A/N: This chapter ended up being twice as long (7k words!) so I split it in two. I'll post the next one in a couple of days, so keep an eye out.
I would love to hear your thoughts on how you feel the story is progressing, and if you're enjoying it. It is quite intimidating publising an original character-centric story, so if you are loving Dawn's character or the others I've weaved through, I would love to hear that too. Thank you for reading this far :)
"
And the man said, "Hey, come and cut yourself a piece of the big time"
Armor-clad forces, riding Trojan horses
Never made sense to me
I didn't want to be a part of the great debate on moonshine
"
Dawn paces her room, gathering supplies. Her movements are precise and motivated. She does not think about what she is doing – she trusts her instincts.
She begins to inhabit her role as a soldier, her back straightening, the air around her stiffening, her face stony. Her duffel is packed neatly, her armour laying on the motel bed. She stares at it, giving herself permission to appreciate how still her hands are, how confident she is. She feels excitement and anticipation rather than the usual, ever-present anxiety. Similar emotions that upset the stomach, but the former gives strength after adrenaline has given way rather than fatigue.
The last week she has been in Montana, Dawn has kept a consistent uniform of thermals layered under a t-shirt and tracksuit pants. She would train in the wetsuit-like layer under her armour, would practise swinging her sword and wield her shield in tandem. She used her crossbow in target practise to keep up her accuracy. Bits and pieces at different times, but not together.
Eyeing her combat boots, the limb coverings, the torso armour, the utility belt… This will be the first time she will be properly suited for conflict since she was resurrected.
Dawn slips her hair out of its messy tie, the curls sticking in knots, lanky over her shoulders. Although she cannot see herself – the room's only mirror is in the bathroom – she knows her crown is ballooning with stray, frizzed ends.
Time is of the essence.
She walks to her bathroom, runs hot water from the showerhead, ducks her hair under. She snatches a wide-toothed comb lying on the sink and begins the painful process of detangling.
Amber strands float and dance down the drain. How did we get here? You know how.
She pats her hair dry once the worst knots are undone. She pulls her mane into a tight, sleek ponytail. She faces the mirror, wipes away condensation with a towel.
Dawn's skin is dried and puckering in random red patches, irritated by the freezing weather with no maintenance. Her eyes are puffy, dark circles weighing the folds of skin wrinkly. Her forehead is creased, even when relaxed.
She does not have time to mourn her youth.
She unzips her hoodie, climbs out of her thermals. The scarring all over her body is no longer shameful to her, rather a mark of strength in this altered mindset. A reminder of all she has accomplished, what she can withstand, and what she is capable of.
She is a trained vessel of military instruction, legendary for her skill with blade and hand. She is unemotional, she is absolute – frightening to behold. Her figure is machinery, asexualised, a home of muscle and its memory.
She was a cog in a wheel of cogs with other specialisations, equally as important as the other, each having earnt this position on the wheel. Now, her comrades are gone, but she remains to protect their memory and maintain their ghosts. Now, she must be the wheel, with only two other cogs – rough around the edges, yes, but cogs, nonetheless.
She has a purpose, and she has the luxury to focus on it. In fact, the lives of billions of people rest on her purpose being carried out.
Dawn exhales. She slips into the armour's underlayer.
She stretches up, forward, down, lifts her feet up, holding herself in a handstand. Slowly, she arches her back, her legs lowering and her feet hanging above her head. Her spine pops. Her feet drop to the floor, and she faces forward, pushing up into a bend back. Her diaphragm creaks.
She lifts herself upright, pushing back a fly-away hair. The fabric sufficiently stretched and warmed up, she slips the armoured chest plate over her shoulders, clipping it snug around her torso. It fits and moves like snakeskin. She steps into the utility belt, hanging it around her waist. She pulls on her leg and arm coverings.
She is encased in the flexible, steely material, blue-black and glimmering in the dying light. It tessellates to her movement, supporting her muscle and spreading warmth over her. She sits on the edge of the bed to lace her boots.
