A/N: For anyone following along, I apologise for the delay on this one and thank you for your patience. Has been a hectic couple of months for me, but should be smoothe-ish sailing ahead as far as I'm aware with semi-regular updates as before.

"

There's that melody again
Burning through my head it does me in
Turns me right around to my old friend
Wonder how you've changed, are you still
Running wild - like you do

"

Dawn cannot sleep that night, her heart a mess of excitement, dread, and hope.

She tries to conjure an image of the Winchesters, to remember their faces, but the time that has passed renders them blurs in her memory. She can remember details – the plaid, Sam's hair, Dean's leather jacket. She can remember the college campus she attended on when they met. Mostly, she remembers the feelings associated with their time together – exhilaration, fear, betrayal, longing. The smell of blood and burning sage.

She wishes she could say that her world shattered when she learnt of the existence of the supernatural, and that those two brothers were responsible. She wishes it were easy enough to say her life was split, between the time before she knew Sam and Dean, and the time after. It would be easier for her to feel resentful for the disaster her life became, but it was never so straight forward for Dawn. Her life had always been in shambles, too much trauma preceding and after their meeting for her to draw a clear line of 'weird', for her to blame anyone or anything. Knowledge of the occult and all things bumpy in the night were simply an irritating addition to the mound of shit that putrefied her existence.

Her hand twitches under the covers, her wrist aching. She realises she has been clenching her fists, bunching the sheet between her knuckles. She tries to relax, but the anxiety oozing through her tightens her shoulders, moves her feet nervously under the duvet. Tosses her, turns her.

Facing the Winchesters means facing her past. Facing her death. They will know and will ask questions. Worse still is the thought that they will not ask questions, and she will be left to stew in uncertainty and judgement. She cannot bear the thought of being rejected by the only two people that may understand, that may even relate to her.

You're a cardinal sin. They're hunters. Who knows what you're capable of becoming? In their eyes, you're just another monster to kill.

Dawn rolls over to bury her face in her pillow. She breathes in the cotton, blindly stretching her arms over the soft sheets, distracting herself by fiddling with stray threads.

She would prefer to label the tempest ripping her apart as simply 'excitement' about leaving this place. She hates that she knows every little detail about it, including what she can explore of its surroundings. It is suffocation comparable to her torture in Hell, locked in her head with no escape. The monotony of constant routine with no choice of diversity – except now.

There is an 'out', and even if it is temporary, she will milk it for all it is worth. She will not allow her insecurities to cheapen her liberation.

That's what you think. Shut up.

The blood is gone the next morning, the couch replaced. Castiel does not speak on their walk, not even when Dawn nervously mentions the other angels stationed at different points on the property. They remain throughout the day, and into the night.

Dean is not mentioned for several days.

Castiel is more distant than ever, barely speaking more than three words (namely "Hello." "Apologies." "No.").

The hope she allowed herself to foster and bloom begins to wilt after several days pass with no escape.

She refuses to bring it up, not wanting to appear vulnerable. As far as the angels know, there is no leverage against her. They know nothing of her past, just a vague familiarity with the Winchesters. As far as they know, not even her own life is precious to her. She will not give them anything to use against her.

A week after the break in, Dawn wakes to find Castiel in her kitchen. He is standing at the sink, watching rain falling heavily. She smiles at the thought of the angels stationed outside being drenched.

"You know, this only works if you are consistent with the knocking," she mutters, tying her hair back with a band. It has grown longer, the weight of it stretching her curls just above her chest.

Castiel does not turn as he speaks. "It is time."

She frowns. "Ominous."

"The necessary arrangements have been made for you to meet with Sam and Dean Winchester."

Dawn freezes, ignoring the fiery surge of hope erupting in her chest. "Both of them?"

"Do you object?" He has a glassy, faraway look directed to the birch outside.

"Of course not!" She grins, unable to suffocate the excitement booming in her voice.

Castiel looks at her sharply. "Remember that this is more of a business arrangement than a social gathering."

She gulps, still smiling. "I know…"

"You will be briefed on security measures in an hour. Please be ready to leave."

He disappears. Dawn blinks, reaching over the bench to turn her kettle on.

