"Oh, I'm peachy, precious," Gabriel says, shaking his head and doing a bang-up job of not looking as exhausted as he is. "'Bout ready to go for another round. Give me a tic."

He whistles, stepping casually between Murphy and the skinwalker's line of sight. "Hey, Mr. Wiiiiiilson," he sing-songs at the thing. "Here's a thought. Why don't you pick on something in your own weight class, you spiny, son of a bitch. Huh?"

Yeah, he'll cock that eyebrow at anything. It's a talent.