A/N: Semi-graphic violence warning applies
The sound of bells fading steadily signals the end of The Division Bell, the needle automatically resetting itself in Dawn's record player. She had been getting sick of passing her nights in silence and had requested some records. Access to music streaming was blocked on her laptop. CDs and tapes were out of the question – she wanted a process that was time consuming enough to distract her, and music quality that was good enough to encompass her.
She rinses soap suds off a plate to fill the gap the music has left in the room. Her day has yielded a mug, a fork, two plates, a knife, and a teaspoon. Two plates is better than one. Two plates and a bowl is even healthier.
As she sets it in the drying rack with a clatter, something catches her attention through the window. She moves behind a cabinet on the wall where she can simultaneously see outside and be hidden from view.
Raindrops drip in intervals from the leaves of the birch outside. The tap drips in intervals into the sink. She tightens the faucet absentmindedly, squinting to see in the blackness.
She thought she had seen something shift in her periphery, heard something shuffle that she had not recognised. She knows every sound the home makes, from the contracting and expanding metal, to the burps of the central heating, to the whisper of leaves blowing outside.
Dawn stands frozen for a full minute, hands splayed on the bench, ready to spring into action. The world continues normally for a satisfactory amount of time, tension slowly dissipating from her arms and chest. She gradually lets out a deep breath she has been holding.
She stares at the dishes drying. The home came with a dishwasher, but Dawn only used it once. There was something so pathetic about taking a week to fill it, the smell eventually getting to her. Besides, it was all she could do to keep herself occupied all day, every day – washing her dishes by hand was a luxury in and of itself.
She picks up a tea-towel to dry. Her mind disassociates as she rubs the knife. Her eyes are unfocused as she stacks the dishes. She leans on the bench, facing away from the window, lost in thought. She picks at loose threads on her jumper.
Dean Winchester's face floats into her thoughts. She wonders how old he is now –
Somewhere close to 30. He was younger than you when you met.
Sam would be even younger.
I wonder if Hell aged Dean like it aged you.
Dawn shudders.
I haven't thought about the Winchesters in a long time.
You haven't thought of anybody but yourself in a long time.
Yeah, well, I've been kind of preoccupied. Had a lot going on – a lot to adjust to.
Yeah, right. Just moping around. Almost a whole year of just moping around.
Dawn rolls her eyes.
She feels a painful warmth enter her heart as thoughts turn longingly to her college roommates. Oh, God, what were their names- I don't want to think about- Belinda? Beverley. Beverly and Regina and-
She blinks back stinging tears, clenching her fists. The pain in her heart drips fuel into a fire in her stomach. She grinds her teeth resolutely against the memories inching their way into her thoughts, preventing a torturous, emotional floodgate spilling into her mind.
I haven't thought about anyone for a long time. It's too painful.
They're better off without you.
Exactly.
A clunk vibrates through the room from outside.
The lights in the kitchen switch off. The house is suffocated by darkness.
Dawn freezes, straining for alien sounds.
Sure enough, she hears a deliberate shuffling noise outside her front door – the sound of someone taking care of where they are stepping. It is so minute that it would be indiscernible in anything but complete silence.
Slowly, she sinks to the floor, crouching behind the island in the kitchen.
The door handle rattles quietly, the lock jerking.
She reaches behind her, leaning on her haunches, eyes locked on the door. She rises gradually, carefully.
The lock continues to rattle gently.
She wraps her hand around the handle of the closest knife in a block.
The door handle jerks, the lock turning.
She pulls the knife out in a fluid motion, crouching quickly as the door opens slowly, silently.
Dawn watches from behind the island. She can make out several, black masses. Two larger, one smaller. They are low to the ground, shuffling below the door handle.
She turns her knife over in her hand, gripping it tightly, ready to strike.
One of the masses strays from the others, silently bobbing towards her couch and television. The other two, the smaller one included, go to the other side, towards her sitting area and bedroom.
She shuffles around the island, taking deliberate footsteps. She hopes the others are doing the same, that there will not be any rude surprises awaiting her on the other side.
Delicately, she twists her head around before her legs follow. The person in the lounge is out of sight behind the kitchen bench, the other two approaching the other side of the room, their backs to her.
