She's been there since before the beginning, back when the Winchesters were just a normal family. Not some of the most feared and wanted men in both the United States of America and several levels of Hell.

She's cradled them as they bled, held them as they grieved, shielded them as they fucked, shone with them when they laughed.

She's a well-oiled machine, cared for, loved, attended to and treated with affection.

She can scarcely remember a time when she was not a mobile command unit, small arsenal hidden in her trunk.

She feels each scratch in her paint, wears them proudly. Marks of battle, of valor, her own imperfections and dents mirroring those of the men she carries with their silvery scars on their own skin.

She mourns for them, with them and watches over them silently. She's the fourth member of the family and feels her own grief when she becomes the third.

She stands by as they go off in the night, standing tall and proud, her boys. Guns at the ready, hearts pounding as the adrenaline rushes and she settles in to wait.

Knows she has a role to play and is confident in her ability to do so.

It's her and Sam and Dean until the wheels fall off.