It takes about fifteen minutes for that messy mixture of excitement, dread, and hope to re-enter her stomach, the realisation yanking at her heartstrings.

Dawn prioritises her combat equipment and weaponry as she packs, making trips to her training facility sprinting through the rain. Her actions are a blur, based on instinct rather than logic, overwhelmed and disorientated.

When it comes to clothes and toiletries, the everyday things, she finds it hard to remember what is necessary and useful.

As soon as her hands still, uncertainty and doubt creep up from her stomach, so she stuffs whatever will fit in her duffel bag without thinking. She grabs the meagre contents of her bathroom, wraps everything in a towel, and bundles it in too.

Dawn is out of breath and trembling when a thin, scruffy young man materialises in her kitchen. She shrieks and drops the paperbacks she is holding.

He frowns at her in bewilderment. "Hi, Ms Terrace." He speaks softly, muffled, like he has something stuck in his throat.

She stares at him for a few seconds, before breathing in and out slowly. She drops her arms from their defensive position around her face. "Hi."

"I'm Inias." He straightens his silver tie – it has tessellated circles on it.

Dawn bends to pick up her books. "I'll be ready in a second."

"You are flustered." There is no emotion in his observation.

"Castiel and I have an arrangement," she mutters. "He usually knocks before he 'appears'."

Inias frowns. "How unusual."

"That's what you all keep saying, but," she zips her duffel forcefully. "What I find 'unusual' is why you all think it's acceptable to pop up out of nowhere in a soldier's house and expect to be greeted respectfully."

"Yes, well-"

"I might have PTSD, for all you know, or care," she smiles to herself, pretending her nervousness is not controlling her, that her rambling is normal. "I'm a loaded gun."

"Regarding your transfer…"

Dawn shoulders her bag, unperturbed by its weight. The metal of her weapons and armour clink together. She stands to attention, swallowing her anxiety by composing her face. She eyes Inias.

"There are certain security measures in place to protect your safety, and the safety of others." He does not move, a kitchen bench between the two of them. "First, you are not to reveal your location to anyone-"

She scoffs. "That'll be easy."

"…Including the location of where you will be staying outside of this house." He continues, his tone sharper. "Your motel is not situated far from Dean and Sam Winchester, but we ask you to keep your meetings to the neutral spaces we have organised for the purposes of training and planning."

The mention of the brothers' names makes something jolt under her skin. She nods at the order, snapping into soldier mode – not acknowledging her emotions, only listening and preparing to follow instruction.

"You are warned that these circumstances are unique and should not be taken advantage of. We understand you have a previous relationship with the brothers. Do not allow this to influence your judgement or your purpose."

She gulps, nodding. She is aware of her heart beating adrenaline against her chest.

"You are there to train Dean Winchester and assist him and his brother to prevent another Seal being broken. You have the best conditioning for these circumstances and are the most qualified survivor for this task. It is a strategic visit."

"Yeah, I get it, not for my benefit, for yours." She rolls her eyes.

Inias nods. "It is imperative you leave the arrangement as soon as it is no longer to our advantage."

She sighs. "And come back here?"

"Yes, where you can be surveyed and contained."

She winces. She had always suspected this was the true nature of her captivity, but it still hurt to hear.

"How long am I going to be away?"

"We estimate a week or a fortnight, depending on how the Winchester responds to his training."

Dawn frowns at his tone. "It sounds like you expect him to be a bother."

"We will see." He looks at his shoes. She can sense irritation in his eye.

The door of the motel room swings loosely on its hinges. Dawn is affronted by red wallpaper, grey linoleum, glaring fluorescent, a plastic chair and table, the queen bed with synthetic sheets.

She had managed to avoid staying in motels in her life, preferring to sleep in her car or on a friend's couch when she was in-between places. She even had a one-man tent stowed in her trunk for emergencies. The seediness that emanated from the neon lights, late nights, and leery men shooed her away.

Now that she stands inside, dropping her duffel with a clunk, she can see it is not that different to her cabin from the war. It is just that now, she actually has to survive, and make use of the bed, bathroom and kitchenette.

It is easing into dusk outside, dim light filtering through two windows in the front of the room and one from the kitchenette. Dawn tries not to feel winded with disorientation – it had been midday when they had left her home in the mountains.

