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Dean rubs his hands over his knees, fingers digging into the holes of his jeans. The Capitol’s theme music blares on the TV—the counter in the top corner lets them know they just have one more minute till the real fun starts. Just the thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he clutches harder at his pants to keep from showing it. Bobby coughs, muttering something under his breath about getting something stronger to drink. He dialed in just a few seconds after the TV came on, a hologram of the crotchety old bastard popping up across from the couch. Jody’s sitting beside him, hands shaking around a cup of coffee. Sam called Cas immediately after. His best friend is silent on the other end of his brother’s communicator watch. Not that anyone but Dean seems to notice. Sam’s eyes have been glued on his big brother since the Capitol emblem popped up on the screen. Dean refuses to look at him. At any of them. This year is going to be different. He can feel it. They can all feel it. Three… two… one…The ancient faux-Pagan symbol fades from the screen, replaced by a little troll of a man who seriously needs a shave and a haircut. Metadroid, or Metatron, or something, Dean thinks. A dumbass name to go with the dumbass new-ish Master of Ceremonies. “Greetings, citizens!” he calls, waving his hands to calm a crowd that isn’t cheering for him. “Thank you, thank you. As you know, our 50th Anniversary is quickly approaching. Fifty years of peace, and prosperity, and overwhelming success!”The crowd cheers again, and the guy grins at them gratefully. Dean rolls his eyes and pours himself a shot of whiskey. It wouldn’t surprise him if the guy went all Sally Fields on everyone—“You love me, you really love me!” A moment passes—a long one—before Metatron waves his hands again to settle the crowd. He clears his throat and lets himself look a little more serious. Well, as serious as he can look with that goofy looking twitch in his eyes like a kid about to get a cookie. “As you all know, we here in the Capitol like to spice things up every now and then. We like to call these momentous occasions the Quarter Quell.”A tiny screen pops up over Metatron’s shoulder and grows until it takes up half the TV. Dean’s spine stiffens as image after image parades across the number “25” blazing in the background. A little girl bashes in a boy’s skull. Teenage twins laugh as they fire arrows into a different girl’s chest. A tall eighteen-year-old with black hair and a bloody flannel over-shirt lifts his blade and drives it through the final tribute’s neck. He turns and looks up at the sky, glaring at it with bared teeth. He’s thinner than Dean’s ever seen him, and his hair is more black than grey, but Dean would know that face, that expression, anywhere. By the way that Sam inhales sharply to his right, he does, too. John Winchester isn’t a man easily forgotten.Dean foregoes the shot glass this time and takes a swig straight from the bottle.“Exactly twenty-five Games ago, we added an extra element,” Metatron continues, his grubby little face overpowering the screen yet again. “Well, double the element, anyway. On that glorious year, we reaped not two children from each District, but four! For over two decades, we here at the Capitol have thought, ‘How could we ever top this? How could we bring you even more excitement?’ Well, friends, I think we’ve finally done it.”The crowd oohs and ahhs in anticipation. Somebody actually fucking gasps. Metatron eats it all right up.“For our second ever Quarter Quell, our 50th Hunger Games, we have decided… well, let me not spoil the fun myself. I’ll have plenty of time to reap the rewards once the Games begin.” He winks right at the camera. Dean takes another drink. “Alright, alright. Without further ado, I give you… our President!”The roar of the crowd is deafening. So is the silence in Dean’s living room. The President takes the stage, tall and sturdy behind his podium. The curtains behind him light up to give him a kind of halo effect, like some gleaming, angelic god, like the sun shines out of his ass. Dean laughs dryly at the image—no doubt a special instruction from the President himself. But Dean knows better. Any closer, and the camera would catch how his skin peels behind his makeup, flaking away like the meth addicts of old. It might even catch his reddened, disease-ridden eyes. But the camera stays just far enough away that only those who’ve seen him in up-close and personal would know to look for it—that just isn’t something the crowd is supposed to notice. Lucifer taps on the mic, a gleeful smile lighting up his face. “Evening, everyone,” he greets, clapping his hands together. “Thanks for putting up with the spiel. What can I say, I can’t help myself. I just love the… anticipation.” He grins a little wider. “This year, the Reaping will not proceed as usual.”The crowd begins to murmur. The President smirks, one side of his mouth twitching up toward his cheek. Sam leans all the way forward in his seat. Dean does nothing. “No worries, the Reaping will still happen. We’re just making a few changes to the setup.” He takes another long pause. “This year, instead of pulling from a brand new crop of civilians… the Tributes will all be Victors from previous years.”The crowd on the TV goes nuts. Bobby curses loudly. Jody’s coffee cup smashes on the floor. Lucifer snaps his fingers, quieting the crowd before him so he can keep talking, but Dean doesn’t hear a word he says.He can hear Sam shouting. He can hear Cas repeating his name. But he doesn’t stick around. He can’t.Silent, he grabs the whiskey bottle and heads for the door. He skids down the steps, his boots doing nothing against the ice. The sky is fucking black—no stars, no moon, nothing. Snow covers everything. Dean doesn’t see any of it. He sees a red sky and fields of wheat. He sees twelve goddamn years ago. And it’s like nothing has changed.
May 1—Year of the 38th Games
The sun was just setting when the ducks flew off over the barn. Four of them flapped together, grey wings stretched wide, but the one in the back straggled. It dipped lower on the horizon, belly just a few yards from the yellowed grass, head bent and –
BANG!
The duck fell with a wet flump, landing heavily in the wheat below. Dean smirked and lowered his gun. The pearl handle glinted in his fist before he stuffed it into the back of his pants. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have had this. The guards—“peacekeepers”, they called themselves, but Dean thought that was a stupid fucking name, and he refused to even think it on principle—would kill him if they ever caught him with it. Course, strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be out past the fence, either. They’d be just as likely to kill him for that, too. Careful of the sludgy dirt underfoot, he dug his way through the wheat. The duck was just a few yards off. He couldn’t help but smile at it—it looked bigger here than it had in the sky. He and Sam would eat well tonight. Whistling low, he swung the duck into his empty sack and headed for the barn. To anyone else, it might’ve been invisible, caved-in and half buried in a field of barley overgrown with poison oak. But Dad had used it on and off for fourteen years, which meant that, by extension, so had Dean. It, the pearl gun, and the leather jacket on Dean’s shoulders were the only things left of John Winchester. With a low grunt, he kicked in the creaky door and shouldered his way inside. He ditched the gun first thing, sliding it out of his pants and into its holster next to a rotted hay bale. It jingled when he took a handful off the top—there were still a good hundred cases of bullets stuffed inside it. In that regard, at least, Dad hadn’t left Dean wanting.He wrinkled his nose as he stuffed the sack full. It would make the duck a bitch to clean later, and he knew it, but better a mouthful of moldy old hay than a public whipping for sneaking out of bounds. The bird was sticky under his fingers, raw and kinda mildewy smelling even without any help from the hay, but Dean still had to force himself not to rip the burlap apart and tear into it. It’d been way too long since he’d had fresh meat. Hell, it’d been way too long since he’d had any meat, period. If not for his rations at the shop—frickin’ oat cakes that he was sure only Sammy actually enjoyed, the freak—he would’ve starved months ago. Not that Sam had to know that. Light glinted in from a crack in the folded ceiling. The sky was starting to turn orange overhead. Dean figured that gave him just under half an hour to get back before nightfall. The sigh that left his body, deflating him, was childish, and he knew it, but it wasn’t like there was anybody out here to see. Every time he came out here, it got a little bit easier to imagine running away, heading for the mountains and never looking back. But he could never do that to Sam. The guards, and the Games, and the world they lived in were all dangerous, but at least the odds weren’t stacked too high against his baby brother. Out here, though? Out here, Sam wouldn’t stand a chance. The thought of leaving him behind never even occurred to him. Dean gave a final, cursory glance around the rotted wood, then snatched the second sack from the ground and headed out. The bad part of what used to be called Kansas and was now just another speck in District 9 was that it was almost completely flat and barren. No trees, few ponds, just fields and fields of wheat. If they lived anywhere else in the district, that would be a real bitch. Fortunately for Dean, though, they just happened to live in one of the few sections surrounded by untended fields. The poison-oak-infested barley field around the barn wasn’t a one-off—most everything in this area was overgrown with poison something. According to Dad, the guards had tried to burn it all down years ago, but the poison just kept growing back. Eventually, they gave it up and moved the district fence back. Their loss, Dean’s gain, because that meant the fence jutted up right against a wall of rotted corn almost as tall as the watchtowers. Speaking of, he spared the one nearest the fence a quick glance. As usual, nobody was there. More often than not, the guards were too busy getting drunk or screwing around to care what was going on in a moldy-ass field. Good or bad, one of the few constants about District 9 was that nobody—not the guards, not the citizens, not the fucking Capitol—cared about it. Dean took a deep breath and made a break for it. The gap under the fence was just high enough that he could skid right under without touching it. Just a year ago, he barely even had to duck. At eighteen, he almost grazed his arms every time he went under. His only hope was that he’d finally stopped growing—six feet was plenty. Bones creaking more than they should have, he picked himself up and strolled through the knee-high grass. The field tapered off at the end, leading to the main road where the farmers hauled their crops day-in and day-out. The only other road in the district, the one used for machinery, intersected it just a few yards away. A square stone hut sat at the juncture, still churning out smoke from its chimney. He wasn’t late, then. He checked the coast a second time, just to be sure, then dropped the duck in the grass where it wouldn’t be seen. He didn’t bother knocking at the hut—he just strode right in. The door clicked shut behind him.Two feet away, a woman in a tight black dress gave him the once over. He tilted one corner of his mouth up, but that was all he could spare. “Mr. Winchester,” she drawled. “Back so soon?”Dean didn’t answer. Wordless, he slammed the second burlap sack onto her desk. She smiled at him, her eyes glinting red in the sunlight.“Been busy, have we?”She popped the thread at the top and sifted through the hay, tossing it out onto the floor until she found her prize at the bottom. Dean couldn’t help but smirk—the hares he’d trapped and skinned for her were worth it. Sure enough, she outright grinned when she reached them. The citizens weren’t the only ones who starved in District 9. “I believe that’s worth two entries.” The woman ignored him. Still grinning, she pulled one hare out by its ear. The pale, stripped skin looked right at home in her palm. Dean took a step closer, gritting his teeth. “Two entries,” he repeated. “That’s what you said yesterday.” “Did I?” She fixed a badly acted look of confusion onto her face, drawing one black-lacquered fingernail from her temple down to her chin. If she’d been anyone else, he would’ve shot her a wink. He might have even tried an actual smile. “I don’t know, I mean, it’s just a couple of—”With a growl, Dean stepped around the desk and backed her into the wall. He put his own hand behind her head, mostly to keep himself from hitting her, but also to be sure her head didn’t bounce against the wood. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t afford to bruise her. “That was the deal.” She licked her lips, soft and pale pink. “Come on, boy. You want to make a deal with me, you know what you have to do.”Dean’s own lips curled in disgust. Yeah, he knew. He always knew. Didn’t make it any easier. He hissed through his teeth and dove right in, mashing his lips against hers. It was brutal, teeth and no tongue, but it got the job done. She tasted, impossibly, like District 12 every fucking time—soot, and coal, and sulfur.Her fingernails grazed the curve of his ass, and he pulled back, snarling. “Two. Entries.”She rolled her eyes, utterly bored, and flung away the arm he’d braced against her throat. “Oh, fine. You’re no fun.” She sauntered away from him, still swinging her hips way more than necessary, and stepped up to the register at the end of her desk. Her fingers flipped through the pages, taking their sweet time about it, before finally picking up her pen and knocking off two lines at the bottom. “And that brings our little Sammy down to…” She paused to cap the pen, shooting him another syrupy smile. “Five entries.”“Five?” The blood froze in his veins. “He shouldn’t have any!”“Dean, you know I can’t just take him out of the running entirely. Where would be the fun in that?”“Just one, then! How the fuck does he have five?”The woman looked down at the register, briefly enough that Dean could tell she was only doing it for effect. His fingers bit into his palms. “Looks like Sammy boy bought himself some entries so he could buy big brother a present.” Her eyes flashed up at him again, sinister and smoldering. “Nice amulet, Dean.” A lump lodged itself in his throat, choking him against the wire of his necklace. “Son of a bitch…”The woman smirked, all traces of boredom gone. Dean didn’t care. Sick and fuming, he churned his mouth, then spat the taste of her onto the floor. The hay from the bag of hares stuck to his boot as he headed for the door.“Pleasure doing business with you, Dean!” she called out behind him. “And may the odds be ever in your—”Dean slammed the door in her face. * * * The shack at the end of the maintenance road was every bit as battered down as the barn outside the fence. Even by District 9 standards, it was uninhabitable. Moss poured in from the cracked roof. Tarps covered the cracked glass in the windows. Electricity trickled in from a single, bent power pole by the fence line. Dean kicked open the door and scraped his dirty boots off on the “Welcome Home!” mat, the only thing left of their old house in the Victor’s Village—Dad’s old house, anyway. Rustling papers greeted him from the kitchen. “Sammy?” Dean shouted. The scribbling stopped. A couple seconds later, a mop of brown hair attached to a string-bean of a boy flounced into the room.“Hey, Dean! I—”Dean didn’t let him finish. Mouth tight, he grabbed Sam by the collar and shoved him. “When were you gonna tell me?”Sam’s eyes went big, but, to his credit, he didn’t back off. “Tell you what?”“Cut the crap, Sam.” He yanked the amulet off over his head. “When were you gonna tell me this fucking thing was bought with blood money?”“What?” Under Dean’s fingers, Sam’s neck went clammy. His expression shifted—not surprised, or afraid, but suspicious. Dean tightened his fist. “Wait, how do you know about that?”Dean scowled. “Nuh uh, dumbass, this is about you. Why’d you do it?”“You’ve been poaching again, haven’t you?” Dean tried to shake him again, get him to answer his damn questions, but Sam slapped his hands away. Dean actually had to take a step back. He didn’t know if he should be proud, or worried, or angry. “Dean,” Sam hissed, flopping his hair over his forehead, “you said you weren’t going out there anymore! You said—”“Yeah, well, I say a lot of things.” Sam opened his mouth, but Dean stepped right into his face. “Sammy, I swear to God. Just answer the damn question.”His baby brother’s eyes narrowed into slits, his mouth and chin stuck in scowl mode. A small part of him, one that wasn’t worried about tomorrow, wanted to rag him, clock his jaw and say, “Your face’ll get stuck that way.” Instead, he crossed his arms and glared.Sam leaned away, pressed up against the moldy wall, and glared right back. “It was your eighteenth birthday, Dean.”He paused, as if that answered everything. Dean didn’t even bother trying not to roll his eyes.“And?”“And, you never get anything. It was just three entries, Dean.”The last part was said low. Quiet. Dean couldn’t say he blamed him—the words alone were enough to make him blow his fucking lid. If Sam had copped a tone on top of that…“Please, it’s just three entries,” he repeated, solidly knocking him off his train of thought. “It’s barely anything. Most of the kids my age have ten or more! You have, like, forty!”“That ain’t the point, Sam.” He clenched his jaw, counted to three. “It ain’t any of your goddamn business, alright? I take care of you, not the other way around.”“You’re my brother, too, and I can take care of myself.”“Take care of your—damnit, Sam, you could get yourself killed over this! All over some stupid, fucking…” His fingers clench around the amulet. “Jesus, Sammy, you’re supposed to be the smart one!”For a long moment, Dean thought that Sam might punch him. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would certainly be the first time in a good long while. They hadn’t fought like that since Dad died. The same thought seemed to have occurred to Sammy. Or, at least, something similar. His brow softened, his shoulders sagging as the hot air seeped out of him. All at once, he was just a thirteen-year-old beanpole. He was just Dean’s baby brother. “Dean, let’s just… let’s just drop it, okay?” He shuffled his feet, scraping himself awkwardly against the wall. “I promise I won’t do anything like that again. Alright? I don’t wanna argue with you. Not tonight.”Okay, yeah, cause that didn’t make him feel like a giant douchebag. Dean deflated like a popped balloon.“Look, Sam…” He ran his hand through his hair. “Damnit, I’m sorry.” Sam only shrugged. “It’s fine, Dean. Like I said, we can drop it. Right?”Dean nodded instantly. “Yeah, man. Yeah.” “Good.” Sammy put on a small, entirely fake grin and sidled up to the burlap sack on the floor. “So, what’d you bag us for supper?”“Thought you said you didn’t like me poaching?”Sam kicked him in the back of the leg, no real heat or strength behind it. The bitchface slid off just long enough for him to smile, really smile. Dean found himself returning it.“Seriously, what’d you catch?”“Duck. Real fat one, too.”“Yeah?” Before Dean could do more than nod, Sam lunged, pulling him into a tight, bony little hug. “You’re the best, Dean!”Dean laughed, wrapping one arm around the kid’s neck even as he pushed him away with the other. “Alright, alright, enough with the chick-flick moment. Just go pluck the damn thing while I start the fire, kay?”Sam rolled his eyes, but he also picked up the bag and ran into the kitchen with it. Dean followed, shaking his head as he put the amulet back around his neck. “And don’t think this is gonna be an everyday thing, alright? It’s just cause this is a special occasion.”They both knew he wasn’t talking about the Games. That didn’t stop it from hanging over their heads, though. Sam’s smile fell a bit as he turned the duck out onto the cleanest part of the counter he could find.“Thanks, Dean.” His fingers shook as he started in on the waxy feathers. “Just one more year, right? Just gotta get through tomorrow.”“Four years.” Dean ripped the now-dry dish towel off of the fireplace/oven/stove in the corner. “Gotta get you through this, too.”“Yeah. I guess.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. If Sam kept going, he might end up taller than Dean, but he’d never be as big. As strong. His little brother was thin, and weedy, and awkward in the way that all teenage boys were. His fingers weren’t calloused, or dirty, or cut. He’d never so much as touched a knife, not even when he tried to help Dean cook. Dean closed his eyes, and, for half a second, he saw John, tired and ragged just like he was the last morning he’d spent alive. “You keep Sammy safe,” he’d whispered, brushing back Dean’s hair as he did. “You take care of your brother.”I’m trying, Dad, he thought. I’m trying.With a calm he didn’t feel, he turned around and clapped his brother on the back. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”“Thanks.” He laughed, dry and humorless, as he plucked the final feather from the bird’s neck. “And may the odds be ever in my favor.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Three days have passed since Lucifer’s big announcement, and Dean has been drinking since.Not that that’s anything unusual. Dean has spent the last decade of his life in some state of drunkenness. After the first kids died on his watch… well, he and liquor have never been strangers.But, today, everything has taken on a blurry, rainy window quality and even his skin smells like whiskey. He hasn’t slept for thirty-seven hours. He hasn’t put down the bottle in sixty-five.He should be preparing for his inevitable Reaping. There’s only one living victor in District 9, and he’s it. It’s not like he isn’t aware, like that isn’t the single fucking thought running through his head, the reason that half of his liquor cabinet is empty. He knows. It’s just… he can’t. He can’t fucking deal with this. Not now.The small part of his brain that used to carry hope around is long dead by now, but the part next to it that reminds him to be charitable every so often blares the thought, “Thank God for Sammy.” Unlike Dean, his genius little brother has at least some sense of… well, sense. The moment the TV screen went blank, he was on his communicator with all of their necessary contacts. Bobby and Jody are already here, both nursing their own glasses and giving him a much appreciated wide berth. More than anybody else in his life, they know exactly what he’s going through right now. Odds are, one of them is getting Reaped, too. They just have to keep their fingers crossed that it won’t be both of them. Tessa—long-since retired as the Master of Ceremonies and now acting as District 9’s ambassador, chauffeuring children off to their deaths—showed up just a few hours ago. She gave him a look when she came in, just as somber and sympathetic as always, but didn’t say anything. He appreciates that, too. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with her job. They’re just waiting on Cas and Gabe now. They should’ve come in with Tessa, but they apparently missed the train, and who the fuck knows when they’ll be able to book another. Dean huffs, the laugh buried beneath it heavy and bitter. This is the first time Cas has actually been late for something, but it’s not the first time that he’s left Dean disappointed. He doesn’t expect it to be the last, either. Wobbling, he picks himself up off the couch and staggers over to the liquor cabinet. It and his soft, foamy mattress are about the only things that make this damn house worth living in. It’s too damn big for just him. Having Sam here for the past week has been both a blessing and a cruel reminder—before Luci’s announcement, he almost forgot that Sam didn’t actually live with him. Now, he wonders if Sam ever will again. Heavy footsteps pound in from the other side of the room. Speak of the devil, Dean thinks to himself, pouring another shot as his gigantor baby brother wanders in. Jody marches in after him, hands shoved into the pockets of her brown leather jacket. She shares a look with Bobby that Dean catches in the glass. It’s enough to confirm his suspicions that everyone in the house has been talking about him behind his back. His knuckles dig into the edge of the cabinet before he reminds himself to open the fucking thing. With all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Sam sidles over to his side. “Hey, Dean,” he near-whispers. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes past the first row of bottles—wine, why the fuck does he even have wine?—on the shelf.Sam clears his throat and tries again. “They, uh… they’re about to Reap for District 3.” He points, pointlessly, at the TV. “You should probably watch. You know, keep in the loop, size up your… your competition.”“Other than Bobby and Jody, you mean?”That clams him right the fuck up. Just like it did the last two days when Sam tried the same shtick with the Reaping for 1 and 2. Eventually, the kid’s gonna stop tiptoeing around him and the guilt trip isn’t gonna work anymore, but Dean’s gonna milk it till that happens. With any luck, it’ll be after all of the Reapings are over. Behind him, Sam rocks from foot to foot, hands flapping against his pants pockets. In the reflection, Dean can see Jody and Bobby shooting them both nervous glances. Dean grits his teeth and turns from the cabinet. “You hear anything from Cas?” he growls.Sam bites his lip, eyes boring into his communicator. “Nothing, man. Called him three times, but nothing.”“Well, he knows how to answer the damn thing, so he better not try some stupid excuse.” He thinks back to showing Cas how to use the comm in the first place, and his head hurts from the pressure of trying not to laugh at the memory.His brother tries to shrug, but it comes off nervous and skittery. “Maybe their train stopped? There’ve been power outages all over the place. He wouldn’t be able to call if they’re working on it.”Dean shakes his head. Yeah, power outages are a thing, but a train direct from the Capitol shouldn’t be affected by it. Dean’s only ever heard of one Capitol train malfunctioning, and, while that incident involved Cas, too, he sincerely doubts that this is the same situation. He pushes the memory of exploding lights out of his head, too, crossing his arms and focusing on Sam instead.“Yeah, well… I don’t know why he didn’t just come with you in the first place. Then he’d already be here and we’d just be waiting on Gabe’s sorry ass.” He grips the edge of the cabinet. “Did he even say why?”It’s the fourth time Dean’s asked in the last week, but it still pisses him off when Sam shakes his head “no”. Thoughts of Cas strung out, arrested, or worse invade his brain, and he finds himself clenching his fists. He sent Sam to stay with Cas so he’d keep him safe, and that means sticking with him, not doing stupid shit like not answering their fucking calls. It ain’t like him to give them full-out radio silence. He’s blown Dean off before, sure, but never…Dean curls his fists and takes a deep breath.“Fine, whatever. You heard from Gabe?”Sam just sighs. That’s answer enough. “Son of a bitch.” Sam steps closer, his fingers held up in front of his pockets, a half-attempt at holding out his hands as if Dean was a wounded animal. “They’ll be here,” he mutters. “I bet Gabe just got distracted by some of his models or something. They know how important this is.”Dean’s fingers move to his temples, but he doesn’t say anything. Sam takes another step closer.“You need anything, Dean?”“Yeah,” he huffs, as if it wasn’t already obvious. Still, he gestures at the glass bottles behind him. “I need a drink. You want anything?”“No.”He shrugs and dives back into the cabinet. “Suit yourself.”“You know, there is one good thing about all of this.” Sam laughs humorlessly, more like a single, aborted cough. “Well, if you can call it ‘good’.”“Oh yeah?” Dean keeps digging—that old 150 proof rotgut is in here somewhere. Unless Bobby’s taken it, anyway. “What’s that?”Behind him, Dean can feel his brother relax. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t stop searching through the half-empty bottles. “This ‘victors only’ bullshit. He’s really screwed himself with it. I don’t know what he was thinking.”Dean’s fingers finally close around dusty glass. He hauls it out, pops the cork with his teeth, and downs the rest of it—maybe a fifth—in one go. It burns all the way down, and he actually coughs some of it up. If he could smile right now, he would—this is exactly what he needs. “Cut to the chase, Sam,” he finally coughs. “How’d Luci screw himself?”“Not all the districts have two living victors. Hell, some don’t even have any female victors at all.”“You mean like 9?”“Yeah, I mean like 9. Who the hell are they gonna pick to fight with you?”Dean’s shoulders tense, a million and one answers coating his whiskey-thick tongue, but none of them come out. Thankfully, they don’t have to—at the other end of the house, the front door has slammed open, and in waltzes the familiar clop of heeled boots. Dean curses his breath and spins on his heel.“Gabe, you better have one damn good excuse for—”Again, Dean’s words die in his mouth. The guy walking through the door—and leaving it wide open, he notes—isn’t Gabe. Isn’t Cas, either. It’s plain as day that he’s just as much from the Capitol as the two of them, though. He’s tall—not as tall as him or Sam but probably close to Cas—and clean, and everything about him screams “stylist”, from his frou-frou blonde hair to his satin fucking blouse that’s sliced all the way down to his belly-button. Dude hasn’t said a word, but Dean can already tell that he’ll want to punch him in the face as soon as he does.Bobby, Sam, and Jody all reach for guns that none of them should have, barrels pointed at Blondie. The guy barely seems to notice. Dean throws back another shot and slams the bottle down on the table.“The fuck are you?”The guy has the gall to roll his eyes at him. “My name is Balthazar. I’m going to be your Stylist this year.”A small part of Dean’s brain high-fives itself, shouting, Called it! The rest of him narrows its eyes and arches its brows.“Yeah, I already got one of those. Where’s Gabe?”“He won’t be coming. He elected to work with District 3’s tributes this year.” Dean opens his mouth, but the guy—Balthazar, apparently, and here Dean thought that Cas’s name was unfortunate—keeps going. “Look, Dean, it’s fine. We’ve hit a bit of a snag, but we’ll work it out. He and Cassie sent me, they want me to tell you –”“Cassie?” For a fraction of a second, he thinks of dark skin and pretty curls and wonders why the hell an ex-girlfriend he hasn’t heard from in over eleven years would send this fop to talk to him. Then, for once, logic actually seeps into his little pea-brain and he gets a different idea entirely. “Wait, are you talkin’ about Cas?”Balthazar rolls his eyes yet again. “Yes, miracle of miracles, I’m talking about Cas. Castiel goes by so many names, all so mysterious.”Dean ignores the barb for right now, but he files it away so he can sock the guy in the jaw later. “Yeah, whatever. What the hell are he and Gabe doing in District 3? And why’d they send you?”He huffs impatiently. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Yesterday evening, dear old Luci passed a new decree, and now, among other things –”The annoying little buzzer noise from the TV interrupts them. Dean had learned to hate that fucking thing by the time he could walk, but the last twelve years have been particularly annoying. Eyes narrowed, he shoves his finger into Balthazar’s chest. “Me and you ain’t done.”Before the guy can respond—which, weirdly, he doesn’t look like he was going to—Dean turns toward his brother and Jody. Bobby’s apparently taken up where Dean left off, rifling through the remains of the liquor cabinet. “Sam, I thought you said they were Reaping District 3.”“I did.” Sam looks every bit as confused as him, a thick line drawn between his eyebrows. “I don’t know what’s going on.”Behind him, Balthazar gives another of those long-suffering sighs. Dean spins around, ready to smack more than just air out of the guy’s mouth, but his face stops him dead. He still looks like a smarmy little dick, yeah, but that isn’t smugness or indifference in his eyes. That’s fear. Sadness. He looks up at Dean from under his eyelashes. “We’ve got it under control,” he mutters. “Cassie knew this was coming. He knew to prepare for it. That’s why he sent Sam back alone.”“Sent me back…” Sam meets Dean’s eyes over the back of the couch. “What’s coming?”The air seems to leave Dean’s body. There’s a glint in his brother’s eyes that he’s seen one too many times over the past few years, and never wants to fucking see again. Especially not now.“What did he do?” He doesn’t look away from his brother, and no one answers. “Balthazar, what the fuck did Cas do?”Balthazar says nothing. Bobby, Jody, even Tessa, are dead quiet. On the TV, the siren finally stops wailing and a stage fills up the screen. A guy in a sequined black suit, just another Capitol stooge, smiles into the camera as the citizens file in. They’re cleaner than the people in District 9, no motor oil or wheat shavings to be seen, and the courtyard is lit up with high-tech electric wiring instead of ashed-up old lanterns. For the first time since he’s seen the other Districts, though, Dean barely notices. Solid as a rock, he thrusts his hand toward his brother. “Sam, comm. Now.” Sam takes the device off his wrist without question. Dean waits barely two seconds before the thing is shoved into his hand. On screen, the guy in the suit gives the usual spiel, prepping the vid that plays every fucking year and smiling like a clown when it gets to the part where the bombs go off. Dean doesn’t watch. His eyes are glued to the comm, scrolling through the codes till he reaches the one for Cas. He hits the button to dial just as the video stops.“Onto the main event!” the man shouts, clapping his hands in front of his face. The camera pans out to show a top-heavy blonde with dimpled chipmunk cheeks, probably close to Jody’s age and wearing a similar outfit, and a waiflike redhead with big doe eyes. There’s nobody on the male side of the stage. The comm rings. And rings. And rings.“Today’s Reaping will go a little differently,” the guy says. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we are sadly missing one of our beloved victors. It is with the utmost regret that I must confirm the rumors I’m sure all of you have heard by now. Two nights ago, Adam Milligan, winner of the 45th Hunger Games, flung himself from the factory roof and died. As such, he will not have the honor of representing us in this year’s competition.”The comm gives a final ring. For a moment, Dean gets dead silence, then Cas’s voice filters out from the other end. Dean curses, about to launch into a rant, when the words finally click.“Hello? Why… why do you want me to say my name? Just say… I’m not—say I’m not here. Hello?” Dean slams the button and dials again. On the monitor, the manufactured “awws” from the crowd have finally died down. The Capitol Stooge grins at them, then gives a subtle nod to the camera. It zooms back into focus on just his face.“Fortunately, our beloved President had the foresight to issue a new decree.” With a smirk, he pulls out paper from his pocket and rolls it out on the stand in front of him. “‘For our Second Quarter Quell, our 50th Anniversary Games—should any district have no living victors, the necessary male and/or female Tribute will be Reaped from a pool of all of that District’s citizens. In order to make the competition more fair, no restrictions shall apply; any citizen above the age of twelve may be Reaped.’”The crowd is still. At the liquor cabinet, Bobby curses loud enough that Sam jumps. “Any citizen? What in the ever-loving…?”The camera angle changes. The Stooge winks. His eyes gleam. The comm rings. “Well, let’s not amp up the suspense any longer! If you would…”He gestures off stage, and another suit rolls in a glass dome filled to the top with slips of paper. The comm falls silent, then,“Why… why do you want me to say my name?”Dean hangs up and dials again. “For our 50th Hunger Games…”“Why… why do you want me to say my name?”He hangs up and dials again.“… District 3’s male Tribute will be…”“Why –”He slams the button and presses it hard into his forehead. On screen, the guy in the suit drops his hand into the fishbowl of names. Impossible, implausible as it is, Dean knows what’s coming before the guy unfolds the paper, before he opens his mouth, before he shows the slip of paper to the camera. He just knows. Sam reaches for his arm, but it’s too late. “Castiel Novak!”The communicator slides from his hand and shatters on the floor.
May 2
—Year of the 38th Games
Dean didn’t sleep.He never slept the night before Reaping Day. Even before he was old enough to have his name drawn, it just wasn’t something he was capable of. He’d close his eyes, roll over in his cot, and see nothing but bloody kids screaming on their knees. Every now and then, if he managed to drift off enough, those kids turned into Sammy. It didn’t take a lot of brainpower to know why he avoided sleep like the plague those nights.With a huff, he rolled over, yet again, body curled toward the stove. He could just make out Sam’s reflection in the grimy surface, shoulders rising and falling in his sleep. He knew that, if he turned around (again), he’d see a wrinkle between his baby brother’s brows, one that didn’t belong on a newly-minted fourteen-year-old. He’d been watching it, hoping it would smooth itself away, for the last hour-and-a-half. It made him look tired. It reminded him of John. Dean cursed under his breath. He’d actually avoided thinking about their dad all night, a difficulty on the best of days and a damn impossibility the day of the Reaping. For one, they always played that clip during the ceremony, the one of John slitting some kid’s throat then turning, eyes like steel, to glare at the drone camera overhead. From a marketing standpoint, or whatever, Dean couldn’t really argue with it—John was the only victor District 9 had ever had in the 37-years the Games had been going. Didn’t make it any easier to see his dad at seventeen, a killer through-and-through.But that was just one of the reasons Dean found memories of his dad unavoidable today. The other…Sun beamed in through the slats in the boarded-up windows, blinding him pretty solidly. The clock on the wall across from him read 8:00 AM. Any minute now, the sirens would start blaring, reminding everyone to get down to the town square for the main event. He cursed, sighed, and pulled himself up onto his ass. His eyes roamed over to Sammy, eyes shut and half-covered by his girly hair. He tried—damn, he tried—but John’s voice flooded into his brain all the same. “You keep your brother safe,” he’d said, the last words he’d ever spoken to Dean before he was gunned down just outside the District fence. “Keep Sammy from getting reaped. And, if you can’t—”Dean grabbed his “pillow”, the rolled-up washrag on the floor, and chucked it at Sammy’s head. For a second, at least, John’s voice went quiet. “Rise and shine, Sammy!”Sam choked himself awake, flailing so hard on the bed that he almost threw himself off. Dean snorted, then picked himself the rest of the way off the floor. Sam had barely opened his mouth, no doubt to cuss his older brother out, when the sirens started in. Dean’s timing had been perfect as always, it seemed. Across the floor, Sam’s spine was rigid, eyes wide like a cornered animal, that damn wrinkle still pressing against his brows. Dean bit back the burn in his throat and clapped him in the shoulder. It wasn’t like there was any comfort he could give him, and it wasn’t like that thought didn’t tear him to pieces. Better instead to pretend that this was just any other day. His baby brother took a deep breath, then relaxed under Dean’s hand. Not all the way, never all the way, but enough to make Dean’s stomach slide down his throat a little. Dean gave him another clap, grateful beyond any words he could say even if he wanted to, then held out the canvas jacket that counted as Sam’s best outfit.“Time to get this show on the road, right?”It took them just under two minutes to get dressed and out the door. They’d both fallen asleep in their clothes, as usual, so all they needed was jackets and boots. Dean didn’t bother with breakfast—he knew that neither of them would be able to hold anything down. Outside, the rest of the neighborhood was already trickling down the maintenance road. Mostly older folks, mechanics and the like who worked with Dean down at the factory, but there were a few kids spaced out here and there. All of them wore their nicest clothes, lace dresses and button-up shirts. It made Dean think of virgin sacrifices to pagan gods, and the frown on his mouth deepened. His imagination always was for shit.Mr. and Mrs. Moore from the barley farm at the other end of town brought up the rear. No kids, just tearstained napkins and shaking hands. Sam’s eyes followed them like a spectator at a train wreck, desperate to look away and unable to make himself. Their daughter, Jessica, had been in Sam’s grade, a tall, lanky girl with wavy blonde hair and a sweet smile. She was the first real crush Sam had ever had. This would make a year since she’d been pinned to a tree and burned alive, an early casualty of the 37th Games. Dean shivered, then reached out to pull on his brother’s arm.“Hey, Sammy?”Sam lifted his head, eyes squinted against the sun. Damn, he looked so young. Thin, bony, and fucking terrified. Whatever he’d wanted to say choked in his throat. Before Sam could do anything, like move, he surged forward and pulled him into a hug. Sam tensed up. Dean couldn’t blame him—they never hugged. Not when John died, not when Jess was killed… it just didn’t happen. But, right now, watching his baby brother stare at the parents of his dead girlfriend, hands clenched at his sides, Dean couldn’t think of anything else to do.His eyes burned behind the lids when he finally felt Sam’s arms curl around him.