In contrast to the lightweight, comfortable armour, they are sweaty lead bricks that hug halfway up her calves. Dawn grimaces when she gets up to walk. Their weight makes the room shake, but as she paces, braiding her ponytail, she begins to grow accustomed to their rigidity, remembering how to control their severe tread. Her legs ache already, but she concentrates on securing her braid into a bun at the back of her head, out of reach and out of sight.
She hides a small silver knife in an embedded sheaf down the back of her right boot, another in a slip in the armour's sleeve, and two more in tiny leather holsters hidden on the underside of her belt.
She checks the contents of her duffel – one small quiver with silver crossbow arrows, one arm-mountable crossbow, one retractable shield, one great sword in one great sword sheath, one thin helmet reminiscent of a swimming cap, and one set of armoured gloves.
She pulls a pair of cargo pants and a hoodie over her imposing attire.
She zips the bag, shouldering its weight with care. She pushes her shoulders back, her posture aligned. She stalks to the door but stops.
Dawn lowers the bag, looks behind her at the kitchenette. She walks to the window, opens it a crack. Her last act of defiance before she is sent to clean up other people's mess is to practise control over her own security. Even if that means endangering it.
Dean hears Dawn's boots before he sees her round the corner of the parking lot, stomping on bitumen and concrete. He appraises her attire in a sweeping eye, leaning against the Impala.
"You took your time," he says, smug.
"I had some cleaning up to do," she shrugs.
"I can see that."
"Where do I put this?"
The duffel is making her shoulders ache. She ignores the uncertainty that gives her about her strength, walking with a straighter back instead.
He opens the car's trunk, but then, looking at the length of the bag, decides to open the back door. "I think it'll fit in here. What's in that thing anyway?"
She hoists the bag off her back, shunting it onto the floor of the seats.
"I think you'll find we have everything you need." Dean winks at her as she straightens, inches from his face.
Her expression is resolute against a flitter in her chest, determined to focus on the mission.
"I sincerely doubt that." She challenges. "You'll see."
"Oh-so-mysterious," he drums his fingers on the roof as Dawn steps away from the car door.
The taunt in his voice continues to threaten the foundations of the wall of discipline she has been assembling for the past forty minutes. It holds, the saving grace the arrival of Sam carrying the last few bits and pieces from their motel room.
He is distant, not registering Dawn's presence as he throws open the passenger seat.
"I guess you got shotgun," she says, climbing into the back as Dean assumes the driver's position.
Sam looks up at her in the rear-view mirror. "Sorry. Just a habit."
His moodiness forces her to grin, overcompensating to clear the air. "No biggie."
It works – he smiles and relaxes as he unfolds a map.
"So – Lewis and Clark Caverns?" Dean asks as they pull out of the motel's carpark.
"Yep – take route 90 then 287."
"Go it."
Dawn cannot help but feel like a child in the backseat, taking in the foreign world in awe as it flies by her window. She has missed being in a car, and with a twinge of grief, she realises she misses driving just as much.
"Any chance you'd let me drive back after?" She asks, knowing the answer already and avoiding Dean's eye in the rear-view mirror.
He scoffs and Sam grimaces. "He barely lets me drive, Dawn, don't take it personally."
"Uh huh." She swallows back her disappointment. "What's the plan, boys?"
The roads are dark, the moon a crescent above them when not obscured by mountains.
Dawn dreads going underground – it is cold enough inside the car for their breath to come out in clouds. Her body is warm, insulated under her armour, but her face feels as if it will shatter if she shows too much emotion.
She is hoping they can intercept the demons before they make it to the entrance, though the hope sits thin – she is not used to things going as planned.
The mountains creep around them as they near the Caverns, junipers and pines carpeting them like massive wads of moss in the dark.
Dean drives fast, speeding around loops leading into the National Park. He has to lean over the wheel to see in front of him, mist sitting thick on the road.
He turns off his headlights and glides to a stop, ten minutes from the Caverns' entrance.
"Alright, suit up and shut up." He says, the statement superfluous.