Inias is standing just outside the door when she turns to address him. "Where are we?"

He does not reply immediately, staring at her as if assessing the appropriateness of the question. "Montana."

She smiles. "Cool. I always wanted to see more of the States."

"You will be contained in this area. This is not an opportunity for travel."

Dawn sighs. She peers through her window at a largely grey and dusty view: an unsealed carpark lined with trucks bordered with a golden sheen of dying weeds. Beyond it: much the same – warehouses, gravel, sheet metal buildings. Behind her, through the kitchen window: a squat hedge frames a busy road that cuts through flat fields of dead grass, the ballooning of low mountains in the distance breaks the horizon.

There is a slow build of mechanical shrieking audible as an airplane lands nearby.

She huffs at the loud noise. "Of all the national parks and natural beauty of this state, you chose an airport city?"

"It is advantageous to our plans. There are always new people passing through." Inias almost sounds proud as he explains.

"Your understanding of humanity is extraordinary," she says dryly, opening the kitchen window. Chill air bites at her face as a truck flies by, the glass cooling her fingertips.

"I must take my leave," Inias still stands outside the open door to the room. "Be ready for a meeting presently."

He disappears in a flutter. Dawn crosses the room to pull the door shut. A shuffle outside catches her attention.

There is a man and a woman in suits – angels – stationed at either side of the door's landing. As she unpacks and gathers her thoughts, they take turns circling the outside of her room at regular intervals but do not leave.

Survey and contain, she notes, Inias' earlier statement eating away at her.

The constant stream of noise from the busy road outside her open window both confronts and comforts Dawn. It is a reminder that she exists in civilisation again, but it is not one she can join or truly engage with. It is more like an exhibit at a zoo she has come to observe.

'Transient, industrial wasteland. Resultant of an airport. Common, has spread worldwide due to globalisation, population increase, and subsequent heightened supply and demand.'

More accurately, she is the exhibit, transferred to a new setting for 'a limited time only'.

'Homo sapiens. Dawn Terrace (Wrath). Once dead, twice shy! This sarcastic sack of useless shit is the 3rd deadliest sin. A trained killer, she is handy with a blade and will bite your head off if you look at her the wrong way. Ultra-rare, usually cannot be found – under secretive lock-and-key!'

She splashes cold water on her face to distract herself from spiralling thoughts. Night has fallen and the light in the cupboard-sized bathroom buzzes. Dead flies, mosquitoes and lizards sit in the fluorescent casing, their silhouettes dancing in the flickering light.

Dawn's hands are shaking. She has been unable to sit down for the past hour, pacing around her room, folding and re-folding clothing, rearranging bits and pieces. The hue from the light makes her skin a sickly yellow-green colour as she eyes herself.

The familiar flap of wings forces her out of the bathroom. Inias stands in the middle of the room, and, without looking at her, waves a hand. The kitchen window closes and locks itself.

Dawn shoulders a backpack, barely able to collect herself before he touches her arm.

Her boots slap on bitumen where they land, bathed in the red neon sign for a 'Restaurant'. Dawn pulls her jacket closer around her, chill air creeping under her arms.

There is a fuel station on one side and a casino on the other, the silhouettes of mountains in the distance more impressive than from the motel room.

"Hello, Dawn," Castiel's voice leads her to turn.

Her face softens from the tense expression the cold and anxiety had etched on her features. An explosion of excitement and joy erupts in her chest.

The Impala is parked, the carpark lights glinting off its surface, shinier and cleaner than she remembers. Castiel stands in front of it, nodding at Inias. He disappears, blowing Dawn's hair off her shoulder.

The trunk of the car is open, obscuring two bodies hunched on either side. Dawn approaches slowly, self-consciously running a hand through her hair. She clutches at her backpack straps to busy her hands.

The trunk slams shut, revealing the Winchesters. As they pick up their duffels, they look up and freeze.

For a moment, Dawn cannot tell if they recognise her. They have all changed, their experiences ground into their appearance.

Sam's hair has grown out, a mop with modest sideburns. When Dawn had known him, he had a goofiness about him which seems to have given way to seriousness. Dean has swapped out his leather for an olive army jacket, his hair the same but his features harsher somehow, less boyish.