You keep your brother safe, Dean. Keep Sammy safe.
He sniffed—loudly, obviously, and that just made him hate himself—then smacked Sam on the chest and pushed himself off. “You go on and get settled, okay? Keep with the Moores, don’t wander off. I’ll catch up in a minute.”Sam blinked, still staring at the space at Dean’s chest he’d just occupied. “Catch up? Where are you going?”“I’m just gonna go take care of a thing. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before it starts.”His brother’s eyes narrowed into snaky little slits, but it didn’t last for long. Half a second later, his shoulders deflated, and he just bit his lip and nodded. He had to understand that Dean wasn’t just leaving him for nothing—he was a smart kid, he knew the importance of saying nothing to mean everything in public. “Don’t do anything stupid, Dean.”“Me, stupid?” Dean scoffed. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”He didn’t stick around to see the bitch face Sammy was no doubt shooting at him. Careful of the funeral procession—and that’s really all the crowd was, Capitol be damned—he wound his way over to the grain dispensary on the other side of the road. A single guard stood watch outside, gun at the ready. Dean shot him a look, lips parted and eyes wide, and the man just looked the other way. Inside, Dean swallowed the bile and thanked God that the guard’s mask hid the stupid little smirk Dean could feel like slime on his skin. But he could worry about paying the dude back after Reaping Day was over. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.The metal door creaked when he slid it open, the rusty echo of something long past its prime but still swinging on its hinges. If Dean had been into that sort of thing, he would’ve considered it the perfect metaphor, considering who the sole occupant of the room behind it was.“Bobby.”Bobby didn’t move. His back was still to Dean, hunched over a table and covered in that damn canvas jacket that wasn’t even in style 200 years ago. One hand clutched a yellowy flask that Dean could smell a yard away. The other was clenched into a fist at his side. It wasn’t funny—hell, this practically told Dean all he needed to know about how this year’s Reaping had gone so far—but Dean couldn’t keep the smile off his face. No matter the circumstances, it was always good to see him.“I was hoping they’d send you this year,” he said, slamming the door—loudly—behind him. “I like Ellen just fine, but, man, this year… it’s really gettin’ to me. Three muttations this year, and it isn’t even fucking June yet. Got lucky yesterday, though. Just some rabbits and a duck.”“Good for you. Seen five mutts up in District 6 myself.”Bobby’s voice had Dean stopping in his tracks. Bobby Singer was not sugary sweet kinda man. “Gruff” was more like it; “pissy”, if Dean felt like being honest. This was neither of those things—Bobby sounded like he’d dug himself out of his own grave.Dean gulped.“Hey.” He dropped his voice, not enough to sound weak—never, not in front of Bobby—but enough to cut down the weight of the executioner’s block beneath them. “Hey, Bobby? Who is it?”He still didn’t turn around. Or lift his head. He did pass Dean his flask, though. Dean’s hand shook as he reached out to touch it for the first time, knowing the answer well before it left Bobby’s mouth.“It’s Jo.”The liquor burned Dean’s throat like nothing he’d ever had before—had to have been brewed inside a shoe, based on the taste—but he didn’t even think about turning it away. No wonder Bobby was in the state he was in. “Damnit. I… damn, Bobby, I didn’t know. I’m so –”“You tell me you’re sorry, and I’ll reach around and jam that flask up your ass, boy.”Dean laughed, a total reflex, but he did as he was told. Bobby never demanded respect like John had, but he’d certainly earned it. Dean took a second swig, then passed the metal cannister to its owner. The moment it was back in his hand, his whole body eased up. “And no shit you didn’t know about it, Sherlock. That ain’t the kinda thing they broadcast to the masses. Gotta wait for the Games to start before you see the full lineup.”He lifted the flask, took two solid gulps that should’ve drained the whole damn thing, then curled it back into his fist. With a sigh, he pushed himself off the table and turned around. Dean had to force himself not to wince. Haggard and drawn, Bobby looked even worse than he sounded, beard scruffier than usual and eyes rimmed red and bloodshot. He smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a couple days. Maybe a week. Dean clapped his arm around the man’s neck all the same, and Bobby wasted no time in clutching him back. They both sniffled, then drew away. “How’s… how’s Ellen?”Bobby snorted. “Pissed, more ‘an anything. Raised some high hell about them not having the right to draft her. Not that that stopped them. And not that that stopped her.”They both allowed themselves a short smile at that. Bobby's second wife wasn't a pistol, she was a friggin' shotgun. But Bobby didn’t mention how Jo was doing, and Dean didn’t ask. She was twelve—how did any twelve-year-old handle this bullshit? He’d grown up with that kid, though, descendants of Victors as they were, and he would bet his bottom dollar that she pulled some shit about being old enough to take care of herself. Had he not been afraid that it’d start the water works, he would’ve rolled his eyes at the thought.Bobby cleared his throat.“Anyway, the hell are you doin’ going out of bounds? Thought Ellen told you last year to cut that shit out.”“She did.” Dean shot off his most charming smirk. “I didn’t.”The old man looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Figures. And here I thought Sam inherited John’s stubborn streak.”Dean knew it was meant as an insult, but he still took the comparison as a compliment. He also heard the unspoken apology. If he thought it’d do him any good, he might have told Bobby to stop blaming himself for telling John the truth all those years ago. From what he remembered of the story, the two were drunk off their asses at one of the Capitol-enforced get-togethers the Victors had to do when Bobby let slip that the Games people were letting their failed muttations loose in the wastelands between the districts. But it wasn’t his fault that John took that as all the invitation he needed to start hunting the bastards. It wasn’t his fault that that meant John taught Dean how to do it, either. Mary was already dead, and John was looking for whatever kind of fight he could get his hands on. That’s how he lived, and that’s how he died, the sole Victor of District 9. Still, fucked up as it was, Dean depended on that guilt. John had been dead for two years now, and that meant the Capitol had to ship in another Victor to act as the Tributes’ mentor. Dean, at least, had gotten lucky that District 6 was the closest. Ellen had come last year, but that still meant a smuggled letter to Bobby asking for advice on ganking the wasp-looking things that had gotten loose at the time. It took three months for Bobby to get around to sneaking a reply back, by which point Dean had almost run out of creative ways to hide the boils from their stings. Dean wasn’t gonna waste the chance he had this year to talk to him in person. Sure enough, Bobby set his flask on the table and rolled his eyes.“Balls. Well, what’re you huntin’ now? Apes? Tracker-jackers?”“No. These things are new. Ain’t seen one up close yet, but they leave pawprints like dogs. I’ve heard some of the guards call ‘em Hell Hounds.”Bobby shot him a look that Dean chose to ignore—the old man knew just what Dean was doing to get so close to the guards that he could hear them say anything, much less something that classified—then hummed low in his throat. “Hell Hounds, huh? Can’t argue with the name. I’ve seen a couple myself, and they’re some mean sons o’ bitches. Haven’t worked out how to kill ‘em yet.”Dean arched an eyebrow. “Really?”“Don’t gimme that, I ain’t no spring chicken, boy. Besides, I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”Silence echoed off the walls. The memory of a little blond girl with sassy eyes and a sweet smile pushed itself to the forefront of both of their minds. Dean could almost see her reflection in Bobby’s eyes. In a few days, they’d have to watch that little girl kill. They’d have to watch her kill, or be killed. Past the metal walls, the last call siren went off. Dean’s blood ran cold, that jittery funk in his stomach curdling all over again. Bobby clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his flask. There was enough at the bottom for half a good swig, but Dean downed it all the same. He could always count on Bobby. Always.“Better get back out there. Before they notice somebody’s missing. I’ll sneak over after the funhouse so we can talk shop.”Dean nodded, then gave him the best approximation of a salute he could manage with shivering, clammy hands. “It was good to see you, Bobby.”Neither of them smiled. “You, too, son.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
For a long time, Dean doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. A loose piece of the broken communicator cuts into his shoe, someone is saying his name, but those things might as well be happening a thousand miles away.The camera pans, and a different part of District 3 floods the screen. A lone figure marches through the silent crowd, trenchcoat fluttering behind him. His back is straight, his steps even, but it’s forced—Dean can tell. He’s known the guy long enough to know when he’s in pain. Based on what he’s seeing, there are at least a few bruised ribs and a twisted knee under that coat.Cas stops long enough to shoot what Dean is sure is a fucking freezing glare at the Capitol fuckwad next to the stage, then steps up by himself. Dean’s stomach lands somewhere near his feet when he turns to face the audience. His face is dried blood, one cheek swollen, the other cut to ribbons all under his eye. His lips are more chapped than usual. His five o’clock shadow is darker. But he just stands there, stoic. No movement, no words, no expression, as far as anyone can see. But Dean sees. Dean sees everything.And, then, Dean is moving. He’s roaring like a goddamn lion, fists clenched so tight he can feel his palms bleeding well before they shoot through the TV monitor. It crashes to the ground, and he stomps right through its face, over, and over, and over again. The fucking thing lights up like a firework, sparking, scratching, shrieking, before finally sputtering out and fading to black. Cas’s ice cold stare disappears beneath his boot. “Dean…”He doesn’t turn around. His eyes are glued to the broken glass. Everything in his brain has screeched to a standstill like rusted machinery. He’s too old for this shit. He’s too damn old for all of this shit.“Hey, can… can you give us a second? Not you.”Somebody—Bobby, he guesses—hefts themselves off the couch. A few pairs of feet echo toward the front door. None of them have heels. It creaks open, snaps shut. Dean keeps his eyes on the floor.“I am sorry, for what it’s worth.” Balthazar’s shoes clack on the tile. “I had hoped to reach you before the proverbial shit hit the fan. Damned Capitol trains.”“How the hell is this even possible? Cas isn’t from District 3. As far as anybody knows, he’s not from anywhere. He doesn’t have a paper trail—I know, I’ve looked.”Dean blinks—he didn’t know that Sam actually vetted Cas out—but he doesn’t say anything.Balthazar laughs dryly. “And Gabe had insisted that you were the smart one. In case you haven’t noticed by now, dear old Luci does whatever he feels like.”“Okay, fine. Then why did he feel like it?”“Because of you, Sam.”Slowly, Dean turns around. Sammy’s doing his best impression of a Great Dane in a cat bed, legs hanging off the chair sagging below him, but he still looks every bit as confused and beat up and worried as Dean feels. Despite that hollowed out look in his eyes, Balthazar just looks smug. Dean grits his teeth when the dude lifts his head from Sam to smirk at him.“Ah, good of you to join us, Dean.”“Explain. Now.”“Touchy, touchy.” Something in Dean’s face must say that he’s not putting up with any bullshit, cause that’s the only comment Balthazar makes. With a roll of his eyes, he plants his feet and turns so he’s facing both brothers equally. “Lucifer found out that you aren’t quite as dead as he’d been led to believe, Sam.”It happens all at once. It ain't a gradual thing that builds, like Sam's anger or compassion. Fear hits his brother over the head like a frying pan, crashing down around him and leaving him shaky, wide-eyed, and pale. Even in this moment, Dean has an unshakable urge to pull Lucifer in by his collar and plow a bullet through his brain."What? But... but I never leave. I stay in that damn bunker with Cas all the time, how - ""I don't know. We don't know." He almost looks genuinely sorry. Dean feels like shooting him, too. "Cassie's surveillance scrambler could have failed, someone may have broken in, someone we trusted..."Sam's eyes twitch. Well, let's add Ruby to the list, Dean thinks. It doesn't matter that a bullet to the brain wouldn't do her much good considering that he shoved a knife through her guts a solid ten years ago, he'd still resurrect the bitch just to do it all again.Dean takes a deep breath and curls his fingers into his palms. "Alright, he got found out. Shouldn't be fucking possible, but we can worry bout the how later. Is he in trouble? Does Lucifer know he's here? And the hell does that have to do with Cas?"Balthazar clicks his tongue, and Dean swears to a God he probably never believed in that he will choke the guy to death with his own scrap of shirt if he says something smartass. But maybe God does exist and just has a horrible sense of when to intervene. It wouldn't surprise him."Sam's in no more danger than he is on a regular basis. Cassie and Gabe smuggled him out well before the Capitol drones could swarm in, so I doubt they know where he is. I said that anyone with half a brain would assume he'd come here, but Cassie insisted that Lucifer would never assume that either of you could be stupid enough to risk that."The look in Balthazar's eyes is enough to tell Dean exactly what he thinks about the plan. For half a second, Dean almost wants to smile. Double bluff - not bad, Cas. But then he thinks about four days ago, about that familiar cold chill when he stepped into his room, the red gold eyes glaring at him over the table, and it doesn't seem so funny. Cas must've timed Sam's exit perfectly - he didn't show up until right after Lucifer left."Of course, that's not the only brilliant idea our little secret agent had." Dean blinks, crawling back up from the memories, to see Balthazar's legs and arms crossed, eyes narrowed into beady little slits as he no doubt glares down an invisible Cas. "Oh no, he decided that the only thing that could make it better would be to sacrifice himself. Let Luci think he'd won the grand prize, then reveal that it was only him. At least he got that part right, though. I was convinced that they'd kill him on the spot. Apparently, Lucifer is much more petty than I give him credit for."Sam jumps a little in his seat. "You mean... Cas planned on getting caught? On getting Reaped?""Yes, unfortunately. He was completely banking on the fact that Lucifer would want to prolong and publicize his suffering for the deception. It seems he was correct."Dean can feel Sam' staring at him. He can, and he ignores it. They're both thinking the same thing, probably, though he's sure that Sam's being a lot more charitable about it. Dean's brain is a constant loop of, "Cas, you fucking idiot." But it's a shallow anger. Cas takes everything way too damn literal, and Dean's known that from the start. So when he made Cas promise to do whatever he had to to keep Sam safe... Dean closes his eyes. The glass crinkles beneath his boots. "Well, if that's all you had for me, perhaps we can get started on your wardrobe. I was thinking something in -"“Get out.”“I beg your pardon?”“Just… fuck off, alright? He sweeps his hand through his hair. “There’re rooms upstairs. Pick one, and stay there. Make me a fucking tutu, I don't give a shit.”There’s no real heat behind the words, but there could be. Very easily. Balthazar seems to reach the same conclusion, and, while he looks insulted as hell, he keeps his trap shut and marches himself off. Dean waits until the sound of his stupid fucking shoes gets muffled by the carpet. When he finally breathes, he sags against the wall with both hands in his hair. Sam is standing in front of him in two seconds.“Dean, I—”Dean holds one hand up. “Don’t. Don’t give me any crap.”“But—”“No, Sam!” He growls, then pushes himself up. “Look, I know what you’re gonna say, so save it. I don't want your apologies, I don't want your anything. I’m gettin’ Cas outta this. End of story.”Sam huffs. “Oh yeah? Like you did with Jo?”Dean’s fist flies. His little brother’s head cracks back and slams into the wall. A long moment passes, the ancient clock ticking on the wall behind them, before Sam tilts his face forward again. A trickle of blood works its way down from his mouth where Dean must’ve caught his teeth. He lifts his thumb to wipe it off. Dean says nothing. Regret doesn’t come as easy as it used to. Sam takes a deep breath and takes a step closer. Dean lifts both hands, balled up and ready to go. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s been itching for a fight, and has been for a long damn while.But Sam doesn’t give it to him. Sammy never does.“Dean…” His little brother wipes off the rest of the blood and sighs. “I deserved that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, I swear. I know you still… that you blame yourself…”He takes another deep breath and looks down at his ginormous moose feet.“And I am so, so sorry about Cas. If I'd known what he was planning... Look, all I was trying to say is, you and I both know how the Games work. I don’t like it any more than you do, but… Dean, you know…”Sam drones off. Dean’s thankful for it—at least, as thankful as he can be about anything right now. He doesn’t need to know that he’s got a snowball’s chance in Hell of dragging Cas out with him. That doesn’t mean he won’t do it, though. One way or another.He turns from his baby brother to open up the glass liquor cabinet again. He flicks his eyes up to look at Sam’s reflection. For half a second, he expects to see a floppy-haired boy, shuffling his feet and silently praying that Dean won’t be too mad at him. Of course, that’s not what he gets. Sam finally lived up to the ever-constant threat of being the taller Winchester, and, while his hair still hangs in his face, his eyes don’t hold an ounce of remorse. Just pity. Guilt, maybe. But those ain’t the same thing. It’s hard to believe that this is the same little kid who, just twelve years ago, tried to convince him that District 13 would swoop in and save the day before Dean got any blood on his hands.He’ll be damned if he admits it, even to himself, but he’d give almost anything to get that kid back.He grabs a fucking bottle of wine and uncorks it with his teeth. It tastes like vinegar and raisins, but he downs the whole thing. He keeps his eyes on the peeling label as he shoves past his brother.“Yeah, well… This year’ll be a surprise for everyone then, won’t it? First time for everything. I’m headed to bed. Don’t wait up.”
