She sat on the wooden steps, wrapped in a veil of gray smoke that curled lazily from her cigarette. A sweet, tranquil melody drifted from her lips, barely more than a whisper, as the cold evening air clung gently to her shoulders. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, where pale stars flickered with quiet joy.

Dean saw the weariness etched into her every movement. She had all but stopped speaking, sleep eluded her, and food no longer brought comfort. That radiant spark in her eye—the one that had kept him afloat when nothing else could—was beginning to dim, and he couldn't bear to witness its fading.

Her melancholy had grown so palpable that even Castiel, usually blind to such subtleties, seemed to sense it. He had no idea how to ease her pain, so he placed his faith in Dean and his ever-hopeful schemes.

They had taken her away. A small wooden cabin tucked deep in the forest, near the still waters of a secluded lake. Just the three of them—quiet days, warm dusks, and mornings that glowed with borrowed light.

Now, the two men stood in the doorway, their eyes drawn to her silhouette seated on the steps.

"You were right. She looks... content,"

Castiel whispered, careful not to disturb the delicate stillness or break the fragile peace that, for once, seemed to surround her.

"She’s earned a moment of calm,"

Dean murmured, resting his shoulder against the frame.

"It feels like the world’s been falling down around us lately."