She smiles – an amateur mistake. The smaller mass is behind the larger. Dawn assumes that they must be younger, inexperienced, not watching their partner's back, too afraid of their surroundings. They have a duffel bag slung over their shoulder.
She realises her breathing is totally even and controlled. The longing and anxiety inhibiting her before has vanished, replaced by an excited determination. She is approaching the side of the bench without consciously laying out a plan, her instincts controlling her silent floorplan.
A strong wind rushes through the trees outside, moaning through a crack in a window. The intruders freeze, but Dawn barely notices the interruption.
Carefully, she curls her fingers around the corner of the bench, conscious of her pale skin luminous in the dark where it collides with moonlight streaming onto the floor. She steadies her squat, pressing her face on the wood façade of the cabinets.
She watches as the two intruders reach a pool of light in the sitting area. One is definitely younger, keen eyes peeking out of a balaclava, and a stray tuft of light hair sticking out the top. The other has their back to Dawn still, inching towards her bedroom door.
She sees the outline of a holster on their belt but cannot decide if it looks like a hand gun or a knife at the distance.
She sees the younger mass shiver as the rain starts outside, shattering the glass with droplets, obscuring the view completely.
Dawn pushes her face around the bench, satisfied the others will not turn their back. She sees the stray in the lounge is standing hesitatingly as they examine something on the wall.
Achingly measured, she shuffles to the opposite side of the bench, facing the back of the couch. The others are too preoccupied in their own meanderings to notice her as she shies from the moonlight, hiding in darkness.
The mass by the TV belongs to a man, dressed the same as the others, all black with a balaclava. His holster belongs to a knife, the shape clear where moonlight peaks between two blinds.
He is inspecting the wall mount of the screen, checking for weakness. He turns behind him and nods, Dawn assumes to the other two.
She hears the gentle turn of her bedroom door handle, the click cutting through the dense quiet.
She figures she has about ten seconds before they realise she is not in her bed.
She folds her body forward, dropping her hands onto the carpet to crawl faster.
He has moved to the other side of the TV, lightly fingering brackets and the screen's frame.
She takes her chance.
She manoeuvres around the coffee table in front of the couch.
She raises her hands off the ground, standing.
The man begins to turn, sensing movement behind him.
She raises her knife defensively. As she moves, she flicks her leg to clip the back of his knees, breaking his weak, unsuspecting stance.
She cringes as her leg smacking his forces a yelp of surprise from him. She catches him by the neck as he falls back, stepping low. She drops her knife.
She slips his head into the crook of her elbow, securing him in a headlock.
As Dawn stoops to grab her knife, a shot rings out behind her. She ducks, slamming the man into the floor with her. The aim was far off target, shattering the TV screen instead of her head.
Gun holster for intruder one, knife holster for intruder two, she notes. She hopes the younger one is unarmed.
The man's strong grip is attempting to force Dawn's arm from his neck, fingernails digging into her.
She spits into his face, distracting him for a moment to shift her grasp, squeezing his neck with both hands.
She slams his head into the wall next to them, the force reverberating through her arm.
She sees the whites of his eyes loll a little, the clawing on her arms weakens but remains.
She wrenches him to the side, gathering leverage to smash his head into the plaster again. This time his hands drop lazily onto the carpet, his eyelids drooping.
Her elbows ache from the force of it. She feels something wet as her hand brushes the back of his head, releasing his neck from her vice grip.
The gun-wielding intruder is no longer taking sound precautions. She can hear him approaching her. She rolls around to crouch by the coffee table.
Blood is thumping in her ears, her arms tingling from the reverberation of her attack. She can barely see around her.
She hears the other intruder close to the couch. She reaches blindly for her knife.
Another shot rips through the air, deafening over the sound of her heart pumping madly. The table collapses next to her, splinters of wood flying into the air. They get into her nose, making her cough, watering her eyes.
She finds her knife, cutting her hand where she it smacks the blade desperately. She does not feel it, only the blood oozing from the gash making her grip slippery.
The gunman is standing on the table, preparing for another shot. She rolls over, launching herself behind the sofa, as it fires.
Something rips through her leg; she assumes the bullet. She can barely process the sting of it before she jumps from her seated position. The man is still standing on the table, twisting around to face her, gun held up.
