She loathed these evenings.

When he sat hunched over the table, endlessly leafing through the same worn volumes. His chin rested in his palm, eyes half-lidded, weariness etched deep into every line of his face.

He was doing research—preparing for their next hunt. And though she despised these long, sleepless nights spent buried in books, she detested even more what they inevitably heralded: the hunt itself.

Because it meant he would leave again. Throw himself into danger again. Put his life on the line once more.

And she, once again, would be left behind—worrying, waiting, aching with longing.

She wasn’t a hunter. Not really. But she helped in every way she could. She lived with the Winchesters in the bunker, caring for them as best she knew how. She made sure they slept—at least a few hours a night. She made sure they ate, tended to their wounds, reminded them to be human. She even helped with cases now and then, though always from the safe shadows of the bunker—Dean would never allow her to join them in the field.

She should have been asleep by now—it was nearing three in the morning. But how could she leave him like this? Slumped over ancient texts, worn thin by fatigue, nerves fraying with every minute that passed?

She approached him quietly, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, setting a steaming cup of tea on the table beside him. Then she bent down and pressed a tender, calming kiss to his hair—a wordless promise that she was there, that she wasn’t going anywhere, and that, whatever came, he would not face it alone.