A/N: It might be useful to state that the following situations take place betweent S4E07 ("It's the Great Pumpkin Sam Winchester") and S4E08 ("Wishful Thinking"). If you have any feedback so far in terms of canonical timing or general questions/comments, feel free to leave them! I love hearing from active readers. Thank you for making it this far - 10 chapters! Whew!

"

Never more to go astray
This will be the end today
Of the wanted man

"

The scream of a truck hurtling down the road jolts Dawn awake. She had left the kitchen window open during the night and the room is freezing. She groans, shifting on the harsh, cold sheets of the motel bed, remembering where she is.

There is a cloudy blue aura colouring the room from early sunrise, the plastic digital clock reading 08:13 on her bedside table.

Her fingers ache from the cold, her hand cramping as she moves. Stiffly, she edges out of the bed, pulling on a robe hanging nearby. Her head is heavy where her hair has bundled and her joints crack as she reaches the kitchenette.

The glass is icy, the frame edging down with difficulty.

She runs hot water to splash onto her face and warm her hands. Her head aches.

One beer. One beer is all it took, and I'm hungover.

Even when requested, Castiel never brought Dawn alcohol. She assumed it was some unsaid rule that drug use was forbidden in her isolation, legal or not. She had nabbed a bottle from Dean's stash the night before, excited at having an ounce of freedom.

It did not take long for her to remember that she had been a lightweight in her 20s, and any possible tolerance building she skipped right past while wasting away in the Pit.

Events of the night before swim in her mind. The boys were easy to banter with, yes, but there was an awkwardness and a fearful distance separating them from her. She got the sense they were stepping on eggshells, both in the questions they asked her and with each other. She understood their uncertainty with her; Sam had not even started law school when they had met, and it is not as if they had crossed paths since.

To some extent, tension between the brothers could also be understood, not least because of the amount of time they spent cooped up together. But there was something else simmering that she could not figure out. And the way Castiel avoided the subject…

Something was off.

Even with their initial meeting out the way, Dawn is still giddy as she approaches the motel restaurant to meet the brothers. Giddy at the novelty of exiting her building, walking freely to a new one.

Don't get used to it. It's only temporary. Shut up.

The restaurant is a typical, truck-stop diner. Tiled floors and imitation-marble laminate over the tabletops, complete with greasy menu items.

The boys are seated at a large table by a window overlooking the fuel station. Sam grins at her as she approaches. Dean barely turns his head as she sits down next to him.

"Sleep well?" Sam enquires. She self-consciously tugs at a knot in her bed hair.

Dean pulls out a menu tucked between the salt and pepper shaker.

"It was a little chilly," she smirks.

Sam snorts. "Chillier than the Arctic circle?"

"The central heating there is pretty good. Not that I'm complaining," she adds hastily to a side-eye from Dean. "It's comforting to know that here, I can leave the building if I want to."

Sam clears his throat, frowning. "I can't imagine how bad that'd be, being under house arrest like that."

She shrugs. "I'm allowed to go for a walk every morning. But Castiel has to come with me."

"Yeesh," Dean grunts, handing her the menu without looking at her. "What a trade-off."

"It's not so bad," she says. "At its worst, it's like talking to a wall. But at least it's something. Better than being stuck with myself."

Her voice shakes a little, so she focuses on the menu.

"The special looks good," Dean mentions after a moment.

Sam snorts. "Dean, it's like grease on grease on top of more grease."

Dawn shakes her head. "I had forgotten what it was like to eat in America."

"Tell me about it," Sam mutters, and then jolts in his seat, the legs squeaking on the floor.

Dawn and Dean barely bat an eyelid at the arrival of Inias and Castiel at the end of the table.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel nods to him. "Dawn." He meets her eye.

She smiles at him. Inias, next to her, stares down at the table. Sam clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, shunting his seat forward.

"What do you guys want?" Dean grumbles.

"Your training starts today, effective immediately," Castiel explains. "We need to take you to the facility."

"Where's that?" Dean avoids all eye contact – from Sam's helpless stare, Castiel's penetrating eye, Dawn's sympathetic head turn.

Castiel glances at Sam in the corner of his eye and then back to Dean, not speaking.