Dawn unzips the bag at her feet and climbs out of the car, taking off her hoodie and yanking the cargo pants off as they get caught on her boots.
The boys are unloading the trunk as she attaches her sword to her side, her crossbow and shield to her arm, slinging the quiver over her shoulder – taut to her body to eliminate noise from clattering arrow heads. She slips on her gloves and head covering.
She hears a low whistle behind her.
"Damn, you suit up nicely." From Dean, of course.
She rolls her eyes at him, imperceptible in the dark.
"What happened to the 'shut up' in your last statement?" She whispers. She sees him shrug as her eyes adjust.
The track is rough – they take care as they tread. All three are on high alert, every rustle or shuffle in the darkness forcing them to pause, ready to strike. The closer they get to their destination, the more on edge they become; on edge because no one has tried to stop them, and there are no signs of demons. The whole affair was a little too quiet for the party's liking. The uncertainty is hard to bear, but they kept it to themselves.
Eventually, they arrive at an open space – a bitumen carpark. There is a café block on one side and a visitor's centre on the other. Both buildings are a traditional style, cabins made of painted timber slats with stone foundations and slate roofs.
They walk slow and low, feeling exposed in the wide space, finding a clump of trees to hide behind opposite the visitor's centre.
From their vantage point, they can see it has a paved extension in a T-shape outside its entrance, sheltered by a hexagonal, slate roof. A lawn with a smattering of stunted trees sits around where the T's longest point juts out, bordered by a series of pillars made with cemented limestone blocks. A booth is separate to the centre, with satellite dishes attached to its roof, on their left. It is next to the beginning of a sealed walking trail.
The carpark's bitumen leads to two entrances with stone steps either side of the T, each guarded by a man – one in bikie get-up, closest to the carpark on the right, and one in a suit, closest to the booth.
Dawn sighs when she sees them, knowing they have lost the opportunity to strike early, though a little relieved at their presence at all.
Crouching behind a fir, whispering low in the deathly quiet, Sam grumbles; "Where is everyone? Why are there only two?"
"I guess they don't expect us to show up. Maybe they think they got the jump on us." Dean suggests, shuffling around the trunk on his haunches, surveying the area as best he can.
"Or – they know we're coming and they're not afraid of us. Maybe we're too late." Dawn swallows, fear beginning to creep into her voice.
She hears Sam sigh a little too loudly and nudges him to be quiet.
"Let's just be thankful there's only two of 'em." Dean says, craning his head to find a way around the demons.
"Never thought I'd hear you use the word, 'thankful'," Dawn teases. Now it is Sam's turn to nudge her.
"I'm gonna to gank these SOBs. You two see if there is another way in besides the centre – like a maintenance hatch or something."
Dawn bristles at the command. "Why you?"
He pulls out a knife with a jagged blade on a wooden handle. It glints in the moonlight revealing strange symbols carved in the silver. "I got this bad boy – demon killing knife."
Dawn grips the hilt of her sword, feeling a rush of warmth through her glove.
"Mine kills demons too." She smirks. "And it's bigger than yours."
"Yes, and swords are so subtle and stealthy." Dean counters.
Sam pokes Dawn, making her jump a little. "He's right, let's circle back and find another way in."
He sounds strained, but Dawn cannot make out his face in the dark to determine the cause.
"Fine." She relents.
Before anyone can move, the flutter of wings is audible.
"…Cas?" Dean whispers.
"…Hello, Dean." Comes his quiet response. "I see we have lost the element of surprise."
"I was wondering when you were gonna show up," Dean continues.
Dawn rocks on her haunches. "Do you know if there's another way in?"
"The only way into the Caverns is through those doors. The building has been heavily warded against angels, otherwise we would have eliminated the demon problem. This tree line marks the edge of my usefulness, more-or-less." His tone is regrettable. "I came here to inform you of this, and to insist pertinence on your task – they are no doubt preparing the ritual as we speak."
"Yeah, Cas, we're on it." Sam's voice is a little too defensive, a little too loud. Dawn grabs his arm out of instinct to shush him.