May 2
—Year of the 38th Games
By the time Dean had made his way past the check-in point and into the town square, it was too late to find Sam. Not that they could have stood next to each other anyway—all of the eligible slaughter-ees were segregated by age. Still, he didn’t let his shoulders unclench until he saw that mop of brown hair five rows up. The relief didn’t last long. Two seconds after he shuffled into his own spot at the very back of the crowd, the screen overhead lit up, and the ceremony music started. That all-too-familiar prickle of terror spiked his spine, but he shoved it down. This was the last time he could be ever be picked. The last fucking time. Then it was just four more years, and Sam would be safe, too.He held onto that reminder like a lifeline as Bobby staggered upstage, flanked by two guards in their Stormtrooper get-ups and a fancy-ass blonde with near-black eyes. Dean rolled his own—apparently, she liked the new Capitol trend of black-out contacts. Personally, Dean ranked it on the same level as douchebags who wore sunglasses indoors. But he kept his eyes on her and Bobby. It was better than rewatching that reel of John onscreen.Finally, the film flickered away, and the blonde stepped up to her podium.“Hello, and welcome to the 38th Annual Hunger Games.”Dean almost laughed. Whoever this lady was, he guessed they hadn’t told her that she was supposed to sound high on cocaine for these kinds of gigs. Chirpy voice, lots of smiles and clapping, maybe two brain cells to rub together on a good day. Instead, she just sounded completely fucking bored. Apparently, not even the Capitol bozos who’d been assigned to District 9 this year could be bothered to give a shit about it.“Well, I guess we should get started,” she drawled, as if the thought had honestly just occurred to her. “Ladies first.”She reached out to grab for the paper slips in the glass bowl to her left. The girls in the crowd froze up like popsicles, but the bitch on stage didn’t care. She just grabbed one and held it up. Dean had to hand her that, at least—she wasn’t playing the usual game of upping the suspense as if this was The Bachelor.“The female tribute for District 9 will be Bela Talbot.”Dean looked around the courtyard. He didn’t recognize the name, but that didn’t mean much—he didn’t recognize most people. He preferred it that way. Finally, a short brunette near the back stood up. To Dean’s surprise—and, yeah, a little amusement—she looked more irritated than upset, like her biggest concern about having to participate in the Games is that it would screw up her social calendar. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she stepped across the people in her row to get to the middle aisle. The drone camera zoomed in close, picking up her steely eyes and pouty mouth. The screen never flickered toward the audience. If Dean had been a good person, he might’ve pitied her—the only thing that meant was that she had no friends or family whose horrified reactions the Capitol could milk. When this girl died, nobody was gonna care at all. And everything about how she held herself said that she knew it, too.Dean immediately decided that he was gonna love this chick, or he was gonna absolutely hate her. The blonde waited half a second, just long enough for Bela to take her place onstage and strike a pose—a snooty little wrinkle of her nose and crossed arms—then turned to the other bowl of names. All the lightness in Dean’s body was crushed like an anvil. Just a few dozen yards away were forty-three slips with his name, and five with Sammy’s. All this stupid bitch had to do was grab the wrong one.Just four more years, he reminded himself. One for you, four for Sam. You can do this. You can make it.She took a slip from the very top and unfolded it on her podium.You can make it.She cleared her throat.
Just four more years.
“The male tribute for District 9 will be Sam Winchester.”A bullet speared through Dean’s brain. His whole body went numb. That wasn’t… he hadn’t heard right. This couldn’t…The drone camera zoomed in closer. The name “Sam Winchester”, perched between two manicured fingernails, filled the screen.Dean tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn’t work. No. No, this was just a dream, another one of those fucking nightmares. Any second now, a swarm of unicorn pink tracker-jackers would flood the town square, honed in him like a magnet, then John would rise from the grave and start shouting about how Dean had failed him. Just like any other night. He’d wake up, and it’d all be over. This was just a nightmare. He closed his eyes, counted to two, and looked back up. The scene hadn’t changed. His baby brother’s name was still broadcasted for the whole world to see. Behind Bela and the blonde, Bobby stumbled back into the wall. Even from the last row, Dean could see the tears in his eyes. His mouth formed a single, short, “No.” He didn’t even reach for his flask.The crowd shifted. A boy, scrawny and scraggly with girly brown hair, worked his way past the people up front. He looked so small. So, so fucking small. The screen switched from the paper to his face, solemn and surprised in a way that no fourteen-year-old should ever have looked. Especially not Sam. Especially not Sammy. Dean was supposed to keep him safe. He was supposed to…Sam’s foot touched the middle aisle, two guards near the stage closing in, and that was it. Dean was running before he even realized he’d told his body to move.“Sam! SAM!”Sammy turned around, but the guards were already right there, their stupid gloved hands bearing down on his shoulders. His baby brother was shaking.“Dean?”“Sammy!”Another guard slid right into Dean’s face. “Hey, what’re you—?”Dean socked him in the jaw, and he went down. Three other guards rushed forward, guns drawn and cocked. There wasn’t another sound for miles. Even the birds were quiet. But John Winchester’s voice was loud and clear in Dean’s head.
You keep Sammy safe... You keep him from being Reaped... And, if you can’t—
“I volunteer.”“What was that?”Sam whimpered. “Dean, no.”“I said I volunteer, damnit!”The camera whirled around and landed on him. A bright light throbbed somewhere just below it, but he didn’t blink. He stared at the guard, then up at the bitch.“I volunteer.”Bela cocked her eyebrow. A few people in the audience actually fucking gasped. Sam’s mouth had fallen open. Bobby had stopped dead. Dean saw it all, but he didn’t look. Rigid as a rock, he stared straight into that pair of black eyes.With a smirk, the blonde held his gaze right back, then nodded.“Well, I guess District 9 has its first ever volunteer.”She clicked her tongue, and the guard holding Sam let go. Breathe flooded Dean’s body like a gale-force wind. His heart was still pounding a mile a minute, but at least Sam was safe. At least he could breathe.Sam barreled down the aisle like a steam train and rammed right into Dean’s chest. Dean held them both steady, legs shaking but feet braced against the dusty ground. He let his arms wrap around the kid for two seconds, maybe three, taking in the wet stain growing on his shoulder and the smell of hay in his brother’s hair. Then, he pushed Sam back and coughed.“You sit back down, and you stay there.”“Dean—”“Damnit, Sam.” He bit his tongue till he tasted blood. “Just do what I said, okay? You can see me when it’s over. Okay?”Sam shook his head against Dean’s neck. The blood in his mouth wasn’t enough to keep his hand from shaking as he pulled it through his little brother’s ragged mop of hair.“Okay? Please, Sam…”He couldn’t see if Sam listened. The crowd of white metal suits was suddenly too thick between them. A gloved hand yanked Sam toward the audience. Another dragged Dean toward the stage. There were three, five, eight bodies between them. Everything was just white. Then, Dean’s feet hit the stairs, and all he could see was the black in the bitch’s eyes. She was still smirking at him.“What’s your name?”“Dean. Dean Winchester.”She smiled, genuine and impressed. It looked like poison. “Of course it is. Guess that makes you big brother, then, huh?”His head jerked up and down a single time, the most he could manage. But it was enough. The screen on Dean’s right zoomed back, and then it was just him, and Bela, and the blonde between them. Up there, with the light in his eyes, he couldn’t see anything else.“Well, there you have it—our tributes for District 9.”Not a damn sound filled the town square. The camera clicked off. The drone dropped to the dirt. The screen went blank.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Bobby and Jody both ship out two days later. They take their time saying goodbye to Sam, their whispers carrying just enough for Dean to hear the voices but not the words. They don’t do or say anything to Dean. It’s an unspoken promise, one that hangs around the house like smoke. One or both of them will be seeing him again in the Capitol soon enough.Three days later, the TV is still broken and shorted out downstairs. Dean doesn’t replace it to find out which one. Neither does Sam.Four days later, Dean finally leaves his room. It isn’t a victory. He floats through the house like the ghost of John Winchester, drinking when he can and staying the hell away from Sam, Tessa, and Balthazar when he can’t. By the end of the night, the liquor cabinet is empty.It’s too risky to sneak out past the fence, but, five days later, Dean does it anyway, wading through poison ivy to reach his dad’s old barn. Bobby’s voice comes to him from twelve years ago, his warning—“Ain’t no way they’ll let you have a gun in there, boy”—but he digs out his old pearl-handled pistol all the same. The sound of bullets piercing the air and that old hay-bale-turned-target echoes through the field for the next four hours. If he had it in him, Dean would smile. Just let someone come and catch him—ain’t no way Lucifer’s gonna let anything take him out before the Games. Besides, he could use some live target practice.But six days isn’t long at all. Not outside the Arena. He’s barely worked himself into a proper hangover, much less a proper rage, and the latter means a hell of a lot more to his survival than the fact that he should have spent the last week preparing himself to kill again.It’s all a dull beat in the back of his brain when Sam’s giant ape hands slap him awake and haul him off the couch.He’s not exactly alert, especially not as much as he should be today, but, somehow, there’s a piping mug of coffee in his hands, and that’ll have to be enough. He manages to down the whole thing before they reach the upstairs bathroom closest to them. He starts to demand another, but Sam shoves him into the shower before he can finish—no words, just a grim frown. He curses—loudly—but nothing past that. Even half awake, he knows not to be too much of a douche today. Besides, it’s not the best shower he’s ever had, but it’s still a shower, and he needs to savor it while he can. Good water pressure, steam even hotter than his coffee. It feels good to wash off the dried spit and sweat and liquor clinging to his skin. He’ll be needing to wash off more than that all too soon.He stays in just long enough to wake up, more because of Sam’s insistence than any actual sense of urgency. If he had his way about it, he’d stay until the water turned cold, and that’s a long ass time in this house. The water heater is probably the size of the bedroom he had as a kid.Eyes closed, shower droplets stuck to his lashes, he takes one last moment to himself then slams the water off. Sam pokes his head in, no coffee or bourbon to be seen, and Dean grits his teeth as he dries off and pulls on his robe. That dumb Bambi look is still in his brother’s eyes, Dean can feel it, but he refuses to see it again. He keeps his head down as he shoulders the door open the rest of the way and walks by.They keep a solid two feet of space between them all the way down the hall. They’ve passed the sixth totally friggin’ useless spare bedroom when Sam grunts, herding him into the room on the left.Dean blinks at the sudden change of light, stomach churning, when another pair of hands yanks him forward.“Ah, good, he lives. More or less.”It takes Dean a couple seconds to remember why he hates that snobby British voice, apart from the obvious, and a few more to notice all the covered mannequins lurking around the room. They’re fucking creepy, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little impressed—the outfits they’re wearing all look finished. Seems like Balthazar kept himself busy.“If you’ll just step up here, Dean.”Dean recognizes the lack of a question, but he’s too tired to bitch about it. Small potatoes to be bitching about today, anyway. Instead, he elbows Sam off—gently, this time, more of an “I got this” than a complaint—and marches up to the strobe-lit mirror in the center of the room. Tessa’s face stares back him in the reflection, only visible now that he’s at the right angle. She’s half hidden in a corner behind Sam where they hadn’t seen her. She smiles with half of her mouth and neither of her eyes, then gives him a little wave. It isn’t even remotely a relief, but he almost appreciates it all the same.“Now, bear in mind, these won’t be a perfect fit. Someone,” Balthazar mutters, eyes darting in Dean’s direction even as he dances around him with sprays and creams who knows what the fuck else, “decided to be MIA while I was working. But Gabriel gave me your measurements, and they should suffice. Assuming you haven’t either embalmed yourself or grown a beer gut over the last few days. Neither would surprise me.”Dean clenches his fists, not sure if he means to calm himself down or prepare himself to punch the bastard. Neither would surprise him.“Ain’t like it matters. Not gonna be wearing the monkey suits very long, am I?”Balthazar ignores him. If Dean was a little more awake, he’d be pissed at how casually the dude just rips off his clothes and tugs him into new ones like a damn doll. At least Gabe had the decency to let Dean dress himself. Usually.He’ll give him this, though—half-assing it or not, at least he gets done in a hurry. Five minutes into the dress-up game, Balthazar steps back, eyes Dean from head to toe, then smirks and nods.“Voila. My work here is done, boys.”He spins on his heel—another high, capped thing that Dean wants to take a machete to—and sashays away, not bothering to check that Dean is following. He should be, and both he and Sam know it—they don’t exactly have time to play Texas Hold ‘Em here—but Dean takes a second to check his look in the mirror anyway. It’s just a reflex, not real curiosity—he hasn’t given a damn about his looks since after his first Games. After it stopped mattering. That doesn’t stop him from cocking an eyebrow when he takes himself in, though.It’s very… green. Like, green green. That’s really all he can think to say about it. Ain’t hard to figure out what Balthazar’s goal was—the fabric he made this thing out of is some kind of practically-liquid silk that perfectly matches the color of Dean’s eyes—but it’s about as far from subtle as anyone could get.If it’d been Sam in his place, Dean would’ve been cracking all kinds of jokes. “Nice look, Jolly Green, I’ll be sure to eat all my veggies. Think the competition’s gonna worry about you Hulking out on stage?” It would have been weak, but it’s all Dean knows to do.Sam isn’t wired that way. All he does is purse his mouth and look away. Behind him, Tessa stands up and follows after Balthazar.Dean waits. He’s not sure what for—a hug, some tears, a punch to the face, one of those classic “I can’t let you do this” speeches. It’s anyone’s guess with Sammy. He’s gotten all of that and then some before.After three seconds—a new record—Sam finally caves. With a low sigh, he flips his hair and shuffles forward.“He’s no Gabe, but it isn’t bad.” He coughs, hand hovering in midair. After a second of Dean honestly thinking he’s about to get that punch, Sam leans forward and claps it on Dean’s shoulder instead. It weighs him down like iron. “I’ll see you when it’s over. Okay?”Not okay. The exact opposite of okay. The words reverberate in both their skulls, hollow and unpleasant. They shake it off and stare in opposite directions before they can see the recognition in each other’s eyes. Something breaks behind Dean’s ribcage. He didn’t realize he’d been waiting for Sam to give him hope, or strength, or whatever, until he didn’t.“Yeah. I guess. See ya, Sammy.”Dean takes another look in the mirror—fucking green—then stomps after Tessa and Balthazar.The trolley/rickshaw thing is already waiting for them outside, fully automated and self-driving. Why they can’t just walk to the center of town is fucking whatever, but Dean’s joints are stiff from sleeping in all the wrong places for the past few days, so he takes it without a word. Tessa climbs in beside him, Balthazar across. They don’t look at each other or say anything. Upstairs, one of the curtains flicks shut. * * *It takes even less time to reach the stage than it did for Balthazar to dress him. The small but growing crowd surrounding it parts easily to let them all through. Between the headache and his stomach and the fact that he still can’t get over how green he is (clothes and skin, now that the hangover’s finally kicked in), it all passes in a blur. One second, he’s stepping into the street. The next, there are bright drone lights in his face and that sickeningly familiar Capitol music in his ears.He looks away from the screen set up over his head. It doesn’t matter, though. He still sees every second of the clip reel, burned into his brain like a bad tattoo. Lucifer’s voice creeps down his spine as he talks about the evil rebellion and the good citizens’ noble sacrifice. At the words “we honor”, he forces himself to keep from flinching, knowing that seventeen-year-old John Winchester has filled the screen, hands bloody and eyes like fire. He hears “the memory”, and knows that, like every year for the last damn eleven years, his own face has popped up right behind it. Eighteen, muddy, and exhausted. He doesn’t look like Dad in that image. He doesn’t look like much of anything.The music shuts off, and the whole crowd is silent. Balthazar stands next to the guards in the front row. It’s only him on stage. A metallic glint makes him blink. He rubs his eyes, then looks up to see Tessa stepping onto the stage in front of him. He realizes now that it’s her dress, which he somehow hadn’t noticed earlier. It’s a slip of fabric that should be see-through, but, instead, it kind of reflects everything around her. It’s probably supposed to be a metaphor or something. He’s pretty sure he gets it, but he doesn’t bother wasting his time analyzing.Tessa taps once on her mic, the noise of five-hundred crinkled potato chip bags in surround sound thanks to the speakers, and Dean thinks, “This is it—guess this is the first year I’ll actually puke at one of these things.”But he doesn’t.He never does.“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”As usual, the crowd is silent. The only difference this year is that it’s only the women in the crowd who look terrified. The men just look sad and stony. A very dark part of him wants to grab the mic and shout, “Taking one for the team this year, boys, death’s on me!” But he doesn’t do that, either.“As decreed by our President, the new ruling for this year’s Games state that, should any district have no living victors, the necessary male and/or female Tribute will be Reaped from a pool of all of that District’s citizens. In order to make the competition more fair, no restrictions shall apply; any citizen above the age of twelve may be Reaped.”One of the guards rolls two fishbowls onto the stage. The one on the right is stuffed full, loose slips of paper crammed in and still threatening to fly out in the breeze. The one on Dean’s side is completely empty. Almost, anyway. Tessa shoots another fake 500 watt smile at the drones and steps up to the table.“Let’s start with the women. This year, the female Tribute for District 9 will be…”She makes a show of threading her fingers into the paper, like a hand model on a niche porn site. On any other day, that thought might make him laugh, but, right now, it just makes him sick. After all, what are he and Tessa but porn stars? Sex isn’t the only thing that sells. Fifty years of this shit proves it.Finally, once the suspense has been adequately amped up, she plucks out a card from the center and unfolds it. The drone camera closest to the stage scans it, broadcasting it to the big screens the moment Tessa speaks.“Emma Archer.”The crowd of women shifts. Near the front, where all the kids are grouped in their Sunday best, a thin blonde stands to her feet. She isn’t on the lower end of the spectrum, which is a stupid thing to be thankful for but still. She isn’t an adult, though. That much is clear from her babyface and gangly limbs. He’d put her at eighteen. Her hands shake when she reaches the middle aisle, but she steels it up and holds her head high as she walks to the stage. He doubts that even the cameras noticed it, and they’re hovering around her like bees. He just knows what to look for. And now, he looks and sees that her eyes are too dry, and the set of her mouth is forced.When she hits the steps, close enough for him to take her in for himself, something prickles at the back of his head. He didn’t expect to recognize her. He never expects to recognize anybody in the District—he purposely avoids them all like the plague. But this girl is familiar.It takes him a minute, but he finally figures it out. Archer. Like her mom. Lydia. She even looks a little like her. She’d been in Dean’s grade before he quit school. She gave him one hell of a ride. As if they can read his mind—and Dean honestly wouldn’t be surprised at this point if they could—the drones turn from Emma and scan the crowd. Lydia’s easy to find, tall and stacked with blonde hair that begs to be tugged. He almost smirks, but then the cameras get a little closer, and he gets a better look. She doesn’t look like any other mom he’s seen in this District. And not just because she’s still built like an Amazon. She doesn’t look sad, or surprised. It’s like she expected this. Wanted it. She doesn’t look happy, but she almost looks proud.His memory of her thighs turns sour in his stomach.Emma takes the last few steps, accepting Tessa’s purposely awkward hug, and comes to stand right next to him. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t so much as flinch in her direction, but the pictures flood his brain anyway. Hands around her neck. Arrows in her chest. Blood everywhere, guts spilling onto the ground. He wonders which one they’ll actually get to see.Bile chucks up his throat, but he swallows it down before it can come out. He takes a step away from the girl, refusing to care if the cameras catch it.For the first time since Lucifer’s big announcement, he lets the full knowledge of his plan sink in. Cas is gonna live. Dean will damn well make sure of that. But Dean himself? Well, will it really hurt anyone when he’s gone?“And, now, for the men.”Tessa blinks away from the crowd to look at Dean. Just for him, just for a second, there are tears in her eyes. Then, she plasters her smile back on and reaches into the empty fishbowl. It takes a moment of digging for her to snag the single slip of paper inside. In the audience, nobody’s breath catches. Nobody’s eyes go wide. Nobody starts to cry.The drone camera zooms in, lingering on her long fingernails.“The male tribute for the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games will be Dean Winchester.”