Dawn sighs. "Please let us eat before you zap us somewhere."

"Certainly," he murmurs, looking at his hands in his lap.

She waits a beat before continuing. "In peace."

Inias turns his head at the request. She fixes him with a sweet smile, grinning, "Please."

He looks at Castiel, who nods. He disappears.

"We'll call you when you're needed, Cas," Dean states, standing up.

"Don't be long." He replies.

Deans shoves his chair back to the table when both angels have disappeared.

"Coffee, Dawn?" He pats her shoulder, the first physical acknowledgement from him of her presence.

"Sure," she smiles but he continues to avoid her eye. As he approaches the counter, she makes a noise of surprise.

"Oh my god," she looks at Sam. "I don't have any money!"

The thought seizes her in a myriad of emotions – confusion, humour, fear – as the simple facts of life return to her.

Sam's moody, unfocused glare is broken by a short chuckle. "Some freedom you've got."

Dawn holds his gaze, sighing. Then, seriously, "Sam."

"What?" His voice is distant.

"What's going on with you?" She leans forward, speaking in a low, warm voice. "Why is everyone being so shifty around you?"

Sam flicks his eyes away from Dawn's. He does not answer for a moment.

"I think you should mind your own business." His tone is cold.

She straightens her back, shifting away from him. Her worried look becomes blank. She switches her attention to picking at a fingernail.

"Sorry for intruding." She says shortly, embarrassed.

Breakfast passes in tense silence. Dawn's anxiety only allows her to finish half her eggs.

Just barrel right in there with the big questions, you fucking idiot. I'm not fit to socialise. You're scaring them away. They're going to find out what a waste of space you are soon enough. Oh god, now is not the time. Now is exactly the time! Someone has to knock some sense into you. Don't ever forget how little you're worth.

Sam wordlessly leaves the restaurant after he has finished, pulling his jacket closer as his breath shoots out in clouds outside. Dawn watches him as he heads in the opposite direction of their room, jolting when Inias' tired eyes suddenly appear in her line of sight.

"Were you spying on us, waiting for my brother to leave?" Dean's voice is muffled, his mouth full.

"What spare time do you imagine we have to dispense on spying on your every move, Winchester?" Inias practically rolls his eyes. "Our patience is wearing thin. It is time to go."

Dean says something indiscernible, a piece of toast flicking out of his mouth. The angel ignores him, reaching forward to touch them both.

A menu floats off the now-empty table, Dean's fork clattering where it was held in mid-air.

The warehouse is huge and draughty, Dawn's skin erupting in goosebumps from the change of the heated restaurant to the biting cold. They land on a concrete pad, lit with glaring lights, a black mat covering half the space. The walls are sheet metal, climbing several metres above their heads.

Along the walls are stands and cases for varying types of weaponry; guns, knives, and machetes on one side, and the other swords, crossbows, shields, javelins and maces. Dean is stuck eyeing this side of the wall, his face wrinkled in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. Dawn considers them too, with a discerning eye.

"They're not the same as mine," she acknowledges.

"No," Inias nods. "We worked with the demons to create your faction's armour and weapons. That level of craftmanship will not be necessary for this exercise."

Dean, out of his depth, walks away, inspecting the mat-floor.

Dawn scoffs. "Angels working with demons?"

"It was desperate times." He says sadly, the scenario clearly shameful. "They held half of the artillery, so it was necessary to negotiate."

A loud clatter breaks the thread of conversation.

Dean is picking up a spear knocked from the wall. He smiles apologetically as he tries to replace it, dropping it several more times.

"What am I supposed to do here?" She asks, amidst the noise.

"Dean Winchester is accustomed to fist fighting and survival rather than formal, strategic battle or combat," Inias speaks with a hint of disdain in his tone. "We believe it would be beneficial to instil some military formality to his regiment, and more intentional, intelligent offence and defence. You have the necessary training from your rank and specialisation."

She nods slowly, beginning to fully grasp the situation. The anxiety of anticipation, the rushed arrival, the novelty of a new environment, had all distracted her from the actual task at hand.

"I've never actually trained anyone before. I've only been trained."

"We know," he speaks offhandedly. "You will work it out."