Dawn barrels into him, launching herself using the couch as leverage. They fall heavily to the floor. She hears his gun clatter and bounce off the table, her knife almost slipping where she holds it raised.
She has him pinned, her knees on his shoulders, one bloody hand crushing his neck, the other raising her knife in the air.
Her face is stone – resolute and fierce. Her eyes shine in the moonlight, her knife-wielding arm deliciously encouraging the movement as it aims for his face. She diverts it at the last moment, stabbing his arm and pinning it to the floor below the carpet with the force of the momentum, burying part of the handle in his flesh. Her wrist aches immediately as she cuts through bone.
The man lets out a strangled, blood-curdling howl. Dawn feels his neck contort under the weight of her hand, the rough stubble on his neck tickling her bloodied palm.
She grips the knifes handle, leaning into her arm to yank the blade out, her weight slipping on his windpipe. A guttural warble vibrates her hand as his eyes close.
Dawn checks his pulse, beginning to stand. His heartbeat is obnoxious, pounding against her fingers.
She grips her knife, turning around, surveying the area. The younger man is frozen in his spot in the kitchen, his duffel bag sitting forgotten on the floor.
"Get on the ground." Dawn's voice is cold, measured, terrifying. He does not move, eyes wide, unblinking.
"I said, GET ON THE FLOOR!" She gestures with her knife downwards, her voice twisting in an animalistic growl.
He gets the memo this time, immediately dropping to the ground, covering the back of his head with his hands defensively.
After restraining the younger man with the shoulder strap she cut from his bag, Dawn creates a makeshift bandage out of the sofa cushions.
Blood leaks out in a viscous pool from the gunman's wound. She soaks up what she can with the pillow stuffing, using the fabric of the cushion's cover to apply pressure. Sweat is beading on his brow, twinkling in the light from outside.
She presses stuffing into the cut on her own hand, wrapping a strip of fabric around to hold it in place. It leaks through immediately.
She props the other unconscious guy up, carefully tying his hands behind his back with twine she found in the kitchen.
Satisfied with her secure knots, she leaves the house to turn her power back on.
The cold air snaps her attention to reality. Up until this moment, she has been functioning in a daze, following her survival instinct.
She reaches for the metre box, expecting her hands to be shaking, but they are still. She thinks she should feel remorseful, but she does not. She feels powerful and strong. The fire that had been brewing in her stomach has been quelled.
She thinks that this is what is used to feel like. She remembers the warm surge that would run into her arms from her sword whenever she beheaded a vampire, from her knife when she stabbed werewolves. Utter calm after each fight, the best reprieve from the constant self-doubt, insecurity, and debilitating loneliness she has felt since she woke up in the hospital bed all that time ago.
She lifts the main switch, seeing warm light spilling onto the grass of the hill as the power returns to the home.
She steps back and an unnatural shudder travels up her leg. A piercing pain radiates from her calf now that her adrenaline is ebbing away. She looks down to see the back of her tracksuit leg soaked in blood.
Dawn pulls the pant up slowly, biting back jolts of pain. A bullet wound reveals itself halfway up her leg, with splinters embedded around her ankle from the exploding coffee table.
She tries to step on the leg, her eyes watering, and her fists clenching, her fingernails digging into her palm. It begins to throb, travelling up her shin, stronger with each thump.
She limps the rest of the way.
When she gets back inside, locking the door behind her, Dawn's stomach drops at the scene before her.
The lounge carpet is soaked in blood underneath the gunman, with red trickling down the wall when she beat the knife-man's skull. The younger guy's skin is pale as porcelain, eyes glassy. He stares straight ahead, not looking at Dawn.
She crouches beside the unconscious men with difficulty, straightening her bleeding leg. She pulls off their balaclavas. The gunman has a square jaw and blonde hair, and the knifeman has a thin face and brown hair.
Dawn clicks her fingers in front of the young guy's face to get his attention. He flinches and looks at her fearfully.
"I'm just going to take your thing off," She gestures to his face. His eyes widen uncomprehendingly. He looks at her bloody leg and shudders.
When she reaches forward, he shuffles back indignantly. Dawn raises her palms to show she is unarmed and non-violent. Blood seeps down her wrist from her gash, a sticky, warm line. She can see sweat leaking out of his face covering, dripping into his eyes. She tries to remove it again, successful this time.