The demons turn, walking down from their guard and surveying the areas around them.
She can see the suited guy is holding a gun where it is angled in the moonlight.
Dean grunts. "Alright, Dawn, I'll get the one with the gun, you get Hell's Angel over there."
"Got it." She replies.
"Follow us up, Sammy, when the coast is clear."
Dawn frowns to herself – it was unlike the Winchesters to separate in combat. She moves on anyway, crouching low. She grips the hilt of her sword, her other hand hovering in front of her in case of an invisible obstacle.
Her steps are long, careful, even. The bitumen is replaced by smooth stone that lies by the side of the carpark. She loses sight of Dean in her periphery where the line of the T divides the greenery between them.
She makes it halfway up to the bikie demon before she hears a scuffle from Dean's side. Squinting through a gap in the limestone wall, the visibility choppy from the slanted angle of the path, she sees Dean running at the demon, brandishing his knife.
Dawn curses his foolhardiness by shaking her head in the dark, her own target turning to look around with more urgency, stepping down and leaning forward. She knows he cannot see her while she is still, but she prepares to draw her sword anyway.
With one eye on her target and the other on Dean, she sees him thrown by his demon, the knife clattering out of sight.
What did he expect? Dumbass.
Bikie guy is distracted, seeming torn between keeping watch on his side and assisting the suited man behind him.
Dawn slips the concealed knife from her sleeve to sit in her gloved palm before launching herself upright, running at her target. She figures she has something unexpected to fling if he tries to pin her in the air.
She holds her sword across her body with both hands as she runs, knees bent, propelled forward by its weight.
Spotting Dawn in a pool of moonlight, non-gun-demon flicks his hand in her direction. She flinches, expecting to be thrown like Dean.
He flicks his hand again, and she winces, but finds she is still moving forward and almost upon him, feet still stomping on the ground.
With each attempt at throwing, she notices the sigils engraved on her blade shimmer electric blue, and a rush of warmth flitter through her body. With each flick of the demon's wrist, she feels her arms grow stronger somehow, her momentum building.
The demon cannot understand, his attempts occurring in a few seconds, enough time for Dawn to scale the steps and swing at him.
He raises a hand in defence, holding a knife that strafes across her own blade. The impact sends it flying.
Dawn sees his face in the moonlight, incredulity flooding in as she brings the blade down across his neck in a decisive movement. No time for hesitation or regret.
She feels warm liquid freckle her face, blood spraying off the blade and coating it. She sees the demon inside fizzle out in a yellow, electrical current.
A wet thump indicates the head has landed and rolled under one of the benches lining the wall, the body following in a heavy slump as the lifeless legs give out.
Dawn flicks her eyes forward, towards the opposite end of the T. She can see Dean being held against the wall of the booth, the gun-demon aiming at her down the barrel – cocked and ready.
She twists away and leaps towards the patch of greenery as she hears the shot. She feels a projectile hit one of her boots but cannot tell if it pierces the leather or not.
She lands on the lawn, breaking her fall with a shoulder, both hands still gripping her sword. She swallows a cry at the impact, the armour protecting her skin but the force rattling her quiver and digging her shield into her elbow.
She pushes herself upright, and, since she seems to be throw-proof, slips her knife back into its secret compartment.
She stays low on her haunches, circling around the greenery to Dean's side.
Where the fuck is Sam? She wonders.
She drags the heavy sword in one hand, sliding her shield off her elbow. She presses its lever to extend it to its full size.
She had been hoping it would not come to this, needing defence in one hand and her sword in the other. Striking with a sword meant for two hands with only one was awkward and heavy work, but it seems foolish to Dawn at this moment to enter a gun fight with a glorified knife without protection.
She flexes her grip on the sword as she steps onto the moonlit bitumen. She is exposed again, and close enough that she can hear Dean grunting as he tries to free himself from the demon's powers.
She covers her torso with the shield, peering over it at the demon. He smiles wickedly, one hand holding Dean against the building, the other holding his gun.