His casualness bristles something under skin. Her fists clench and a suspicion enters Dawn's tone. "Am I your babysitter or something?"

Dean, studying the daggers on the opposite wall, turns his head at the raised voice.

"We have been upfront since the beginning of the operation," Inias is defensive. "You knew your duty and instructions, and you agreed to our conditions. Now, carry them out."

His order falls flat, his tone lacking authority under the coldness of Dawn's glare.

"Fine." Terse.

"You will find that this building is not far from your accommodations," Inias' shaky voice is louder, addressing both her and Dean. "You may come and go as you please, but you two are the only humans permitted in this facility."

Dean's jaw clenches. "So, what you're saying is that Sammy isn't allowed in here."

"I will be in touch with further instruction," he replies, nodding to them both.

With a flap of wings, he leaves Dawn and Dean in a jilted silence.

Her mind is reeling, trying to recall her training, trying to work out a plan for an event they know nothing about, trying to ignore the tension surrounding Sam, and Dean's weird, evasive behaviour.

You can't do this. You're going to get everyone killed. You're not strong enough.

"I guess Cas was too good to show up for potty training," Dean remarks.

Dawn is not sure how long they have been standing in silence.

She blinks, meeting his eye for the first time since breakfast. "What?"

"This Inias guy," he stumbles over his explanation. "Kind of a small fish. I think. I don't know how the angel hierarchies work."

"Do they have hierarchies?" She wonders.

"Yeah. Have you met Uriel?"

She nods.

"Works for Cas." He shrugs.

Another conversational dead end.

"What the fuck is going on, Dean?" She asks after a moment.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he shrugs, smirking. "You're not the only one that's been chucked into this thing blind."

She frowns. "Not what I meant."

"Give it a rest," he huffs, sitting down on the mat and rubbing his face. "I've hardly had a break from all this shit for the last few days, and I don't have any more answers than you do… At least you get a cushy shack up in the mountains."

Her frown deepens.

"Like, no offence Dawn, but I've been to Hell and back. I don't need training from you, thank ya very much."

"Oh?" Dawn moves so she is standing directly in his line of site.

He shifts uncomfortably in his jacket. "This is such bullshit."

"Is this about being 'chucked into this thing blind', or is it about me training you?" A warning in her voice.

Dean locks eyes with her. He stands up slowly. "Don't take it personally."

She looks at him incredulously.

"It's like this," he steps forward. "We haven't spoken nor seen you in like, what, just over five years? We find out you've been brought back from the dead, and then we find out that makes you the human embodiment of some kinda sin?"

Her mouth sets in a hard line. "Yeah, okay. I get it."

"How can you expect us to trust you?"

Bingo. At least you don't have to catastrophise anymore. You can live it!

She sighs, any energy she had mustered suffocated by growing frustration. She looks away from Dean, looking at the mat, the knives, the guns, the ceiling, anything to help gather her thoughts and distract her from uncertainty.

"Common enemy, Dean," she manages. "I'm not the bad guy here. Be angry at the angels, not at me. We're both just puppets in this shit show."

She looks at him. His intensity has softened.

"I don't know what you want from me," she shrugs at him. "You and Sam are the only humans I've spoken to since I got out of the hospital."

"Were you expecting some kind of happy little reunion?"

Dawn clenches her fist, the frustration tensing all over.

"For fuck's sake, Dean, I don't know!" She finds herself yelling. "Give me some credit, please! Have I given you a reason so far to distrust me? Have I been unhelpful? Have I been in any way demanding? What the fuck could I even do to you two?"

She cannot control the words as they gush out, untethered to reason, on a wave of exasperation.

"I'm on a leash, hell, I'm chained to these guys! 'Cushy shack' my ass! They watch my every move, bring me my supplies, limit my bloody computer access. Even if I wanted to, there is literally nothing I could possibly do to hurt or betray you and your brother! Even if I wanted to, Dean! Don't you understand? I have nothing. There are no resources at my disposal to plan some kind of mastermind plan. I've got time, so much time, and that's about it."

Dean steps back. Dawn takes a deep breath, straining to keep a line of tears from spilling onto her cheeks. She looks away and up, blinking them back.