He has a skinny face like the knifeman – they could be related. His hair is an ashy blond, his eyes a pale blue.
"What's you name?" Dawn settles on the floor with him. He looks at her, confused.
"Do you speak English?" She tries. He shakes his head slowly.
"My name is Dawn." She points to herself as she says her name. "What is your name?" She points to him with a questioning look.
"Jakob." He croaks timidly. She nods.
"Hi, Jakob," Understandably, he is not very talkative. Dawn looks to where his comrades sit incapacitated and gulps.
"Why are you here?" She tries. He does not understand. She repeats the question, and then considers.
"Pourquoi es-tu ici?" She wonders if French is any closer to his first language. This only confuses him more.
Dawn sighs heavily, rolling onto her good leg to stand.
"Faen ta deg." He spits at her. "Jeg skal drepe deg."
She can tell these are not terms of endearment, his tone malicious and his eyes livid.
"I'll get you some water, or something," She sighs.
"Kyss meg i ræva!"
She stands awkwardly, wincing as her leg brushes the sofa. "I reckon I can guess what that one means."
When Dawn bends to offer Jakob some water, she is interrupted by the sound of flapping behind her.
"Fy faen," He mutters.
She twists herself around. Castiel has materialised in her kitchen, his scowl directed at the unconscious men in the lounge. Another man is standing next to him, an air of righteousness exuding from him. Another angel, Dawn thinks.
He is taller than Castiel, wearing a smart, black and white suit with no tie, a silver necklace in its place.
"Seriously, I thought we talked about this Castiel." She frowns. "Knock, please."
The other angel snorts at this. "Please. Castiel is not a domestic servant."
"What happened here?" Castiel advances toward the bodies.
"Din forpulte drittsekk," Jakob croaks. He is weeping now, unable to take his eyes off his friends.
"Ro deg ned," Castiel mutters.
"Pass språkbruket ditt!" The other angel commands at the same time.
Jakob looks at him. "Jeg kan ikke tro at du løy!"
Castiel loosens Dawn's makeshift bandage on the gunman's arm. He hovers his hand over it, the wound healing under a golden light emanating from his palm.
"He tried to kill me." Dawn states defensively.
"He will remain unconscious." Castiel moves on to the scrawnier man, placing his palm on his forehead.
The other angel frowns at the wall behind the knife-man where a dent has collected blood. "You were thorough, I see."
Dawn cannot tell if he admires her or is disgusted by her.
"Who's your friend?" She asks as Castiel walks towards Jakob.
"Du er en jævl-" Before he can finish his sentence, he drops into sleep as the angel touches his forehead with two fingers.
Castiel stands. "This is Uriel. He is another angel in my garrison."
"Nice to meet you." She shoots Uriel a sarcastic grin.
"I wish I could say the same to you." He returns the smile viciously.
"What brings you to my humble abode?" The small talk pains her.
"Your leg is bleeding." Castiel states, crouching to heal her bullet wound.
"Yeah, well, you guys didn't exactly have the best timing," She feels the throbbing dissipate, and a pleasant warmth settle.
"I apologise for that," He stands from his crouching position, uncomfortably close to Dawn's face as he addresses her, "We came as soon as we were informed that you were unsafe."
She shrugs. "I guess I took care of it."
Castiel squints at her, inches from her face. She leans her head back, uncomfortable, raising her eyebrows at him.
He gingerly lifts her bleeding palm, shifting the leaking, gutted pillow. Dawn winces and huffs, the pain from the gash punching into her register now, stinging and aching.
Castiel looks at her apologetically, taking the pain away with a warm wave of his hand.
Dawn relaxes, and croaks out a, "Thanks." He lets go of her hand.
Uriel clears his throat. "We will dispose of the bodies. Await further instructions."
"Like I've got anything better to do than to count the number of hairs in Castiel's stubble." Dawn pushes his chest gently back so she can step around and put more distance between them.
He frowns. "Dean has informed me of my intrusion into what he calls, 'personal space'. My apologies."
Uriel wastes no time, shouldering the newly healed men and disappearing. Castiel goes to do the same, but Dawn grabs his arm before he can touch Jakob.