She has changed too. Her hair is longer, her face meaner. Her once lean frame is tough and muscled.

They stare, and then they grin at her.

"Long time, no see, Red!" Dean chuckles.

Dawn smiles finally, frowning and smirking at him playfully. "Yeah, you got old too!"

Sam, laughing, comes around the car to envelop her in an awkward hug, their bags knocking against each other, metal clinking inside. As he steps back, she shakes her head.

"You're even taller than I remember," she punches him playfully on the arm. "Fucking Sasquatch."

Sam rubs where she punched him, grimacing. "When the hell did you get so strong?"

She purses her lip, flicking her eye to Dean standing by the car. He was never one for hugging.

"Time is short," Castiel announces. "We should discuss the plan."

"Have you met Cas?" Dean asks her, shoving past. "He's our resident party pooper."

The brothers have checked into a motel attached to the complex. As they unload their gear from the Impala, Castiel briefs Dawn on their knowledge of the Seal.

"As is often the case, it is difficult to predict where one may break or what may arise," he speaks to her where she sits in the Winchesters' room, out of the way, off to the side. "We have reason to believe the mountains in this area are related to something Lilith is planning."

Dawn nods. A grunt nearby breaks her focus.

"What's your problem?" Sam is looking at Dean incredulously.

"Dude, come on, it's fine." He shrugs. He had thrown Sam's laptop carelessly onto his bed.

"Respect my shit, Dean!"

"Alright, Sammy."

"Don't 'Sammy' me!"

Dean huffs, barrelling past for another trip to the Impala. Sam rolls his eyes and catches Castiel and Dawn eyeing him.

"Sorry." He says shortly, following his brother.

"What's going on with them?" Dawn asks.

"As I was saying," Castiel continues. "There have been extremely odd ingredients found at the base of a few of the summits-"

"Ingredients?"

"Yes, for some kind of black magic spell. We do not know what its purpose is yet, but there have been increased signs of demon activity in the vicinity. We are anticipating conflict, and a big one at that. We are not certain when or where."

She nods. "Right. Which is why you're getting Dean trained up."

"We want to ensure we are fully prepared."

"Why aren't you doing the same with Sam?"

Castiel shifts uncomfortably. "It is… less imperative."

She frowns at him. Before she can press further, Dean walks back in, Sam in tow.

She remembers how she often felt that Sam and Dean existed in a world of their own when they were focused on a case. She felt left out of their sibling connection, like a moon orbiting a planet. Family was always priority, everyone else was secondary. She wished she had felt that way with her own family.

She feels this disconnect now as the brothers turn their backs to her and Castiel, busying themselves with setting up their room, asking each other questions and throwing commands around.

She feels a nudge. Castiel is handing her the business card of her motel.

In a quiet voice, hardly necessary with the brothers so engrossed, he says, "I trust Inias instructed you to keep this a secret. It is a safety precaution."

Dawn nods.

"Good," he steps away from her. "If you are required, Inias will fetch you. You are free to come and go from your room, but do not stray far. It is unwise."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Same shit, different country."

Castiel frowns at her. Something in his eye makes her hold his gaze. Is that… sympathy?

If it flitted through at all, the softness is gone in an instant.

"You will be hearing from me," he grumbles, directed at all of them.

Sam looks up from his business. "Yeah, thank-"

He is cut off with Castiel's disappearance.

"Dick." Dean mutters under his breath, as if by reflex.

"Did you call him 'Cas' before?" Dawn asks, amused.

"Yeah, easier than the righteous mouthful that is 'Cas-tee-yell'," he shrugs.

She pouts. "Aw, I'm just happy you're making friends."

Sam chuckles.

"Shut up," Dean chucks a worn hardback at her. She catches it, still grinning. "I hope you like Mexican, by the way. That's all they got out here."

Several tacos and a burrito the size of Dean's head later, the room is strung with lore, maps, leads, and theories. There are books open to chapters on witchcraft and black magic. Sam's laptop is whirring.

Dawn has her own computer open on her lap, lying on one of the beds. She flicks the crumbs of a corn chip from the keyboard.