"My choice was to stay in that house, completely isolated from the world," her voice is shaky and low. "Keep doing my stupid little tasks every day to keep myself distracted from the pointlessness of my stupid fucking existence. Eat three meals a day so Castiel didn't ask questions, go for a walk every day just so he wouldn't answer mine. Or, I could come here and train you for some unknowable conflict. Make myself and my violent – sorry, 'wrathful' – abilities useful."

"Dawn-" He tries.

"-so, no, Dean, I did not expect 'some kind of happy little reunion'," she illustrates his previous statement with air quotes. "As if I would be stupid enough to get my hopes up…. No. I just thought it would be… nice. To get away and actually talk to you and Sam. Talk to some people, see how the world is, see why I might have been brought back against my will."

A tear escapes. She wipes it away immediately. "So… Here I am."

Dean nods, his defensive postulation relaxing. At a loss of what to say, he rolls back on the balls of his feet, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

A quiet descends.

He looks around, his gaze halting on the exotic weaponry.

"So, boss," he looks longingly at the broad swords. "What's our first port of call?"

Dawn closes her eyes, rubs her temples, trying to focus and minimise her emotions.

When she opens her eyes and surveys the room, she spots a metal locker. She walks towards it as if it answers a question on her mind.

Inside are sets of long-sleeved, form fitting training clothes, similar to the wetsuit-like underlayer of her armour. She pulls out a hanger, holding them up to Dean in the distance.

"Are you serious?" He looks at the outfit, disgusted. "Thanks, Dawn, I'm flattered, but I donno if the angels had roleplaying in mind when they asked you to 'train me up'."

She eyes his layered plaid, baggy jeans, leather boots, army jacket, and his necklace with the gold pendant. She raises an eyebrow.

"You gonna roll around in that get-up?"

He gestures to his clothes as an affirmative.

"The only business that outfit has in a working environment is cutting down trees, Winchester, and you don't strike me as the lumberjack type."

Dean is affronted. "Well, your mum's a-"

"Put on the fucking leotard before I cut your tongue out."

After more verbal sparring, Dean finally submits and changes his everyday clothes.

Dawn braids her hair, twisting it into a bun on her head to keep it out of her face. She is comfortable in the clothes, but Dean twitches uneasily in front of her, self-conscious.

"Dude, get over it," she huffs after one-too-many crotch adjustments. "I can't see anything. We're about to be all up in each other's business anyway, so it's better to shake off the awkwardness now, okay?"

He frowns. "Why do I have to wear this? I'm probably going to be fighting in my normal clothes anyway."

"I have to teach you a few things from my own training," she walks over to one of the weapon-lined walls. "It's easier to learn forms like this, and then wear what you're going to fight in once they're in your muscle memory."

With her back turned, Dean takes one more look to ensure nothing is on show, before breathing out slowly and stepping around on the mat awkwardly.

"I'm guessing this side of the wall is stuff you're familiar with, and the other is not…" She says, more to herself than to him.

"Yeah, I don't really have swords and crossbows in my repertoire," he laughs.

Dawn looks at him. "They're in mine."

He is shocked. "Seriously? Awesome."

She feels a little warmth from his awe. "I think we should stick with hand-to-hand training for now, considering I have no idea how much time we've got before we need to get out there."

She steps back from the wall, advancing to Dean. "Show me your stance."

"My what?"

Dawn rolls her eyes. "Don't be thick. I know you know what I mean."

Dean grins, squaring his shoulders and positioning his feet.

His eyes widen. "Woah, this shit really is silky smooth." He flexes in the material of the training clothes.

She smiles. "See, you're used to it already."

She walks towards him, reaching to adjust his arm position. He flinches, stopping her hands in mid-air.

"Is this okay?" She asks.

"Yeah, don't make a big deal out of it," he sounds strained as he huffs his reply.

She purses her lip, pushing his arm a little. "This just needs to come across more – like this."

Dawn feels her stomach twist a little. Despite the professional situation, this mere physical closeness has an intimate gravity to her.

It's been a very long time since I've been this close to a human being.

She steps away from Dean to quell these thoughts, and to nod approvingly at the adjustment.

Throughout the day, a pattern emerges. For every change Dawn makes to Dean's regiment, he puts up a wall and resists, then eventually relents. Slowly, the resistance lessens but distrust is maintained.

