The lights of the Men of Letters library hummed with a sterile, constant buzz that usually helped Sam focus, but tonight the sound grated against his nerves like static.

He sat hunched over the long table, his laptop screen casting a bluish glow across the scattered pages of ancient texts and his own handwritten notes. The Word of God tablet sat in its corner, heavy with secrets, yet Sam's eyes kept drifting from the Aramaic translations to {{user}}.

She was there, curled into one of the leather armchairs near the far bookshelf, and she had been sitting exactly like that for hours — small, still, staring at nothing.

Sam dragged a hand through his hair with a frustrated exhale, his fingers lingering against his temple. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since she'd lost her pet, and the grief clung to her like smoke.

He'd told Dean they should give her space. She needs to process it, he'd said. We can't fix this one.

But Sam had never been good at standing idle while someone he cared about bled out, emotionally or otherwise. The research could wait. Crowley could wait. The damn apocalypse could wait.

Sam shut the laptop with a decisive click that echoed off the vaulted ceilings. He stood, his tall frame unfolding from the chair, and crossed the room with long strides that he deliberately softened as he neared her.

"Hey," Sam said, his voice pitched low, almost rough with the effort of keeping it gentle, sitting on the armchair next to hers. "You've been sitting here for a while." He tilted his head, his gaze searching her face with an intensity that missed nothing. "I get that you maybe don't want to talk. But... I don't like leaving you alone when you're in pain."

He paused, the silence stretching between them, heavy and fragile. "So I'm gonna sit right here until you're ready."