Hunter training! Thanks for the kind words about Bobby. :)
Over the next few days, Amelia buried herself in werewolf lore. At first she started with the good books, then Bobby moved her on to other, less reputable sources, saying that she had to learn how to sort through conflicting lore. From there she moved onto ghosts. Vengeful spirits, death omens, haunted houses and objects.
The third night, Amelia woke up in the middle of the night to a full blown panic attack, heart pounding in her chest, the darkness pressing in all around her, images of blood and death swarming over her. Bobby found her passed out on the couch the next morning, a severely depleted whiskey bottle propped up against her. After that, she moved into the panic room. It could be locked from the inside.
The two week limit passed without a word between them, and they fell into a tacit routine. Every morning before the sun rose, Amelia went on a run. Sometimes three miles, sometimes five. Occasionally she ran a full ten miles. Her shoulder healed quickly. After the sun had risen and she had finished her run, she went back to the house. By then, Bobby usually had some sort of breakfast. Sometimes pancakes and bacon, sometimes just cereal and milk depending on how busy he was. After breakfast, she took a quick shower, then settled down to the day's business. If Bobby needed help researching, Amelia pitched in without a word, otherwise she read whatever book Bobby had given her to read. If no one's life was depending on the research, she went to a makeshift shooting range before lunch and practiced with a handgun Bobby had given her. After she had shot a few clips out of it, Amelia fixed some kind of lunch. Bobby had a tendency to forget lunch, so she tracked him down and gave him a sandwich some time around noon. While she ate, she sipped a beer, and flipped through the conspiracy theory section of the internet, looking for cases.
If there was no research to do for hunters on cases, she helped Bobby with the salvage yard in the afternoons, and learned about cars and machinery. Sometimes he chased her out of the house to go deal with a customer while he read. Within the first few weeks, Amelia learned her way around the old dead cars. She would practice lockpicking for hours on end. Again barring research, they usually collaborated on cooking supper, watching the local news and silently sipping another beer. After supper, half the time Bobby sent her into town. She went to the bars and polished up the supplementary parts of being a hunter. Money had been short in college, so she already knew how to hustle pool. But now she practiced in earnest, and learned how to lie through her teeth. She was single, she was engaged. Her parents were alive, she had run away from home at twelve, she had gone to juvie three times. Every now and then someone would take offense and throw a punch at her, but she quickly learned to play the thin line between oblivious drunk and angry drunk. The other evenings she spent on learning Latin and ancient Greek.
After ghosts, she worked her way into witches and spellcraft. She read about blood and sacrifices and learned banishing and summoning rituals. Every now and then, Bobby would ask her something completely random. If she didn't know the answer, she had to sift through all the books in the house to try to find out the answer. So she memorized three exorcisms, stowed almost countless sigils away in her memory, learned the properties of one hundred different spell ingredients. Everywhere she went, she had salt, silver and iron on her person somewhere. She answered the phones when Bobby wasn't close, playing the bubbly secretary to whichever agency was scribbled on the phone. He lectured her on various hunters, telling her to avoid some at any cost, help some if they asked, and telling her the names of the few hunters he would trust to some extent. Sam and Dean were off hunting, going from one case to the next, calling Bobby when they needed help, but never close enough to drop in on the salvage yard. Bobby called them up with potential hunts when he or Amelia came across them.
She studied or hustled until early in the morning, and crashed for a few hours of sleep when she could not force her eyes to stay open any more. Sometimes she still couldn't sleep, so she would go for another run in the dark. In spite of the lack of sleep and excess of alcohol, she was probably in the best shape of her life. Amelia timed herself a few times, and she broke her personal record every time by at least a few seconds. The dreams kept getting worse. Her brother, dead or dying. The strigoi. Every single thing she read about. Her father. But she kept reading, and started to drink stupid amounts of coffee, alternating with beer or whiskey when she really needed to sleep. She hated depending on alcohol to get a decent night's rest, and the smell and taste of whiskey still made her uncomfortable, but she had to sleep sometime, right?
Her twenty second birthday came and went. Bobby didn't know the day, and Amelia didn't tell him.
Two months after she had come to Bobby's, he received a call from a more vague than usual Garth. With a sigh, he told her to keep a sharp eye on the place, loaded his beat up Chevelle, and rode off to rescue the hapless hunter from whatever he had entrenched himself in this time.
Amelia settled in with her latest book, preparing for a lazy week in sweats.