Dawn feels frustration tense and bristle at each defiance, stewing in anger she tries to control by focusing it into her face – keeping her expression stern and cold. Occasionally, it boils over, making a movement jerk, or a hold on Dean more like a grab or a snatch. This amuses him, which only serves to feed her resentment.

Still, she tries to keep her irritation in check.

It is only after they have been at it for a few hours that she finally snaps.

"When you swing out like that, you're leaving your side open," Dawn critiques Dean's demonstration of a right hook. "Keep your elbows closer to your body so you have more of a chance of defending yourself."

He huffs, but tries it again, heeding her advice.

"There ya go!" She smiles. "It's just bad habits, Dean, nothing you don't already know."

"Right." He grunts.

His abrasiveness sends a shiver of irritation up her spine. She speaks through gritted teeth, "You know, Dean, this would be a lot easier if your attitude was more open."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," he says, sarcastic. "But I think it makes me more endearing."

She grinds her teeth together. "You're just so full of one-liners."

He flashes a grin at her.

She sighs, trying to release the tension contorting her muscles. She steps away from Dean and shakes out her arms.

"We should take a break."

He immediately relaxes his stance, pushing his shoulders back and cracking his neck. "I'll say."

Dawn strolls to the exotic weapons wall, running her hand over the cold iron and silver blades. She does not feel the same warmth run up her arm that she does when she handles her own great sword, or when she releases her shield.

The feeling does, however, trigger memories of the war; flashes of white light and red play in her mind's eye, shrieking and cackling, teeth gnashing, black goo splashing. The glint of silver under a full moon, a spray of blood from a shotgun head shot.

She swallows pointedly, grounding herself back to reality.

"So, Dawn," Dean's voice floats into her consciousness. "When are you going to teach me to fight for real? You know, instead of fighting like a girl."

It is a throwaway comment. It should not get to Dawn.

Her jaw clenches and, before she can stop herself, she reels back her fist, throwing a heavy punch into the sheet metal wall beside her.

The force reverberates through the building, clattering the weapons together, shivering up and down the wall in a deafening bang. Pain, too, shoots up her arm from the dent, her arm shaking from the recoil.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She takes her fist away, a little blood lining a cut on her middle knuckle, the others white from impact.

Dean is frozen on the mat, staring at her back.

"Is that what this is all about, Dean? That I'm a girl? You can't handle being instructed by a girl?" Her voice is husky with rage, a sharp edge to each question she asks.

"No, it's just-" He stammers.

She twists around to face him, her face a frightening, livid mask. "What?"

"I don't really need this, I'm strong enough-"

"Meaning you're stronger than me, right?"

Dean swallows, squaring his shoulders. "Dude, calm down."

She lets out a breath she has been holding in a short huff. "Fuck you. You don't know anything. You don't know what I've been through."

He looks disgusted at this. "Oh, come on! Boo hoo! Hell and back? Me too, bitch. Join the club."

The last straw.

She advances towards him quickly, covering the distance in a few seconds. She raises her fists.

He starts to step back, putting his hands up defensively.

"Dawn, I don't wanna-"

She swings at him, strafing across his face with a sickening thwack. As she twists back from the follow through, he is reeling with shock, tripping over his feet. She steps away, raising her foot to snap a high kick to his stomach.

He does not try to defend himself or grab at her ankle. Instead, he falls flat on his back onto the mat, winded. He groans, clutching at his gut. His cheekbone blooms red where she punched him.

Dawn squats down, straddling Dean and digging her knees into his sides. She grabs the fabric around his collarbones, pulling his face up to meet hers halfway.

"Let me get this straight with you. I may not have been special enough to be handpicked by Heaven's finest and plucked from perdition, but I did my part in the grand scheme of things. And I did it well. That's why I'm here. I don't need your approval, but I would appreciate your respect. It's not in your best interests to piss me off, so consider your options one more time, and pick the more agreeable one."

She shoves his head back as she releases him. Dean grimaces when his head hits the mat.

As she stands up off his chest, he lets out a loud gurgle, breathing easily but his voice still wheezing from shock. "Fucking hell. This is not how I thought the day would pan out."