May 2
—Year of the 38th Games
Dean hadn’t moved since they escorted him and Bela into the Justice Building. He didn’t know where they’d put her—there weren’t too many rooms in the concrete condo—but he would’ve been lying if he’d said he’d given it much thought. He’d be lying if he said he’d given anything at all much thought.Voices echoed down the hallway outside his door. No one familiar, just the normal admin hoopla he’d gotten used to overhearing his whole life. For the first time maybe ever, he didn’t hate it. Hell, he welcomed it. He wouldn’t have been able to focus on their words for anything, but at least it was something. At least it was noise. He didn’t know if he’d be able to deal with this in silence.Two pairs of feet puttered around his door. Dean wiped the sweat off his face and drew himself up in his chair, begging his body to stop shaking for at least one goddamn minute. If it was the guards, he didn’t want them to see him like this. If it was Bobby, he didn’t want to be a snot-nosed kid. He was a man—had been since Mary died, it seemed—but, even if he wasn’t, now would have been the time to become one. Time to stop crying. Time to talk to strategy. Time to figure out –“Dean!”The door slammed open, and Sam rushed in, octopus-limbed around Dean before he could so much as stand up. The guard in the doorway didn’t so much as blink.“You’ve got ten minutes. Shipping out in thirty.”Before either of them could say anything, his white-gloved hand clicked the door back into place. Dean’s mouth tightened, but so did his arms around his little brother. He felt his shoulder getting wet.“Hey, hey, Sammy,” he murmured, stroking back his long hair. “‘s alright. Gonna be okay.”Sam shook his head violently, curling into Dean even tighter. He closed his eyes and allowed it for another second. Just one. If he let himself have more, if he let it sink in what had happened, what was going to happen –Softly, more than he’d done since both of them were babies, he pushed Sam away. His legs shuddered when he stood to his feet, but he locked his knees, set his jaw. It was as automatic as the machines he worked on every day—Sam didn’t need to see past it.And, lucky or not, it didn’t seem like Sam would be looking for it anyway. His eyes, wet and glassy, had narrowed down to tiny hazel slivers, all fire and rage. “What were you thinking, Dean?” he snarled. “Why did you do that?”To his own surprise, Dean actually laughed. In a way, he was kind of glad—he had no idea how the hell to respond to such a stupid question, so it was a good thing that his body took over for him.Sam didn’t look as amused. He was shaking every bit as much as Dean was pretending not to.“Did you think about yourself for even a second? Or what about Ellen? Bobby? They’re already gonna have to watch Jo, now they’ll have to –”“Hold up,” Dean squawked. “How the hell did you know Jo was reaped?”Sam glared at him like he was a nimrod. “Did you even see Bobby’s face, Dean? How could I not know?”Dean grumbled under his breath. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed that Sam had caught on so quickly from a single look. Granted, that’s exactly what Dean had done when he’d first seen Bobby, too, but still. The kid was fourteen—he shouldn’t know so much.And he shouldn’t have kept going.“No, you didn’t think about anything! You always do this, Dean! You’re going to get yourself—get –” He couldn’t even spit it out. He winced, his glare not dampening at all, and plowed on. “And we’re all gonna have to watch! Bobby and Ellen are gonna have to watch! I’m gonna have to watch! Did you think about how that would make me feel? Did you think about me at all?”The well of tears, the softness in Dean’s gut, popped like a balloon. His hands clenched against nothing. His body started vibrating again, but, this time, it had fuck all to do with nerves. Then red flooded his eyes.For one absolutely awful, terrible moment, he honestly thought about punching Sam in the face. He’d never done it before. Never even thought about it before. Sure, he’d thought of smacking the kid around a bit when he got too mouthy, but never anything that violent. Never anything that personal. But, then, he blinked. He blinked, and looked down at his baby brother. Sam, exactly fourteen-years-old that day, thin and gangly and uncoordinated. He could hold his own in a fight, John and Dean had both made sure of that, but he wasn’t hard. He wasn’t a killer. He didn’t have it in him. He was just a scared little boy, afraid of losing and angry at all the wrong things.Dean swallowed, counted down from three, then leveled Sam with every bit of fury he was feeling.“Believe it or not, Sammy, all I was thinking about was you. Or did you forget the first half of what happened out there?”Sam paused. His shoulders were still heaving, his bitchface was still top-grade, but he wasn’t all righteous fury anymore. If Dean hadn’t known him, fucking raised him, he might not have seen it, but did, and he understood. That last shake of his shoulders was nothing but abject terror. He remembered exactly why Dean had gotten himself into this. He sniffed, tears welling up in his eyes.“You shouldn’t have—”Dean smacked him—maybe a little rougher than he should have—across the mouth. “Don’t even go there.”Saline dripped from his eyes and nose onto Dean’s palm where it touched his face. They both shivered, but Dean refused to break. If he did, he didn’t know that he would be able to put himself back together. “I told you last night,” he growled. “I take care of you. And that’s what I’m doing. End of story.”Sam pulled away, wiping viciously at the tears on his cheeks. “Please, Dean. You can’t do this.”“And you can?” Before the little smartass could even attempt to answer, Dean forged ahead. “We both know I’ll be fine, I’ve practically been doing this my whole life. I’m a hunter, Sam!”“You’re a mechanic, Dean!” Sam shouted. “Damnit, you’ve never even shot a gun!”Dean snorted. “That’s a lie and you know it.”“Never at somebody.”For a second, Dean’s mind flashed back to the bodies in the woods, the scent of burning flesh while Dad tended the fire. He thought about the blood, and the eyes, and everything—thank God—that Sammy would never have to see. But those were monsters. Not people. Not kids. Not anymore.Dean licked his lips. “Look, Sam, I can do this. I can.”“Okay.” He sounded less than convinced. With a carelessness he didn’t feel, Dean smirked and patted his brother on the arm. It felt wrong, between Sam’s barely-dried-up tears and his own thick limbs, but it grounded him all the same. “Yeah, ‘okay’. I’ll be just fine, Sammy. And I’ll get out and come back and it’ll be like nothing ever changed.”“Yeah, except that Jo will be dead.” His whole body jerked. He barely refrained from kicking the chair out from behind him. Instead, he clenched his fist and settled for shoving a single, shaking finger between his brother’s eyes. “That ain’t gonna happen.”“Dean,” Sam huffed, and—this time—he wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes, “you know that’s not how the Games work. Everybody dies. Only one person gets out alive. That’s what I meant earlier, and you… you know, we’re going to watch one of you die. You or Jo. Or both.” Dean rolled his eyes and turned away.“I’ll figure it out, alright?” he snapped. He was used to using the “big brother” tone, had been since well before Dad died. He was also used to not feeling an ounce of the confidence that tone mustered up. He was going to make it through the Games—that wasn’t a question, it was a guarantee. He’d decided as much within the first few minutes of volunteering. But getting Jo out, too? If he didn’t, Bobby and Ellen might never look at him again. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to look at himself again. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Maybe… maybe he could play dead? Have Jo pretend to kill him, then “miraculously” wake up well after the Games had ended and Jo had won? Or maybe he could find a way to sneak Jo out past the forcefield? He knew the forcefield existed—he remembered last year’s Games, when some poor bastard launched himself at it and promptly exploded like tomato soup in a balloon—but it had to have a weak spot. All machines, even virtual ones, had a weak spot. Behind him, Sam cleared his throat. “Maybe,” he started, small and hoarse, “maybe somebody will stop it? Before you have to kill anybody?”“Right,” he snorted, “who the hell can stop this?”Sam mumbled something under his breath. Dean didn’t catch a word of it. All but vibrating, he spun on his heel to face his baby brother, eyebrows knitted together like a damn inchworm. “Well?”“Maybe… maybe District 13—”Dean slammed his hand against the wall so hard that the glass frame rattled to the floor. “Damnit, Sam! Not this again. You’re almost a goddamn adult. You’re too old to believe in fairytales.”“It’s not a fairytale, Dean!” he shouted. “They exist, they’re out there!”Dean laughed, the sound choked and obviously forced. “You really believe that shit?”Sam nodded just as earnestly as he had every year for ten years when Dean asked if he still believed in the Easter Bunny. “Yes, Dean.”“Alright, then, Einstein.” Dean crossed his arms tight over his chest. “If they’re still around, then why haven’t they stopped this?”“What?”“You heard me. They still exist, right? They’re still more powerful than the rest of this world combined? Then why haven’t they put an end to it?”Sam glared at him, his weedy little fists balled up at his sides.“I don’t know, Dean. Maybe they’re waiting for the right time.”“Kids have died, Sam. They’ve slaughtered each other. And you were…” Outside the door, another guard jangled at the lock. Dean gritted his teeth and looked away—from Sam, from the door, from all of it. Their ten minutes were up.“I think the ‘right time’ was thirty-two damn years ago…”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Trees zoom past the window at a mile a minute. Maybe faster. Probably faster. If he could be bothered to do the math, Dean could probably figure it out. He thinks the same thing every time he gets on this godforsaken train, but he never does a damn thing about it.Rubbing at his eyes, Dean walks back over to the velvet couch in the middle of the car. He leaves on his boots, the mud-caked ones he saves for yardwork, and kicks up his legs till he’s horizontal, one laid out along the armrest, the other draped over the back of the couch. Clods of dirt spray over everything. He huffs at the hollow little victory.They’ve only been on the train fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Just him and Emma and Tessa. At least, he assumes Tessa is on with him—she made herself scarce as soon as the Reaping ended, and it’s a petty fucking thing, but Dean’s thankful. She gets him, in that regard. Knows when he needs to not see anyone, especially anyone from the Capital. Emma, meanwhile, is passed out cold in her room. She started hyperventilating when they boarded, and Dean gave her his special Tribute’s recipe to calm her down: half a glass of whiskey with Sleep Aid crushed up inside it. The first time he had to do it was a twelve-year-old boy who’d broken down crying and actually started ripping his hair from his head. Before then, Dean thought that kind of thing only happened in those old fucking movies that only he seemed to watch anymore. Dean was 23 and had no fucking idea how to help, so he’d done the first thing he could think of and crushed his own insomnia meds into the nearest bottle of liquor he could find. Kid passed out like five minutes later.He died not even five hours into the Games. So has every other kid he’s had to administer his concoction to.He doesn’t wanna think what that says about Emma, so he doesn’t.As for Balthazar, that fucking prick hightailed it without so much as a “bon voyage” or whatever bullshit he’d say. He wouldn’t care so much if Tessa hadn’t let slip that he was sneaking Sam out of District 9 and back to the Bunker. Apparently, he knows exactly where Sam’s little hideout is in the city. Apparently, Cas trusted him enough to tell him.He slams his head back against the velvet couch. It ain’t much, but at least he’s alone. At least he don’t have to entertain for a few more hours. He can just… be. Whatever that fucking means right now.
Shwoom!
He rolls his eyes—spoke too damn soon.“Tess, I appreciate you checkin’ in on me or whatever, but we both know the drill. Let me get at least an hour to myself before we start talking gameplans."“Tess? Do I look like some Capital princess to you?”Dean jerks up so fast he practically rolls off the damn couch, busting his knee hard against the table. He takes it—at least he has another excuse if his eyes start watering up.“Bobby?”The old grouch lifts his arms, as if asking Dean who the hell else it could be. That’s enough to convince Dean he’s not dreaming. This gesture is just too real.Hobbling, he lurches forward and grips the man tight around the middle. Bobby doesn’t hesitate to crush him right back.“You’re safe. They didn’t…”The man’s whiskey-soaked breath seeps into his skin, and, for a horrible second, he thinks he might start crying. Thank God Bobby seems to have the same trigger, though, cause he lets go, slapping Dean’s chest on the way, and shoves them apart before either of them can get too emotional. They both know it’s impossible to shut certain doors once they’re open.Dean slaps Bobby on the shoulder, then realizes something. The door behind them has swooshed shut. Nobody’s looking at them through the window.A rock settles in his stomach.“But—wait, Jody—”“Is safe, too. Safe as any of us, anyway.” He takes a deep breath and shrugs. “She’s already unpacked and set-up in the Capital with Caleb and Annie Hawkins.”The rock rolls away. He remembers Caleb and Annie, the first an old hunting buddy of dad’s, the second just a year younger than Sammy. Nice people, even after they were reaped. He’s not looking forward to seeing them dead. By his hand or anyone else’s.“Anyway,” Bobby interrupts, thank fuck, “same deal as before you won. They don’t have no other Victors from 9, so they sent little ol’ me. You’re welcome. Not like anyone else is gonna have a chance keepin’ your self-sacrificing ass alive.”Dean snorts, both in agreement and to keep Bobby from prying too much further. Thankfully or not, he sees something else he missed when Bobby first came in: a huge, green sequin bag that looks big and bulky enough to be carting around a human corpse. His eyebrows jump into his hairline—he must be losing his touch to miss such an eyesore.“The fuck is that? We doing Revenge of the Bodyswappers here?”“Yeah, about that. Balthazar,” and, God, it’s such a stupid thing to love about the old codger, but seeing him roll his eyes that hard about that Capitol prick has Dean’s heart growing about three times bigger, “packed it for you. Some fancy silk number. Told me not to get it dirty.”Dean snorts. “Listen, you’re a site for sore eyes, Bobby, but I ain’t in the mood to give a striptease.”Bobby huffs, unamused. “Slow your roll, boy. You ain’t exactly my type, neither. It’s for a party we’re goin’ to.”Dean manages to trip while standing completely still. “Uh, wanna run that by me again?”“You heard me the first time. Idjit.”Bobby huffs, again, then wanders over to the spread of liquor on the counter. They never stock rotgut on Capital trains, but this one does have a rum close to 150 proof. It’s probably for lighting mixed drinks on fire or some hoity toity shit like that. Bobby just pours himself half a scotch glass of the stuff and downs it like cheap soda.“Bunch o’ rich folks—extra rich, not plain ol’ Capital rich—are throwing a shindig a couple blocks up from the hotel. Figured it’d be a good chance to drum up business with potential sponsors.”He pours himself another shot, taking a second to swill it around in the glass. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. Dean waits for the other shoe to drop. Bobby doesn’t disappoint.“Just so happens to be the new Gamesmaster’s house, too. Figured I could get a good read on him, too, while I’m at it.”Dean grumbles. Leave it to Bobby.“I ain’t exactly interested in rubbing elbows, Bobby. Figured that’s something I didn’t need to say.”“You didn’t. But I ain’t asking.” Dean opens his mouth, but Bobby plows ahead. “I wouldn’t make you go back there if it wasn’t necessary. But we need the support, and you need to beef up your image. You’re not gonna be the youngest out there, or the oldest, and the only things they remember you for are two people they all think are dead. You need the help, Dean.”For one, quick second, Dean thinks about blowing up. Thinks about telling him what the old man likely already knows: that Dean’s already got one dead friend on his conscience from these damned Games, and he ain’t gonna have another. Not Cas. Especially fucking not Cas. This is his last hoorah, and anybody who even pretends to know him should know that.But Bobby’s finally turned his eyes to stare at him, and Dean… he can’t. For as long as Dean’s known him, Bobby’s looked just a few shots off from being totally dead inside. Every time Sam or Dean’s been put on the chopping block, he’s looked like someone pushed him off a cliff. Dean doesn’t know how to label the look in Bobby’s eyes right now. Not in a way that makes sense. Bobby’s gotta have close to twenty years on him, and Dean’s sense of hope died a long fucking time ago. There’s no way Bobby’s still got his.But Dean stares into his eyes.With a roll of his shoulders, he elbows Bobby out of the way and takes the second shot for himself. The rum goes down about as smooth as he expected it to, and it takes a little more willpower than he can really afford to muster to keep from coughing it up all over both of them. Still, he does it.“Fine. Whatever.”Beside him, Bobby seems to sag forward in relief. Dean hands him back the rum and returns to his own standby, the whiskey in the corner.“But Emma’s comin’, too. Soon as we stop, get Tessa on the case to get her some kinda dress. I ain’t gonna be the only dancing bear.”* * *A much-too-short eight hours later, the limo slows to a stop in front of an ivory mansion with a cast iron gate and a bunch of those damn Harry Potter maze shrubs. Dean pulls at his collar for what has to be the tenth time since he stuffed himself into this monkey suit, but he doesn’t pull his tie loose. He made peace with it in the train car—he’s gonna be on his best behavior tonight. For Emma. For Bobby.Don’t mean he has to like it.Still, it's a little easier now he knows that the place they're headed isn't anywhere he's been before. Close as it is to the Tributes' hotel, he's never actually been this direction. It's too close to the President's mansion for that to have been a possibility. Even if it had, Azazel liked penthouse suites in the middle of the city. And Alastair preferred the dark. The limo doors swing open automatically, beeping quietly as if that’s a more polite way of telling them to get the fuck out. Dean counts to five to keep from rolling his eyes and throws himself out instead, careful not to catch his suit on anything. He catches a glimpse of himself in the shiny white side of the car as Bobby, Emma, and Tessa slide out behind him. Like his outfit for the Reaping, he’s gotta admit that Balthazar didn’t do a bad job. And at least he didn’t go with green again. No, this time, he’s in a dark red silk suit with a black bowtie, both with a grid pattern that reminds him of wheat grains. Glitzy enough to help him blend in, subtle enough to tell everyone just where the fuck he comes from.Balthazar ain’t Gabe, but he ain’t bad.The doors slam shut, and the nonexistent driver speeds the limo toward the parking zone off to the side. Tessa clips the black and white lace nailstrip that controls the remote controller onto her middle finger, holding it till it cures to her polish. When Dean catches her eye, she winks. He smirks—her rebellions are little, but, at least from her, they still count.Bobby sidles up next to her, almost unrecognizable in his own black tux sans trucker cap. They link arms and head for the red carpet, shoving their invites at the laser reader till the gates snap open to let them in.Dean turns around and offers his own arm for Emma.As always, Tessa didn’t disappoint. Emma still looks young, so fucking young that it makes his stomach clench, but the dress and the makeup save her a bit. She could almost pass for 20 in the right light, and it’s pitch black in the garden apart from the tealights, so he doesn’t think she’ll have a problem.He pats one of the real-life roses growing out of the arms of her dress and smiles at her.