She takes long steps, covering the ground as quick as she can.
He raises the gun, but instead of pulling the trigger, he flicks his wrist.
This time not only does Dawn's sword warm her arm, but her shield's symbols also pulsate, warming both her hand and torso.
She feels more adrenaline pump through her, her steps quickening and her confidence building. She stands up as the demon, frustrated, aims his gun at her.
Unperturbed, Dawn squeezes the shield's handle to reassure herself of her grip. She watches where he aims.
She is closing in, three more steps until she can jab her blade forward.
He pulls the trigger.
She snaps her shield to cover more of her body, fear tingling her stomach a little as her depth perception wavers in the dark. She feels the bullet ricochet off the shield, the force breaking her stride. She leans forward, starting to sweat, lowering her shield slightly, gathering momentum.
He pulls the trigger again, aiming at her legs. The bullet bounces off the very base of the shield, and off the ground, whistling past her sword hand. It embeds itself in the bark of a tree next to her.
Splinters fly and cut her face, but she has closed in.
Dawn juts her blade forward into the demon's side, shorting it out and hearing Dean drop to the ground with a groan. She shoves the lifeless body off her blade with her shield, slopping more blood onto the ground.
She retracts the shield, fixing it back onto her elbow. She wipes her sword haphazardly on the splintered tree trunk, sweat dripping off her nose. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, but her breathing is steady and even. She feels like the weight of her weaponry has been lifted in her renewed strength and adrenaline
A shuffle behind her brings her back to reality. Dawn turns around to see Sam helping Dean to his feet.
She sheathes her sword, still sticky with blood. "Alright?"
"Super." Dean holds up his fingers in the 'okay' sign. He wheezes, out of breath.
Sam is staring at the body on the floor.
Dawn frowns at him. "It's cool – he's dead."
He snaps his attention to her. "Yeah – right. Of course."
"You alright, Sam?"
"Not the time," Dean announces, picking up his discarded knife.
Dawn looks pointedly at it and raises a cheeky eyebrow.
"Don't say it, Red."
"I told you so."
Even though she cannot see his eyes in the dark, she knows Dean is rolling them.
The door to the centre is made of thin, timber frames embedded with squares of glass, easily broken by a nearby rock. The Winchesters let themselves in as Dawn takes a final stalk around the building to ensure there are no more demons outside.
It is a quaint, one-roomed tourist shop with timber furniture, comfortable couches, and a fireplace in its middle. The walls are decorated with pictures of the caves, and of old explorers and newspaper clippings. Informative plaques abound with history and geological information.
The register is spray painted with red and black symbols. Angel proofing, Dawn notes.
"What was that about?" Sam asks when she re-joins them.
"You're gonna have to be a little more specific," she replies, stepping over a low wooden gate dividing the shop and cave entrance.
Faux, wax stalagmites decorate the floor, their shadows creeping tendrils in the moonlight.
"The demons tried to throw you, but they couldn't." He answers simply.
"Yeah, that was weird." Dean acknowledges, rattling a metal gate in front of cave mouth with a sign saying, 'Wait here for tour guide!'.
"I have no idea," she admits. "Instead of being thrown, I just felt… like a rush through me. Like I was absorbing the power rather than being affected by it. It's never happened before."
"Strange." Sam says, distracted.
Dean is fiddling with the padlock on the gate.
"What's truly weird was your lack of involvement in the fight." Dawn mutters. Sam shifts with discomfort in her periphery but does not respond.
Dean has the lock picked in no time. The gate swings open.
Ahead of them is seemingly impenetrable blackness, the stalagmites and stalactites leering at them.
"Can you point that thing on my boot for a second?" Dawn gestures to the torch Dean has pulled from his pocket. He directs it to her shoe, revealing where the shot from earlier has wedged itself in the leather.
"You got lucky," Sam notes, bending to pull it out.
"Let's hope it doesn't run out," she murmurs, pushing past the brothers into the cave.
"Show time." Dean mutters, directing the torch ahead of them.