Dean, as usual, has trouble concentrating on the research. He has elected to polish one of his handguns, boredom beginning to set into the comfortable silence that had formed.

"So…" He places the gun on the table.

Dawn jolts a little, so used to being alone in silence she had forgotten she was in company. Sam sighs loudly, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, I'm beat," he closes his laptop lid. "That was a long-ass drive."

"I can't believe you guys drive everywhere." Dawn shakes her head.

"Dean's afraid of flying," Sam says before his brother can change the subject. He gives him a look of warning.

"Really?" She shuts her laptop.

"What do you know about the Seals, Dawn?" Dean huffs.

"Not much," she smirks at the abrupt subject change. "I don't even really know what I'm looking for in the research."

"Yeah, me neither," he shrugs.

"We've only seen one in action," Sam ventures. "A bunch of ghosts risen that weren't naturally vengeful."

Dawn raises her eyebrows, shaking her head. "God, it's going to be weird getting back into this stuff. 'Vengeful spirits'. Haven't heard that one in a while."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks. "What have you been doing all this time?"

She gulps. She was waiting for this. "Yeah, um-"

"Dean!" Sam looks in disbelief at his brother.

"What? It's an honest question."

Dawn nods. "I've been living in the mountains somewhere supervised by angels."

The boys are quiet.

"I think it's in the Arctic Circle, but they don't tell me where exactly so I don't get found. I'm not allowed to leave, I get everything delivered to me, and I'm not allowed to contact anyone."

"So, it's true?" Dean asks, ignoring a hard stare from Sam.

"What's true?"

He swallows. "You're a Sin?"

"Yeah." She avoids their eye. "What do you know about it?"

"We, uh, saw your name in the paper," Sam explains. "We were surprised, so we looked you up."

"You didn't try to look me up before all this happened then?" Dawn tries not to sound hurt in her tone.

"It's just that, you know," Dean stumbles over the explanation. "So much shit happened. This line of work, it doesn't lend itself to-"

She holds up a hand to stop him. "Whatever, it's fine."

"We also know you were a badass during that weird, in-between period." Sam says, lightening the mood. "Or you must have been. Cas seemed pretty set on you being the one to train up Dean."

"He's been the one… 'supervising' me," she explains. "We knew each other during 'the war'. He seems to have a soft spot for me."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "How's it been? Away from the world for so long?"

"Dawn, if you don't want to talk-" Sam tries.

"Fucking awful. As you can probably imagine." She cuts off. "I thought it made sense in the beginning. I was pretty angry. About everything; being brought back, not knowing what was going on, getting no answers, and then being chaperoned around like a secret show pony. I was volatile, dangerous even. But that wore off pretty fast. Now it seems counterintuitive. I don't think they know what to do with me."

Survey and contain, the words come back to her.

Dawn finally looks at the brothers. They are tense. She smiles. "Don't worry, someone already tried to hunt me. You don't have to."

Sam smiles wryly, Dean just grunts.

"So… Hell?" Sam gets up to gather the remains of their meal.

"Yeah." She clenches her fist. "Every bit as bad as we're led to believe."

Sam pauses. "You remember it?"

"Yeah, bits and pieces," she shrugs, avoiding his eye. "Like anything, certain things trigger specific memories. Very unpleasant."

She stands to help him tidy.

"It's just that," Sam looks at his brother who is forcibly staring at a wall. "Dean doesn't remember anything."

Dawn makes brief eye contact with Dean. He goes back to his guns.

She hands Sam rubbish. "Thanks for cleaning up."

He smiles and leaves the room for the bin outside. Dawn turns to Dean.

"Bullshit, Dean." Her tone is cold.

"What?" He is affronted.

"Bullshit you don't remember. I can see it in your eye."

He looks at his hands. "I donno what you're talking about."

"Look," her tone softens. "I get it. I would rather forget. But I think we owe each other a chat about it." He looks up as she takes a seat near him. "I think it would be good, for both of us. To have someone to talk to that knows."

Dean stares at her, almost helplessly. A muscle twitches in his temple where his jaw clenches, his knuckles showing white where they are bunched on the table. He looks like he is about to speak, but Sam strolls back into the room.

"Time to hit they hay, I think," he announces.