“You look nice.”Emma nods but doesn’t smile. Dean tries not to, but he still ends up clutching her elbow tighter than he should. It’s more of a reaction than she’s given anybody since the Reaping. He doesn’t take that lightly.There’s one thing that he, Bobby, and Tessa have definitely thought since this morning and not said to each other. All three of them have been doing this long enough to label Tributes with some accuracy. They know which ones will fight hard, which ones will try to win, which ones ain’t afraid of losing themselves in the process.Emma isn’t any of those. Emma’s already given up.Dean’s had a few kids panic on his watch and make stupid mistakes because of it, but he’s never had one from his District who straight-up didn’t fight. Doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen it before, though. There’s always one, usually from the lower Districts. Some knobby-kneed, pimple-faced kid who can’t speak, or move, or do much of anything once they get into the arena. He’s never seen anybody clam up this hard this fast, but he recognizes all the signs.He’d never describe Bobby and Tessa as cold. They just know a lost cause when they see one. They know who’s worth putting their effort into.That’s not a lesson Dean ever figured out. He doesn’t think he’s gonna suddenly get it tonight.Dean grits his teeth and pulls her tight to his side. He looks at her instead of the iron gate, and keeps his eyes on her to keep from shaking.“Listen,” he starts soft, taking both their invitations to pop in front of the laser. “I’m the last fucking person to be saying anything, but keep your head up in here, and smile. They’re all snakes, and they all wanna eat you alive. Don’t let ‘em. You stay with me, or Bobby, or Tessa. Capisce?”Again, she nods. She still doesn’t say anything, but he imagines that her hand tightens on his elbow. It’s enough to have his patented fake-as-hell smile slide a bit into his real one. She doesn’t return it, but at least she doesn’t look like a scared little mouse here in the dark. As long as no one gets too close, she could pass for looking bored. Good. Bored can work in her favor.The shrubs give way at the end of the rolled-out carpet, and Dean’s chest gives a little thump. There are a lot of people—a lot—but less than he was expecting. He can do this. He can keep his cool long enough for Bobby to get a bead on the new Gamesmaster.Beside him, Emma is standing stock still, spine stiff. He nudges her in the side, and, when that doesn’t work, lets his eyes wander to the only thing about these fucking parties he likes: free bar and buffet. With a grunt, he steers her away from the crowd of suits and fancy dresses to shove her at a cart decked high in tequila and schnapps. He grabs the nearest bottle, not bothering to look at what it is, and shoves it in Emma’s hand. She blinks, then looks down, a wrinkle between her pretty blonde brows. It almost makes Dean smile.“Trust me, you’ll need it,” he whispers.Emma doesn’t seem to agree, but they both know she doesn’t have it in her to argue. She nods, once, then uncaps the top and pours at least two shots-worth down her throat. A stupid little bubble of pride rises in his throat when she only chokes a little.“Good job, kid. I’ma grab food. You want anything?”She shakes her head, but at least she takes another swig. Her cheeks are getting redder by the second, and he’d feel bad about getting her drunk for the second time today (and probably the second time in her entire life) if he wasn’t sure she’d end up blacking out again. God knows blackouts have saved him more times than he can count.Satisfied that she’s gonna stick around beside the liquor cart, Dean lets her go and wanders over to the buffet table. He smells it before he sees it, and then the combination has his mouth slobbering like a damn dog.There's mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, boiled potatoes, fries. A fruit platter even Dean finds himself ogling that he’s sure would make Sammy cum in his pants. Two plates piled high with different kinds of chicken. A whole roast pig with a fat, unnaturally red apple stuffed up its snout. Five different kinds of pies.Dean’s mouth waters even more, and he hates himself for it.The first time he went to one of these things, he ate so much he puked, then promptly went back for seconds. And thirds. When he went back again for fourths and noticed other partiers doing the same thing—hurling their guts then going right back with ridiculous smiles on their faces—he got sick all over again. They weren’t doing it because they’d learned to eat what they could when they could, because the food was more delicious than anything they’d ever eaten, because this one indulgence was one of the only ones they really got to have. They just did it because it was the “in” thing to do.Dean’s mouth shifts at the memory. Still, he sidles over, grabs a plate, and starts stuffing it high with mini quiches, chicken cutlets, and chocolate tarts, though. Waste not, want not.He looks to his left, just to make sure Emma’s still there. She is, and, better still, Tessa’s wandered over to watch her. There’s a solid wall of people between them, but she’s still in Tessa’s line of sight, and that’s enough.His eyes trail over a few of the women in the way. In a different place, a different circumstance, there are a few he’d be all over right about now. Mile-high thighs and tits he’d just about pay to suck on. Every inch of them is fake, but he doesn’t care. He’s just interested in getting off. At least it would be something to do. But he knows these kind of ladies, and, nice as they are to look at even now, he knows better than to give them a shot. He remembers all too well what they’re like.He looks away. And then, standing next to a punchbowl that reeks of sugar and vodka even from across the yard, he sees him. Gold lamé suit, wingtip shoes with a heel to push him over that 5-foot-8 threshold, leant over a party table to talk to some dark supermodel at least twice his height.His blood boils. Dean takes a deep breath, sets his plate on the buffet, and hikes up his sleeves. He’s walking over, fists clenched, before he even realizes it.A few feet away, Gabe seems to sense his oncoming death, and stares up at Dean. The little bastard has the fucking nerve to wave.Dean growls.“Gabe, you mother—”“Deano! How’s my favorite victor?”His interruption comes with a cheesy little shit-eating grin that Dean’s about half a second away from punching off. But his eyes glint, gold steel and dangerous, and Dean holds back. He’s smart enough to know when Gabe’s playing stupid. He knows enough to see the warning.The woman Gabe was chatting up has wandered off, but a glance over his shoulder tells him she’s still in hearing distance. So are both of the men hanging off her arms. Dean doesn’t recognize either of them, but he knows enough to spot a bigwig when he sees one. They’ve got Lucifer’s smarm dripping out their assholes.It kills him, fucking eviscerates him, but he takes a deep breath, unclenches his fists, and looks back down. His blood still boils.“Hey, Gabe. How’ve you been, man?”“WHERE the fuck have you been?” he hopes the little shortstack hears. “Why didn’t you warn us about any of this shit? How’d you let this happen to Cas?”“Oh, didn’t you hear? I’m doing great! Got a big fat promotion! You’re looking at the stylist for District 3!”His mouth ticks down on one side, slight enough that nobody in the crowd will notice, but Dean does. Promotion his ass. Gabe got himself this job the dirty way. He’s not feeling charitable enough yet to think it might be to keep Cas safe, but he does wonder just what the little dude had to sell of himself to get here.“Speaking of which, how’re you enjoying my replacement?” Gabe’s eyes rake up Dean’s body from his shoes. If he had any dignity left, he might actually blush about it. “From the looks of things, I put you in good hands.”“Yeah, he’s a real swell guy. But, then, you know I’m a little biased. Love getting to know about all your friends.”Gabe’s mouth gives another little twitch.“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about. Surprisingly, I’m not all that popular. Lots of acquaintances, not so many friends, and all the tail I can get. Woe is me, right?”He winks and elbows Dean in the rib too rough to be friendly, but Dean doesn’t budge.“Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I dunno, might just be the District 9 in me, but I never understood a guy who’d let someone he cares about march to their death. Guess that’s why I’m in this position to begin with, though.”He’s being as subtle as a trashcan fire, but he doesn’t care. If they aren’t gonna have this conversation out in the open (and, yeah, he admits that it’s a stupid idea, even if it’s the only thing he wants right now), he’s at least gonna get as close to clear answers as he can get. He ain’t in the mood to play codeword.And, thank God, that seems to do it.Gabe’s eyes narrow to golden little slits, his chin clenched and a vein in his neck popping.“Listen up, you little prick,” he hisses, “you don’t know a damn thing about what’s going on here. As usual. The world’s a lot bigger than you. Get the fuck off your high horse and try to listen to the big boys for once, got it?”Dean clenches his fist and pulls it back. He’s gonna do it. Good behavior for Bobby be damned, he’s gonna lay this son of a bitch out right here, right now. Gabe shakes his head, a soft twitch to the side, as if that’s gonna save him now. He’s just happy that the little squirt actually looks scared.“Enjoying the party?”Dean spins on his heel. From the depth of the voice, he’s expecting to see a giant near Sam’s size, some bouncer ready to break up a fight before it starts. To his surprise, he overestimated, and his gaze falls solidly on a sleek comb-over. He takes a step back and drops his eyes.For all intents and purposes, the guy attached to the coif ain’t nothing special. He’s shorter than Dean, but not dwarfish, too portly to fit in with most of the crowd but not exactly fat. Just normal. At least, until he sees his eyes.They’re just brown. No funky colors like he’d have expected. But the narrow, calculating glint lets him know that height ain’t the only thing he’s underestimated with this one. He smells like Capital filth.Before Dean can muster up anything to say, Gabe shoves him out of the way and extends his hand, grabbing the newcomer’s and shaking it forcefully. Neither of them miss how the man stares at his hand after as if he’d just shoved it up that stuffed pig’s butt and wipes it off on his pants pocket.“Ah, the man of the hour!” Gabe crows. “Dean, meet this year’s new Gamesmaster. Dean Winchester, Fergus McLeod. Fergus, Dean.”Dean’s mouth creaks open, and, of course, the first thing to slip out is, “Fergus?”The man laughs, a soft, quiet thing that never leaves his throat. “Sounds like a venereal disease, doesn’t it? Blame my mother. If it’s all the same, you can just call me Crowley.”Crowley isn’t any less ridiculous, but it’s not the stupidest Capital name he’s ever heard. Dude gives a little smirk like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking, and that does nothing so much as put Dean on edge. He doesn’t trust anyone on principal, especially not Capital lackeys, but this guy… Dean can tell he’s something different.Still, when he holds out his hand, Dean shakes it. Ignores the way it makes his skin crawl, the way Crowley’s hand lingers a little too long. He notices that, unlike with Gabe, Crowley doesn’t brush off his hand this time.“Back to my original question, though. How are you enjoying my party?”Dean takes a cursory glance around the garden. “Eh, not my thing. A little stuffy for my taste.”“You’d be amazed how much more interesting things become when you loosen your morals.”“I assume that means you’re living it up, then.”He feels Gabe clench up behind him a second before he fades into the crowd. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches—good a hunter as Dean is, there’s no way he’s finding Gabe again tonight.Crowley draws Dean’s attention back to him with a single bark of laughter.“Feisty. I like it. I’m sure your fans do, too.”Dean shrugs. “It’s either that or my perky nipples.”“Well, I’ll be sure to emphasize both during the Games. Must make sure we keep our ratings high.”“For sure. I hear that’s what got Azazel the boot.”The beady little eyes darken, narrow. Dean’s sure that a lesser man’s hair might stand on end to see it. His doesn’t. He’s faced worse before. Crowley ain’t got nothing on what he’s been up against.Before Crowley can say anything, Dean leans back, casual as can be, and continues, “Course, it could’ve been too much fun. Risk of being the Gamesmaster and all that.”“Oh, I don’t know about that. But, then, I’ve always loved playing games. Fun is my name.”“Funny, thought you said it was Crowley.”Crowley smirks, a wicked grin that twists up just the left side of his face. Because he can’t resist, Dean winks at him. The little man’s smile grows wider. Dean would give his left nut to be able to read his blood pressure right now.“Well, you will certainly be making this year interesting for me, Dean. Hope you keep that austere wit about you in the arena.”A man in a black suit materializes from the crowd, hopping to Crowley’s side like the little troll he no doubt is. He leans down to whisper in the guy’s ear, and, when Crowley swats him away just a few seconds into it, dutifully bounces away. Dean rolls his eyes—yep, lackeys are all the same.Crowley gives a long-suffering sigh and pulls himself up to full height, straightening his coat in the process.“On that note, I’m afraid I’ll have to be leaving you. The price of being a good host and all that.”He gives Dean another onceover, just piercing enough that Dean knows he isn’t checking him out, then spins away, following the suit guy through the garden. Whatever fury had kept Dean standing till now gusts out of him like a deflated balloon. All he feels now is empty.Another look around the garden confirms what he already knew—Gabe’s in the wind. A few yards away, Bobby weaves through a group of cat-faced bitches, Crowley’s tailcoats in his sights.Dean rolls his shoulders and marches back to the liquor cart Emma has dutifully taken point at. Her cheeks are reaching cherry levels, and a look at her hand tells him why—she’s moved on to a whole bottle of tequila.He rips it from her hand, not bothering to grab the cork, and swallows the rest of it in one go.Like he said—waste not, want not.
May 2, Year of the 38th Games
There were two kinds of Capitol trains: the ones that came through every other week to collect the grain harvests, and the ones that came through maybe once a month, tops, straight from the Capitol.Dean had been on both by the time he was in school.Loading up the train cars was a great way to make extra cash before you could get a real job. It didn’t pay much, but a little was better than nothing. Bag up the wheat, bundle the bags in pallets, scratch yourself silly on the straw, and work up your allergies to get a little extra food for the day—simple as could be. Dean was probably the only 5-year-old to find that out in person, but he wasn’t the only kid out there on the platforms.He never let Sam touch the stuff. Neither did John.As for the Capitol trains, well, Dean didn’t have nearly as much experience, but he couldn’t say he was a stranger to them, either. John was a victor, and that meant the occasional politicking with the Capitol and rubbing elbows with the other Districts. John hated it, and he made no secret about it, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. Everyone knew that Sam and Dean would be good as dead if John refused to keep playing their games.What he did have a choice about was whether or not to take his sons with him. As they got older, that choice was usually a resounding “No”, but those first few years after Sammy was born, John bit the bullet and let them tag along. After that, it was a lot of Dean staying behind to watch his brother and make sure they didn’t starve while Dad was gone. It was only after Dean proved he could handle a gun that John let him start coming with again, and, even then, it was only when he planned to do some hunting on the side. Half an hour after the Reaping, maybe 15 minutes after the guards ushered Sam back home, Dean looked up at the first Capitol train he’d seen up close since John died and realized he remembered none of it. The silver bullet train with its shiny sheet windows might as well have been a brand-new invention.“I assume this is our ride?”Dean whipped around, fists clenched. He knew a fucking Capitol accent when he heard one, and this met all the markers, including sounding fake as hell. He expected their bottle blonde escort, even though she hadn’t bothered with the accent up on stage. What he didn’t expect was a girl a head shorter than him with a brunette bob.Bela Talbot, hair swinging and nose wrinkled, hips swaying as she strode up the steps of the train platform. She looked every bit as bored as she had on stage.Dean didn’t manage to keep his surprise to himself. He felt his eyebrow arc and his mouth fall open in surprise. She hadn’t said a word when she was Reaped, and he honestly hadn’t given a single thought to what her voice might sound like. If he had, this sure as fuck wouldn’t have been his first guess.He was still gaping when she finally reached his side.“Well? Are you smart at all, or just a smartarse?”That snapped him out of it. Okay, what the fuck?He snapped his jaw shut, refusing to give her the courtesy of responding, even if it was to call her a bitch. Fortunately, the train interrupted them before he had to deal with any more of her compliments. With a whoosh, the doors slid open right in front of them. Standing in the middle, eyes on her fingernails, was the woman from the Capitol who’d read out their names.“Congratulations, esteemed Tributes of District 9, this will be the first day of the rest of your lives, blah blah blah.”Dean and Bela glanced at each other, both sporting a cocked eyebrow. The Capitol bitch didn’t notice. She was filing her nails, and that was obviously more important to her than the kids that might die on her watch.“My name is Ruby, and I’ll be your escort for the duration of this year’s Games. Lucky me.” Ruby sighed dramatically and gave them a quick onceover. “This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you about how I’ll be supporting you all the way and ‘Go team!’, but let’s be real here. The Games are rigged. You know it, I know it, everybody with more than two brain cells to rub together knows it. I just don’t happen to be popular enough to know who they’ve rigged it for this year. But,” she snorted, with a slight shake of her head, “something else all three of us know is that it won’t be either of you. So strap in for the ride, enjoy what you can, and try not to die too early. It’ll make me look bad. Capisce?”Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched off. The door stayed open behind her.Bela waited maybe two seconds. Apparently, her patience was even shorter than Dean’s. With a huff, she straightened her shoulders and followed Ruby into the train. Dean rolled his eyes, shrugged Dad’s jacket a little closer, and went in, too—it wasn’t like he had a ton of other options.The second his back was to it, the door whooshed shut. Dean clenched his fists, annoyed at the way the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Everything in the Capitol was a spy, tech and vehicles included, so it wasn’t a surprise that the train doors knew when they were all set. Didn’t make it any less disturbing.“There you are.”Dean snapped toward Bobby’s voice. Just over the old man’s trucker cap, he could make out Bela’s bob disappearing through a different set of doors. Ruby was already gone. It was just the two of them.“Yeah. Guess we can get this party started then, right?”Bobby didn’t smile. Or snort. Or roll his eyes. He just stood there, arms glued to his sides the same as Dean’s. They didn’t have to—the hall was narrow, but not that narrow—but it didn’t look like they could think of anything better to do.Well, that wasn’t quite true. Dean knew that look in Bobby’s eyes. The old man wanted to hug him, or pat him on the shoulder, or anything else that would say, “It’s gonna be just fine, kid.” But they both knew it was a lie, and that wasn’t their way. Besides, Bobby had to know that Sam had already given him enough sappy spiels to last a lifetime. Bobby was good about not adding onto those kinds of things.Sure enough, the waiting finally got to him. Bobby slumped forward, eyes on the ground, hands just as still as ever at his sides.“Well, maybe not a party. You’d be better off trying to get some sleep.”He heard the note of apology. They both knew damn well that neither Dean nor Bobby would be getting any sleep at all any time soon, on the train or otherwise. It was an 8 hour ride to the Capitol, though, if Dean remembered right—he’d never been himself, but he’d been to Districts 1 and 2, and that was about how long it took to get to both of them. Like Bobby said, he’d be better off trying to spend those 8 hours sleeping than worrying about tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next month.Didn’t make it any less impossible.Still, Dean wasn’t in the mood to argue. Especially not with Bobby. He cocked his shoulder toward the opposite end of the train, wordlessly asking if “his” room was that way. It took Bobby a second, his eyes thick with that glassy, faraway look Dean hated to see, but he eventually nodded. Just once. Short and stiff.Dean didn’t linger to see if Bobby had anything else to say. If he did, it wasn’t something Dean wanted or needed to hear right now. He gave him the closest thing to a thankful smile he could manage at the moment and high-tailed it the hell out of dodge.There was only one door at this end of the train, so he didn’t have to wander around for long. A tap to the keypad on the left, and he was in. Like the entry door, it slid shut whisper quiet as soon as he was inside.It was a big room. Fancy. Matching cherrywood furniture, king-sized bed already turned down. Washroom off to the side. Probably had a shower bigger than Dean’s own kitchen. Probably spotless in a way Dean would never achieve in anything he owned.It felt just as much like a prison as the cement justice building. The factory. The half-broken hut Dean had to call home.He let his head hang and climbed silent into bed. All you gotta do is shut your eyes, he told himself, settling against the cold silk pillow. Just go to sleep, and then that’s one less day to worry about.