"Castiel, those guys were going to kill me." He avoids her eye. "What the fuck is going on? You guys are being annoyingly calm about this."
"Await further instructions." He shakes her hand off his arm, disappearing with Jakob.
Twenty minutes pass before they reappear. Dawn sips a mug of tea, sitting on the kitchen bench, her back to the blood.
She feels strangely at peace, her curiosity piquing only when she hears the flap of wings.
Uriel and Castiel stare at Dawn, and she stares back for a moment.
"Are you going to explain why I almost got killed?"
"Castiel said he has explained the Seals to you." Uriel sounds strained, desperate to leave. "One of the possible seals is the slaying of the Sins."
She nods. "Okay?"
"Pride, or the man who we believe represented the sin, was murdered. Attempts were made on the other five with varying degrees of success." Castiel explains.
Dawn blinks. "What does that mean?"
"Gluttony, Sloth and Lust were attacked but did not die before their wounds could be healed." Uriel has a similar tone of boredom that Castiel uses sometimes.
Must be an angel thing, she thinks.
She frowns, wondering if she knew the 'man who represented the sin' of Pride. It is hard to feel grief – she is so distant from reality. It pains her to think that she will never meet him – the Original Sin.
The reminder of her isolation eats at her newly acquired state of Zen, so she changes gear.
"Do you guys just call me Wrath when you talk about me? Instead of 'Dawn'?"
"Yes." Uriel says with a smile.
"Lovely." She sips her tea. "How did they know where to find me?"
They are silent, avoiding her eye. She stares at them accusingly.
"So, I am locked up here with no way of contacting anyone 'for my own safety', with no access to the outside world, in the fucking Arctic Circle-"
"You watch your tone!" Uriel interrupts.
She continues without hesitation. "-and a group of Scandinavian hunters still manage to track me down and try to kill me in my home – in the mountains. If it weren't for that, I would have assumed they were incompetent, considering their shitty combat skills."
Uriel goes to speak but Castiel cuts him off. "We believe Lilith got wind of your whereabouts somehow and hired those men."
"Yeah, figures. I'm wondering which guy on the inside tipped her." Dawn crosses her arms in front of her chest. "Because, as far as I'm aware, you angels are the only ones that know where I am."
She waits. They do not speak. The atmosphere is tense.
Dawn can feel anger twitching the muscles in her face.
"Does this change anything?" She asks finally. Castiel meets her eye.
"Yes, it does."
"Can I go out and do things, now the cat's out of the bag?"
"No." Uriel seems to take pride in dampening her hope.
"I do not understand how the cat is related, or why it was in a bag, but the fact remains that it is unsafe for you," Castiel reasons, his constipated look coming and going, "To broadcast your location beyond Lilith would be foolish."
"Then what changes?" Her frustration prevents her from grinning at his confusion.
"Tighter security." Uriel supplies. "You will have angels guarding the property twenty-four hours a day."
Dawn places her mug on the counter, letting out a strained sigh. "Of course."
Even less freedom, even more intrusion. Maximum security prison now.
"Are you unhappy with the arrangement?" Uriel spits. "If it is so disagreeable to you, we could-"
Castiel places a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "Brother, leave it."
Uriel flexes his shoulders back, swallowing the spite bubbling out of him. "Forgive me," He nods to Castiel, "I must take my leave."
He dematerialises.
Dawn huffs. "He doesn't like humans, does he?"
Castiel nods. "I apologise for him. Uriel is a good soldier. He cares deeply for his brothers and sisters. It has been a difficult few months."
"Don't I know it." She focuses on her tea again.
A comfortable silence settles between them.
"In light of the recent events," Castiel offers after a while, smiling a little, "We may have some work for you, Dawn."
She looks up. "What kind of work?"
"Training Dean Winchester."
She feels that painful, stabbing warmth flutter in her heart again. Her mouth opens, but the hope she feels overwhelms her, and she cannot find the words.
"You have proven to be a formidable fighter, and since your security is compromised, a controlled departure should not be too much of a risk." He raises his eyebrows. "The risk is still there, of course, so I would understand if you declined the opportunity."
She sets her mouth in a hard line. "Don't be a dumbass. Of course, I want to see Dean."