first, and follow the noise to the console room. They used to sit here, he and the Doctor, underneath the TARDIS console. They used to talk, a little.

He slings his arm around her body with the ease of many years and practice. “I can’t wait to meet me. Just think, that much charm in the same room?”

He's halfway to Sarah's when he realizes that it's really weird that Sherlock offered to buy milk (and beans) (!), and it's really weird that Sherlock did nothing to stop him from leaving (for an entire evening and possibly all night), and it's really weird that John's angry about it (there's no good reason to be angry). John looks down at his balled fists and stops. Sherlock, an infinite mystery; and he's apparently deeply under John's skin.

There’s a noise down the corridor. It’s a sort of bounce-creak bounce-creak. It wakes Rory up.

Rory lifts Amy’s arm from around his waist, very carefully, and slips out of their new bed.

"This would be simple," Olivia says. "For a change." A 3x12 coda.

"I can give Amy twelve days in Mauritius with complimentary use of the hotel spa. You can give her..." Rory waves a hand around, taking in the TARDIS's control room, with its mish-mash of the utterly alien and the bizarrely familiar, lit up in warm oranges and cool electric blues. "This. All of time and space."

"Are you attached to this suit?" she asks, loosening his tie even further.

Sam sits quiet beside him, not quite staring out the window, not quite looking at the map, a bundle of nerves and apology hunched down in the seat as if Dean might forget he's there if he's small enough, but that isn't possible; even in his absence, Sam was huge, bigger than everything. There'll never be a way for Dean to explain, and he's never going to try.

"Unfortunately, you've developed some very bad habits, one of which is lying to yourself."

"That's the mendacity I'm disgusted with? My own?"

The look Management gives him says he's just stated the annoyingly obvious.

"In all seriousness," Ben said, stretching out in his chair, "what's the occasion? It's not every day someone camps out at my door."

"I wonder if we've read any of the same books."

An old trick, something her brother taught her; always hold your breath.

Dean has the angels; Sam has the Trickster.

Sam's not sure who's worse off.

"Here." Looking back up again, she sees a crumpled, grease-stained napkin in Dean's fingers. She takes it. Tally's Diner it reads in faded navy blue, and underneath is a phone number written down with a temperamental pen. [4.20 coda]

Pamela is sixteen the first time she sees her own death. She opens that door right up and takes a good long look even though her mama says it can make you crazy knowing a thing like that. “Screw you,” Pamela thinks. “I’ll show you.” She’s never sure later who she means, her mama or Death, but the story ends the same either way.

He wakes up in a hospital bed, with an IV in his arm and a sharp but muffled pain in his left side. Even when he manages to open his eyes completely, the room is hazy, its edges and lines bleeding into the glare of the low morning sun.

Alien, he thinks. I was shot by an alien. And then, with a detached calm that is too familiar to put down to the morphine, I’m not dead.

[Vegas universe]

"South Florida has a new breed of hero stalking its back alleys," Sam reads at his hammiest. "See there, they called us heroes! You ought to be flattered."

(Episode tag for 2x13, Bad Breaks.)

There’s a soreness in Sam’s chest as he thinks of yelling at the side of the road, Dean’s face closing tight over his terror, and the memory of rising flame blurs his eyes. Some men are too many parts monster to be saved, and Sam might still be one of them.

It would be almost frighteningly easy to step away from a time loop and simply...forget about it for a bit. Not on purpose, of course, but you know how things come up. And while it may only be a little while for the demigod creator, that could be forever in the mind of the only human who doesn't reset.

"If you tell him I told you this I'll kill you myself, but in one world we found? McKay was this famous musician who played tinkly electronic New Age crap. I have a CD of his at home. Of course," he added, raising an eyebrow, "the liner notes are all in German, because in that world the Nazis won." He opened his hands as if to say, there you go. "I hear there are an infinite number of universes, and everything's happened in one or another of them. It can make you think, Why should I bother, someone somewhere will make things right, doesn't have to be me. Or," he went on, leaning forward, "it can make you realise that this, here, is your one and only chance, and by God you had better get it right."

Magic thunders in his veins now, not like the ripples and aftershocks he's used to, the feeling of potential.

"Tell me," he says, "how long did my father last?"

Castiel breathes out a white puff of warm air on his face. "Does it matter, Dean?"

Dean steps away, back hitting the side of the car, hands splayed against the glass so he doesn't fall.

"It matters the world," he says.

It took her so long to fall asleep – strange room at an Inn for the night, since Pete said he couldn't get the zeppelin over till the next day. Strange body curled against hers – too warm, too still, but yet still him, and she wants this body and she totally doesn't, and in the end they just spoon and drift off in each others' arms. He sleeps. It's all wrong.

He prefaces his question--the first words spoken since they traded spare greetings and introductions when she arrived--with the slight curve of a smile. "Is that your detective stare?"

It earns him a slow blink and a thoroughly disinterested tone. "What?"

"The way you're looking at me. Staring, as if you're prepared to wait all day. Is that the way you look when you interrogate suspects?"

"I wasn't aware I was staring. Sorry if it bothers you." And, yes, she's a professional at this, polite and chilly and just this side of obvious about being on the offensive.

"Captain Jack Harkness," Gwen said, with a police officer's careful precision. "I am relieving you of your command."

That was where it started, but it doesn’t stay there. It isn’t a surprise anymore, waking up in the morning to find Dean still alive, but it still feels soap-bubble fragile, like one wrong move might crack the whole world open again. Sam moves carefully, keeps close, and even though Dean gets it now – understands in his tight-lipped, glowering way – it’s obvious he doesn’t like it. ... In some ways it is utterly alien to touch his brother now, and in some ways it is the closest thing to coming home.

“You’re still nervous, Ted.”

“Uh, yeah,” he scoffs, shakes his head, and tucks the card underneath the paper. “It’s not everyday a former cop looks at me like he’s not a former cop and I have to consider adult diapers for a possible, second encounter – is there going to be a second encounter, Charlie?

But Charlie remains amused. “No second encounter, Ted.”

[Coda to 2x03]

"When I was in the other world," she says instead, "when we were tracing timelines and measuring causality, we found all sorts of things - loops and eddies, the flotsam of time, everything that was converging on Donna. But in this universe, there was this - this mark, a stopper in events."

"Like a fixed point."

Rose nods. "Exactly like that."

Jack spreads his hands wide. "Guilty as charged."

Rose can feel the horror of it, knows in her guts that it's wrong, that this isn't what's ever supposed to happen. "I'm so sorry, I really am."

Castiel is waiting by the window, waiting for Dean to acknowledge his presence. His hands hang limply at his sides, fingers ever so slightly curled, like Castiel doesn't know what to do with them. His eyes are wide and sincere, the look on his face is so guileless it's almost childlike.

“Cameron?” “Yes.” “Does it hurt?” She looks up, and John flinches at what he sees in her eyes. “The data is complex.”

She starts to wonder how that other Doctor would kiss, and then understands: he wouldn't. This is how he would, if only he could, and she's the luckiest girl in the world.

Ash sniffed, looking shifty. "Dean. Wrong room, buddy. This is the-uh... rec room."

Sam doesn’t give a crap about philosophy. No traveller returns can kiss his ass.

It's not the pain of it that gets to him. Not the fact that he spent that time in limbo, or the memory of what it was like to only need a room with one bed. It's the fact that, in that reality, there was a life after Dean.

It's good luck that saves him. Nothing more. [Spoilers for 3x12]