* * *Dean tried. It’s not like he laid down with the intention of memorizing the ceiling. He knew it’d be easier if he went to sleep, if he at least got a little bit of rest before the shitshow really started. But knowing and trying ain’t the same things as doing. Fifteen minutes in, he knew sleep wasn’t gonna happen. Five hours in, he was proven correct.If he had a brain like Sammy’s, that would’ve been one thing. That would’ve at least given him a reason for his brain to act like its own perpetual motion machine. He didn’t, though. It was just a Dean brain. Useless for anything but hunting and taking care of his brother. And all it could do while the train chugged forward was dwell on the past. Especially the past few hours.Thirty minutes of that bullshit was enough to put Dean on edge, but he managed to sit through it till his knees felt stiff and his back ached from lying so still. He wondered, vaguely, if other eighteen-year-olds felt that way, but that wasn’t a question he knew how to get an answer for, and that just made it pointless.When the light from the frosted glass windows started turning orange, Dean figured he’d waited long enough. With a groan, he hoisted himself off the mattress, rolled his shoulders, and left the room.Out in the hall, he could see the view outside a lot better. Mountains, far as the eye could see. Huge rocky things that stretched to the sky on all sides. At one point, they probably amazed him, but all he felt now was tired and in need of a drink. Not that he was gonna get anything like that on this train.He found the end pretty easy. There was just the one hall, and only two rooms, both of which he knew were temporarily his and Bela’s. And that meant the door at the end had to be dining car or whatever the hell they called the common room on this thing. Look at that—master of deduction. He’d have no problem winning the Games.Dean rolled his eyes at himself as he pressed the pad beside the door. The solid steel slid open, shining briefly with reflected light, and then a room of blue velvet and dark wood took its place. Ruby was already camped out in the corner, looking at some magazine that, from what Dean could tell, advertised Capitol fashion and gossip. He didn’t care to investigate it any further than that. Bela was splayed out on a hideous couch, one of those fancy long ones with clawed feet and no back or arms, looking every bit as bored as usual. Bobby was sipping from his flask and tapping his fingers on the bar.And that, finally, managed to grab Dean’s attention: a full-length wraparound bar stocked with every kind of liquor, beer, and glass Dean could think of, stretched across half the room. Dean’s eyes went wide. Well, he stood corrected—apparently, a drink wasn’t out of the question.His boots stuck clumsily to the velvet carpet, but Dean didn’t give a good goddamn. The idea of leaving his stains on hoity-toity Capitol contraption was vaguely amusing, but not enough to distract him from the full tumbler of whiskey calling his name.“Ya get your forty winks, boy?”Bobby’s voice had Bela up and on her knees in an instant, glaring at Dean with exasperation he was pretty sure he hadn’t earned. Ruby, as usual, didn’t notice—she just flipped another page in her magazine. He ignored both of them. Not that it was hard—there was a good selection of 40s on the shelf next to Bobby’s head. Which meant that he couldn’t ignore Bobby. At the moment, though, Dean couldn’t complain—the old man looked just as put out by their female companions as Dean was.“Oh, you know me,” he said, smirking. “Give me my four hours, and I’m golden.”Bobby pursed his lips, probably gearing up to tell Dean to cut the bullshit, but Bela cut him to it. In the reflection of the glass bottles, Dean could tell that what he’d taken for irritation was straight up desperation. She almost looked unhinged.“Good, the prodigal son is returned and well-rested,” she sneered. “Can we talk now? What’s our plan?”“We having a party or something?”Bela swatted her hands at him. “No, you imbecile, our game plan! He,” she gestured at Bobby, “said we should all be involved in the conversation. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”“What can I say?” Dean glanced over his shoulder and shot her what he considered the most winning of the winks in his arsenal. “They don’t call me Sleeping Beauty for nothing.”With a huff, she spun away from him to stare at Bobby. Dean took the opportunity to grab a canteen of amber liquid and upend it into a shot glass. If this was the conversation they were gonna have, malt liquor wasn’t gonna cut it—he needed something with a little more bite. One sip in and he knew he’d made the right choice. It tasted like fire all the way down and left him feeling warm and swimmy. Good stuff.“Well, what are your thoughts? What’s our strategy? How do we win?”Dean snorted and poured himself another shot. “Easy—don’t die.”Bela didn’t seem to find that funny. Her loss, Dean thought—in his opinion, he was pretty fucking hilarious.Inside his head, he raised the glass to himself in a little toast to his own sense of humor. The second shot actually burned worse than the first. Dean almost smiled—finally, a liquor that did what it was supposed to do.“Take this seriously, would you?” Bela hissed. “It’s not just your life on the line here.”“Never said it was, sweetheart.”“Alright, knock it off.”Bobby snatched the glass bottle from Dean’s hand and slammed it back onto the shelf. Dean opened his mouth to complain, but the look in Bobby’s eyes brokered no argument. With a little huff of his own, he tossed back the last shot he’d managed to pour and settled himself against the wall, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.“Good.” He turned toward Bela. “Now, you wanna talk strategy? Let’s talk. Whaddaya wanna know?“Where’s the arena this year? Have they enacted any special rules? What do we know about our competition?”She spoke so fast she almost stuttered on the last word. Ruby’s eyes flickered toward Bela over the top of her magazine, a little sneer on her top lip and in her eyes. It had been growing since Bela started talking, but this was the first time she’d stopped what she was doing to show it. Apparently, she was just as put off as Dean was by her attempt at a Capitol accent.If Bobby shared their annoyance, he didn’t show it. All business, he set his flask down on the bar and leaned forward.“To the first question, somewhere outside the Capitol. Used to be Wyoming. Don’t know if they taught you much geography in school, but it ain’t changed much since the war. Looks like a ghost town. Not a lot in the way of traditional coverage or camouflage.”Much as he didn’t want to, Dean filed away that little nugget of information for later. Forest arenas were popular for a reason—lots of hiding places, lots of opportunities for ambushes. Doing it out in the open like this had a whole different set of complications. But Dean knew how to make it work. Stay low, stay slow, and hoard the ranged weapons.“Number two,” Bobby groused, “nope, no special accommodations this time around. It ain’t a banner year, so it’s just gonna be the same as usual. And three, as for competition, we don’t know nearly as much as we’d like. I’ll have to do some scoping once we get to the Capitol to find out the full guestlist.” His eyes flashed toward Dean’s for half a second. “No word on 10 through 12 yet, obviously.”Dean’s gut clenched. He hadn’t even thought of District 11. Trust Bobby to remember what even he forgot. Granted, the odds of Cassie Robinson getting reaped were slim to none. She didn’t have any skin in these Games like Sam and Dean did, she kept her nose clean, and she was just one year away from aging out, too. But that wasn’t a certain guarantee, and a certain guarantee was the only thing that would set Dean’s nerves to rest. He already had Jo to worry about.He reached for a beer and shook the thought from his head.“Forgot to ask earlier,” he said, “but about that: who’s taking up your post for District 6 anyway?”“Jody Mills. Not like they’d let me or Ellen be in charge with Jo in the running.”Bela cocked an eyebrow, her curiosity obvious, but neither Dean nor Bobby elaborated. She didn’t need to know the details. Besides, Dean felt stupider than usual for not realizing that already. Of course the Capitol wouldn’t let Bobby and Ellen keep an eye on their kid themselves. Still, though, Jody wasn’t a bad pick. She was plenty capable, and Dean knew she’d do her damnedest to keep Jo alive. Just like Dean would.“Alright, well, that’s still enough to get started with.” Bela swung her legs over the couch to take a seat across from Dean and Bobby at the bar. “I always received excellent marks in my athletics classes, so that won’t be an issue, and I have excellent aim. I’m already planning to exploit that for ranged weapons. But I need pointers on hand-to-hand combat and survival skills. I’m not about to die from a knife to the back or some poisonous berry, if there even are any where we’re going.”Dean and Bobby shared another quick glance. Much as he hated it, and much as he wanted to not talk about anything, especially this, Dean had to admit he was impressed. So was Bobby, by the look of things. From what Dean had heard from his dad and the other victors, most kids buckled under the pressure and went quiet once the reaping set in. Bela didn’t give a fuck. And it wasn’t just an act—you didn’t talk about stuff like this the way she did if you were actually scared.“Uh… glad you’ve given it some thought,” Bobby finally muttered. “They’ll give you a crash course on hand-to-hand and wilderness during training. I’ll fill in the blanks. Trust me, easier to do things that way then overload you with info from the onset. But they got a gym where we’re stayin’, if you wanna practice the other stuff.”Bela nodded once, sharp. She didn’t seem too keen on having to wait, but at least she wasn’t gonna argue. Dean might have actually said “to hell with it” and knocked her lights out if she had—Bobby had enough on his plate without some know-it-all try-hard’s mouth to add on top of it.“Good. Dean will join me. We can practice together.”Dean sipped on his beer. Hell, he might knock her lights out anyway if she kept acting like she was his boss.Apparently, his death glare had gotten stiff, or Bela didn’t give a fuck about that either. Whatever the reason, she leaned toward him over the bar and eyed him up and down like cattle. His fingers clenched against the wood.“Actually, we might want to practice other things, too. We’re both gorgeous, no getting around that. It could drum up some attention if we played the romantic angle.” Scratch that—Dean was definitely punching this chick.“Screw that. Sorry, but you ain’t quite my type, sweetheart,” he drawled. “I don’t like ‘em soulless.”“It’s not a bad idea. The audience always loves gossip.”Dean jerked his head toward the corner, the pulse in his jaw ticking. Ruby hadn’t even had the good grace to look up from her magazine, but, apparently, they’d finally gotten to a conversation topic she considered worthy of her attention. Maybe Dean would take them both out.Before he could so much as speak, a sharp boot got him in the knee. Dean hissed, but at least he managed to keep from looking Bobby’s directionؙ—apparently, the old coot had been keeping his history with the Rockettes a secret, what with those high kicks.“I’ll take it under advisement. And so will he.”Dean felt the glare pointed in his direction, the one that might as well have said, “Don’t be an idjit,” but it’s not like he needed it. The kick had made Bobby plenty clear already. And Dean was still in the “hell fucking no” camp, but he had to concede that it wasn’t a bad idea. Dad might’ve loved to preach that he got through his Games on skill alone, but he was an exception, not the rule. Most people needed at least a handful of sponsors to make it out alive. Dean wasn’t anything special, so he’d probably need more than just a handful.Ignoring all of them, he set aside his beer and topped the empty shot glass with a pour of something that looked and smelled like paint thinner. Mixing alcohols this early probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but Dean hadn’t given in to his stupid quota for the day yet—he was allowed at least this one more.“Whatever, you got the info you wanted. Enough business talk. What I wanna know is, when do I get to meet the President?” He threw back the liquor, wincing at the sour taste the new combo made, then poured himself another. “I was hoping I’d get to tell him how much I appreciate his administration in person.”Bobby’s eyeroll was less subtle this time. “Yeah, well, you won’t. Nobody gets to see him.”“No one?” Bela took the whiskey Bobby had stolen from Dean and threw back a shot of her own, straight from the bottle. She didn’t so much as blink. Dean bit down on his lip to keep himself from grinning. “Really?”“Yep. Think about it—you ever even seen him on the TV?” He paused, but Dean and Bela didn’t really need it—they both knew for a fact that they hadn’t. “Thought not. Look, it’s all very Nineteen Eighty-Four up there. I mean, he exists, he isn’t some bedtime story, but I don’t know a soul who’s actually met him.”Dean stared at him, eyebrow cocked.“Nineteen Eighty-Four? Really, Bobby?”The old man shrugged. “What, I read.”“Shame. Figured he’d at least wanna check out his hand-picked special children.” Dean put a hand to his heart, not bothering to wipe off the too wry, too bored look that belayed in actual offense. “I’m hurt.”To her credit, Bela didn’t even roll her eyes at him. Neither did Bobby. The old man took another drink, then set his flask back down.The light changed. It was subtle, at first, but Dean hadn’t gotten where he was by ignoring signals. The mountains that surrounded the windows dipped, fading to hills, then bumps, then flat ground and, finally, water. Orange sunlight bounced off it and straight into the train car, painting everything like an old timey photograph. The train started to slow.“Home sweet home,” Ruby muttered, finally setting the magazine to the side. She hopped out of her seat without a look so much as a look at anybody else. “Maybe I can finally get some damn French fries.”A part of him, a not-so-small part, wanted to do something childish like trip her on her way out the door. Or maybe finally make good on his internal promise to bitch slap her. Dean couldn’t find it in him to move for either, though. The glare off the water had faded, and they were finally close enough to get a good view of the city on the other side.Dean had seen a lot. A lot more than most District kids, that was for damn sure. The leftover swamps of centuries gone by in District 8. Snowcaps in District 7. The edge of the ocean in District 4. Hell, he’d practically raised himself on the plains of District 9 the last few years. He’d never seen anything like this.He hadn’t been alive before the war, so it wasn’t like he knew how it compared to the world as he knew it. The pictures in their schoolbooks looked a little greener, a little less burnt out and dead, but that was the only big difference he could tell. It was still nature. There was still something of the Earth in it, bombed and blasted as it was.This was not that. There wasn’t a single natural thing about it. Sky-high buildings walled up the whole edge of the island, gleaming and chrome and every bit as artificial as the people who lived inside them. They smooshed up against each other with barely enough space to let the light in. He imagined it had to be pitch black in the center.And all the wires. Every spare inch of sky was filled with wires, cords, cables, stretched taut and buzzing with electric energy. He could feel the unnatural hum like hooks in his soul. If he didn’t keep it together, it would tear him apart.He didn’t take the moment for granted. He swallowed, breathed, allowed himself a moment to shake. The second the train stopped, he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d have to plaster on that vague smile, the fearless eyes and rough bravado he’d learned how to sport since he was five-freaking-years-old. But, for now, he could let it all wash over him. Right now, he could let it sink in. He was a rat in a maze, and he was marching to almost guaranteed death.For the first time in his whole life, he wished he was stuck in the moldy shed back in District 9 instead.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It ain’t strictly kosher to go snooping around the other Tributes. Back when this whole thing first started, a few too many of the kids from the upper districts tried that as a means to off the competition before the Games began. Since about the fifth go-around, they’ve kept the Tributes segregated to different floors of the same hotel, close enough to give a false sense of unity but far enough apart to keep them from killing each other. In a normal year, one where the Tributes aren’t legacy players, the first time they’ll ever actually see each other is at the Opening Ceremony.But Dean’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.Much as they like to pretend they’re some whole other species, the Capitol ain’t that different from District 9. Slide the right amount of money or the right kind of booze into the right back pocket, get a little heavy-handed with the flirting, play drunk and stupid so everyone thinks you’re incompetent, and you'll get anything you want. Bobby might have taught him that last one, but Dean’s been doing the other two since he started school. It doesn’t matter where they’re from—all people can be bought. You just gotta know the currency.Anyway, it’s impossible to see any of the other Tributes, period, and there are guards at every staircase and elevator just waiting to kill anyone who tries, but there are always loopholes. Intel, for example. Which Tributes talk in their sleep, and what do they talk about? Is anybody coming in as a weapons expert? Anything that could be used for blackmail? You can get plenty of stuff like that.This case is a little different, though. This time, Dean’s looking to give rather than get.He’s only done it this way once, and not since his first round with the Games. Even then, though, it was a little simpler. He wanted to get a message out of the hotel, out of the Capitol, entirely. Getting it to somebody in the same building would be easier anywhere else, but, here, it’s gonna be trickier, and he knows it.But he’s gotta try. He’s gotta talk to Cas, and he’s gotta do it soon. Away from the cameras and prying eyes, before this shitshow really kicks off.He’s already got the note ready. It’s short. Coded, but not enough that Cas will need a key or anything chemical to crack it. For all Dean knows (and maybe hopes), Cas might even get a kick out of it. Might understand that it means Dean really does listen to him.They haven’t always had a wealth of time to talk to each other, but they don’t just keep their conversations to the nuts-and-bolts, either. Even when one (or both) of them is pissed. Dean usually ends up sharing more about his thoughts or his past or his goddamn feelings than he ever means to and always ends up kicking himself for it after. Cas goes off on weird tangents that Dean sometimes pretends to be annoyed by but usually finds endearing.One of those tangents is the basis for this code. More years ago than Dean cares to count, Cas decided that the best way to keep Dean awake during a stakeout was to talk to him about etymology. Dean didn’t even know what etymology was at the time, and he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to find out, but it was just him and Cas, and any conversation was better than charged silence. So, Cas talked about synecdoche. About using related words to replace each other in phrases. “Arm” can mean a whole human body. “Beef” can mean all meat in general. And then Cas talked about homonyms, like “meet” and “meat”, “eight” and “ate”. And then he told Dean about antiquated terms for time, like fortnight (which Dean actually did know, thanks) and nuncheon and vespers. Dean didn’t make any contributions to that conversation, but Sam did. He explained a bunch of kid jokes to Cas because, despite being older than both of them, Cas barely knew anything. Watching that whole thing unfold was more than amusing enough for Dean.So: the message Dean wrote?
Beef. Six is afraid of seven. Vespers.
What it means?
Meet in the stairwell between the eighth and ninth floor at 6pm.
He doesn’t sign his name or initials. Cas’ll know it’s him. Cas’ll know what it means. He knows just as well as Dean does that that’s the only damn spot in this hotel that isn’t flanked with guards—just one at each elevator and each door. Nobody roaming the stairs themselves. It’s not like they haven’t used it to meet up before.The tricky part now is gonna be getting out of his room, off his floor, and into Cas’s hands at all. It’s easier to do this when you’re the escort—not so much when you’re the player.Hasn’t stopped him before, though.It’s close to midnight, one week exactly before the Games begin. He hasn’t seen Balthazar since they got here, and while he’s largely thankful to be away from that prick, he’s more pissed off about it than anything. If anybody could get a message to Cas right now, Dean bets it would be him. He’s probably chumming it up with the nerdy little son of a bitch right now. Gabe, too.The thought makes him clench his fists, so he pushes past it.Tessa would be his second choice, but she’s been MIA since the party at Crowley’s. Capitol shit, he knows, so he can’t be too hard on her. Bobby’s already tried to get the message out, but the concierge at the front desk stopped him, thinking he was betraying Dean to give some intel to Caleb and Annie. Shows how little any of these Capitol pricks really know what’s going on.So, that just leaves Dean’s old standby.Taking care to avoid his eyes in the mirror, he ruffles up his hair a little extra and spikes the front with gel. Pops the collar of his jacket so it hangs away from his neck, showing off the cords and muscle. The shirt he’s wearing is plain, black, and about three sizes too small. It hugs his chest and rises up every time he breathes to reveal a slip of skin around his waist. His jeans are just as tight. Dean even took the time to work himself up a little before pulling them on to give a noticeable but not obvious glimpse of the bulge between his thighs.In his opinion, the look doesn’t have nearly the same effect it did when he was a twinky teenager, but nobody else seems to agree. It hasn’t failed him yet, anyway. He’s hoping for the same luck tonight.He takes a deep breath, then slides out of the stone-walled suite and into the mirror-ball black hallway.It’s been a long time since this damn hotel awed him, if it ever awed him at all. Most things related to the Games he remembers with a vivid accuracy he wishes would fade the hell away. His thoughts of the hotel aren’t on that list.All he knows is that he’s seen the whole thing from top to bottom, at least from the distance of the glass elevator, and every hall is exactly the same. Identical polished black floors, matte grey walls, shiny gold ceilings. It’s like art deco gone wrong. He knows from one of Gabe’s frequent rants that it’s all a ploy, that bright colors stand out better against black than they do white, and it’s a “damn waste” because there aren’t any cameras inside the Tributes’ hotel. Outside, sure—gotta make sure the Tributes don’t run off—just none in the halls. But he also knows that it sends a message, one that’s even less subtle than the Capitol’s usual fare—everything is bleak, cause this is where you come to die. And we don’t need cameras, cause we’ve got you right where we want you.He keeps his eyes off his reflection in the floor and marches on. He’s made two turns now and hasn’t run into a single guard, so odds are that he’ll get lucky at the next. And, sure enough, bingo. A big, burly dude in Kevlar black and shades. Dean just barely manages not to roll his eyes. In his experience, there are two types of people who wear sunglasses inside, much less at night—blind people, and douchebags. And he has no doubts that this guy’s vision is 20/20.Dean throws a little extra saunter in his step, enough to draw attention but not enough to make him look drunk. It’s a fine line, but he knows how to ride it. Knows how to ride lots of things, he thinks uncharitably.He’s about three yards out when the guy acts like a human instead of a statue and reaches for the baton on his belt.“No Tributes on the stairs.”Dean huffs a single, short breath of laughter and keeps moving. “I know, buddy, no worries. Ain’t my first rodeo.”He swings in an extra sashay with the word and flicks his tongue to his top lip. The guy doesn’t move except to lower his hand a little closer to the baton, but Dean’s not even close to calling it a lost cause. He knows this game like the back of his hand. He just slows his steps a little, tilting away from the stairwell so the guy knows he’s not a runner.“I am allowed to take a walk, right? Gotta keep in shape, man.”He twists at the waist then clasps his hands and reaches up. The stretch bares an even wider strip of skin around his midriff. The guard looks less than impressed. Dean starts to sweat.“There’s an exercise facility at the opposite end of the hall,” he says. “I can have a colleague escort you if you’d like.”Colleague. Dean has to catch himself from laughing. What a stupid word for these fucking narcs to call each other. Still, he uses that black humor to his advantage, letting it creep into a sly smile.“Can’t take me yourself?”The guy doesn’t answer. Dean leans back against the wall, angling himself to show off the jut of his hipbone and the bulge in his jeans. The guy’s hand doesn’t move from his baton. Finally, Dean allows himself to roll his eyes, but he makes the gesture look fond, amused, instead of fucking irritated as hell and not a little bit worried.“Fine, fine, ya caught me. Can’t blame me for tryin’ though, right?” He pitches his voice a little lower, loud enough to reach the guard’s ears but soft enough that it won’t reverberate through the hall. The walls echo, and he’s been burned by that before. “I want to get a message out.”The guard’s posture stiffens back up, his hand halfway unsheathing the baton. “No Tributes on the stairs,” he repeats.Dean holds up his hands, palms out and easy as can be. “Hey hey, I know. I’m not trying to pull one over on you. Promise. I don’t plan on going anywhere. But…”He draws the motion out, makes it longer than it has any right to be. Just a slip of his hand into his pocket, but he makes it a full-on striptease, touching his bare skin and pushing his jeans just a little bit lower. Once he’s sure the guy isn’t gonna jump, he pulls out the note. He holds it between two fingers, passes it in front of his lips like a cigarette as he ambles toward the guard. The guy’s body doesn’t move, and his shades give nothing away, but Dean can tell by the twitch at his temples that his eyes are following. A lingering glance down the guy’s front shows off a bulge that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago.Dean allows his smirk to grow smug. Got him.“I gotta get this note to somebody. Better to start forming alliances now than wait till we’re in the arena, right?”The guy wets his lips but doesn’t nod. Still, Dean knows for sure what he’s dealing with now, and he doesn’t hesitate to lean into the guy’s space, just close enough for their chests to brush. Without breaking eye contact, he tucks his note into the guard’s breast pocket.“Like you said,” he continues gruffly, “can’t really go anywhere myself. But you can. And, ya know… I’d be very grateful for the help. Might have to give you a tip.”Against Dean’s palm, still lingering on the shirt pocket, the guard’s heart beats a little faster. Dean winks, gives the pocket another pat, then takes a step back. The guard actually hovers after him like he thought they were gonna kiss. If Dean wasn’t so happy, he might puke.Instead, he pitches his voice even lower, more careful than ever to keep his voice from carrying.“Castiel Novak. Male Tribute for District 3. Get that note to him, and I’ll owe you. Big.”Dean licks his lips again for good measure, then turns away. Before he can make it more than two steps, a meaty hand latches onto his wrist, forcing him still. His pulse ratchets up, expecting the cold metal of a baton or a gun to follow.What he gets is a pair of sweat-moist lips against his earlobe.“I get off at 2am. You could, too.”The breath leaves Dean’s body in a wave of relief. He takes a second to gather himself, then turns a bit to look over his shoulder. He rakes his eyes up the man’s body, feigning interest over his fear.“Mmm, sounds like a pretty good offer, handsome. But not unless you pass off that note.”Dean doesn’t give the guard a chance to respond. With another exaggerated wink, he snatches his hand back and walks off.He keeps up the show all the way back to the door of his and Emma’s suite. There aren’t any cameras in the halls or the rooms—and that’s not just wishful thinking, Dean knows—but that don’t mean there aren’t eyes everywhere. He’s half expecting his buddy from the elevator to decide Dean wasn’t worth the wait and follow him back. The thought makes his shoulders clench even more than they already were, but he holds himself steady. Even if he ends up getting fucked tonight when that’s the last thing on his agenda, it’ll be worth it. Anything’s worth getting to Cas.With a sigh, he hip checks the sensor by the door and slips back in. Just like the halls, the room is silent. The monitor’s on, some Capitol weather anchor moving her lips without volume. The blue evening lights are turned down low.It takes Dean half a second to realize he’s not alone.Fists raised, pissed as hell at himself for purposely leaving his weapons in his room, he spins around, ready to charge forward.“Woah, don’t hurt yourself, princess.”Dean sags forward like his puppet-strings have been cut. Of course. It’s just Bobby.The old man’s eyes rove over him from head to toe, even as he pours a shot of scotch into each of the two glasses between them on the bar. Unlike the guard, it makes him feel worried, not itchy and too hot. But that reminder is all Dean needs to remember what he’s wearing.If being touched by that creep hadn’t killed what remained of his semi, this does it just fine. Thank God for small miracles.“You’re as bad as Cas,” he huffs, hoping to cut him off before he can start in on him. “Gotta get both of you two fitted with bells.”Bobby snorts and swirls his drink. “I’d rather use the opportunity to ring his neck if we can get that close to him before curtain call. But whatever floats your boat.” He slides the second glass of scotch Dean’s way, and by the smirk under his scraggly mustache, Dean knows all he did was buy himself a couple seconds, not cut the conversation off entirely. And, sure enough, “I take it that’s what you were doing out there roaming the halls. Slim pickins for date night around here, unless you already got a date in mind.”Dean refuses to blush, but he does yank his too-tight shirt down as far as it’ll go.“Ha fucking ha,” he grumbles. “Gotta do what ya gotta do.”That sobers the old coot up a bit—even after all these years, he finds his knowledge of Dean’s extracurricular activities less than amusing—but just a bit. Regardless of why, Dean is still painted up like a mail-order male hooker, and he knows it. That was kinda the point, after all.Grimacing at himself, he picks up the glass and downs it straight. It tastes like Christmas and burns like Listerine, but it’s better than nothing.“Well, guess I didn’t pick the best time to talk shop then. Good thing I brought a surprise to butter you up.”Dean gestures to the cinnamon mouthwash in his hand. “What, this?”“No, ya idjit.” He rolls his eyes, then digs out a flat disk from his back pocket. It looks older, even older than Bobby, and the glass square in the center is scratched all to hell. “Better.”The disk whirs, lights up, and then the shape of a body shoots up from the glass. Dean smiles—it’s an old comm. If the worn edges didn’t tell him, the pixelated image quality would, but that’s probably the only way Bobby was able to sneak it in, so he’s not gonna complain. He wouldn’t call it “happiness”, but whatever positive emotion he’s got only multiplies when the image sets, revealing Sam in his usual canvas jacket and a pair of jeans.He doesn’t get the chance to say anything before holo-Sam leans forward, eyes narrowed and squinty.“Dude, what are you wearing?”Bobby chuckles into his glass. Dean’s cheeks flame hotter than the whiskey down his throat.“Alright alright, enough from the peanut gallery.” He casts his eyes around until they finally settle on a fur throw over the back of the couch. “And to think I was actually glad to see your ugly mug.”Sam rolls his eyes, but at least he stows any comments about Dean wearing the fur blanket like a toga. As expected, he’s back to his usual, endearing self. Hollow as it might be.“It’s good to see you, too, Dean.”Dean smiles, distantly wishing that Sam was here here instead of just a picture. The wish is enough to bring him back to his senses, though, and he snaps his gaze back to Bobby.“This safe? What if the signal gets hacked?”Bobby gestures his head toward Sam, who’s already started talking.“We’re good for ten minutes. It’s old, so the signal’s shit to begin with. Remember that cassette player you made into a walkie talkie?” Dean smirks, surprised—he didn’t think Sam ever thought about their first attempt at long-distance communication. “Well, I took a lesson from your book. Old tech works, man. Besides, I’ve got the thing scrambled to a stretch in the center of the Atlantic. If anyone’s watching and they even manage to tap into the line, all they’re gonna see and hear is fish.”Dean grins. He forgets sometimes how smart his baby brother can be. He always knows that he is smart, but the degree never fails to astound him.“Nice. Gonna have to show me that trick sometime.”At that, Sam’s smile falls a little flat. Over his digitized head, so does Bobby’s. Oh, right—they’re in the middle of the annual bloodbash, and neither of them expect him to survive. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his fur blanket closer.“Anyway. Guess it’s time to shop talk if we’ve just got ten minutes.”“Good to know you got some sense up there. Even if I can get the drop on you.”He gives Bobby the stink-eye, which the old man is all too happy to return with a smile. As usual, Sam rolls his eyes and barges on.“We’ve been doing some recon. Found out all we could about the other Tributes. We thought it’d be good to give you a rundown before the Opening Ceremony.”If Dean could get away with it without dislodging his furry toga and showing even more skin, he’d slap himself in the face. All this work trying to reach Cas, and he’s all but forgotten that there are other Tributes out there. He’s a fucking idiot.“Yeah. Good plan. Let me just go grab Emma. She needs to be in on this.”Sam and Bobby share a look, both of them a second away from saying something, but Dean stomps off before they can. He takes a quick pitstop into his room, shucking off the blanket and his muscle shirt in exchange for a flannel, then crosses the hall to Emma’s door. There isn’t any noise inside.He raps his knuckles against the slick wood. “Hey, kid, we got company. Can you come out for a sec?”She doesn’t answer.Dean frowns, then raps a little lighter. “Emma? You in there?”“C’mon, boy, we ain’t got all night!”What he hears is, C’mon, boy, we can’t waste time on a lost cause!His throat catches.Quiet as he can, he turns the handle and eeks the door open. The movie screen constantly on play behind his eyes flashes every scene he can imagine—a young blonde swinging from a noose, face-down on the carpet with a hole in her head, belly-up in the tub with her wrists slit. He’s almost convinced himself he’s seen all of it for real when his eyes finally settle on a swathe of light hair across the pillows. She’s turned away from the door, but he can tell from here that she’s breathing. Her chest’s still moving. She’s still alive.At least for one more night.“Dean!”Emma doesn’t jump, but Dean does. He gives her a final glance before making his decision. He’s just letting her get some rest, he tells himself. He’s not given up on her. He just wants her to get a good night’s sleep before they hit the televised portion of events.Clenching his jaw, he moves back outside and lets the door ease shut behind him.“Alright, alright, I’m coming. Kid’s gonna sit this one out. I’ll give her the low-down in the morning.”If Bobby and Sam have anything to say to that, they know well enough to keep it to themselves. To thank them for it, Dean swings himself over the back of the couch, sets his game face on, and gestures to the TV screen Bobby’s angling the remote at.“So, who’re we up against?”Bobby clicks the remote, and the Capitol news program disappears. In its place is a blank, dark-green grid with a spinning dais in the center, the same screen they use every year to show off the Tributes once the reaping is over. Sam must have hacked into a District 1 broadcast to get this. Either that, or Balthazar proved himself useful for once and got the intel for them. For now, though, Dean doesn’t bother to ask. He’ll find out later.Sam does something on his side of the comm, and two dark-haired kids—a boy with tan skin and a girl with wild, angry eyes—pop up on the screen.“Startin’ from the bottom,” Bobby grouses. “Kevin Tran. That’s last year’s winner. I know he don’t look like much, but he’s a mastermind. In case you clocked out last year, he manufactured an honest-to-God explosion with nothing but some rocks and lip balm. He’ll be the youngest this year.”Sam looks over, eyebrow raised. Dean nods, even as he grits his teeth. His brother is being smart about this—helpful, given that Dean isn’t smart about much of anything. The fact that he forgot about the other Tributes is testament to that. He’ll need all the help he can get in the brains department, and this Kevin kid seems to fit the bill. But the “kid” part is all that Dean can really focus on. Kevin’s sixteen-damn-years-old—doesn’t matter that he’s already won one of these, he’s a goddamn baby as far as Dean’s concerned.He clears his throat and turns back to the screen.“Okay, so we’ve got Dragon Master. What about her?” He squints at the girl—woman? —his body leaning toward the monitor. “I think… do I know her?”Bobby nods. “Last time you saw her, she was blonde. Lotta work done, too.”“What’s her name?”Surprisingly, Sam is the one who answers this time.“Meg Masters. She won the year after you, while you were…” Sam gestures vaguely, then clears his throat and looks back at the screen. Dean silently thanks him for it. “Anyway, she’s a total nutcase. She played up this whole ‘innocent idiot’ deal when her Games started, then ended up slaughtering half of the other tributes singlehandedly. And—get this—she’s Azazel’s daughter.”Dean’s entire body goes cold. “What?”“Yep. Not legitimately,” Bobby adds, nudging Dean lightly on the shoulder before moving his hand back to his shot glass. “Far as I know, Azazel never claimed her. But she swore up and down after she won that he was her daddy.”Dean gives her a closer look. She doesn’t look a thing like the former Gamesmaster. Her skin is too pale, her hair too dark. Not that that means anything, given Bobby’s comments about the plastic surgery she’s had done. But then he glances back to her eyes. The eyes he mistook for angry have a kind of gleam to them. They glint a little black. In better lighting, they might flash yellow.He swallows and reaches for the whiskey.“Does she know?”“That you killed him? Nobody but the three of us here knows you killed the son of a bitch, Dean. The real question is, does she suspect? And that one I don’t know.”“She somebody I should worry about?”“Did you hear a damn thing I said, boy?” Bobby rolls his eyes, then nabs the whiskey bottle off the table to pour himself another couple of fingers. “Given all that, plus the fact that she swore allegiance to the frickin’ Capitol after she won, and most people think she killed her mentor? Yeah, I think she’s somebody to worry about.”In retaliation, Dean steals the remote from Bobby’s other hand. He flicks past the next few screens. Isaac and Tamara, married couple from District 11, both capable and as nice as any of the victors could really be called “nice”. District 10, Martin Creaser—an older man, probably close to Bobby’s age, one of John’s old friends that Dean only remembers by name—and Pamela Barnes—just a few years older than Dean, and every bit as gorgeous as he remembered. Her leather training uniform pulls tight across her breasts. He lingers on their screen a little longer than he probably should, a little smirk ticking at his mouth.Across the couch, Bobby huffs at him and leans forward to take the remote. He mercifully skips right past District 9—Dean’s face stoic and older than he’d like to see it, Emma’s desperate and terrified—and lands on District 8. A burly man in a cool looking cap and a red-haired woman with a goofy smile stand back-to-back.“Benny Lafitte and Charlie Bradbury,” Bobby mumbles through his whiskey. “Can’t say I know too much about either of ‘em, good or bad. Benny took a cue from his mentor and filed his teeth down to points for his Games—ripped out a couple throats that way, from what I remember. He’s had ‘em fixed since then, though, not that I know what that says about him.”On-screen, the burly dude grins. Sure enough, all of his teeth are square-shaped and relatively normal looking. It’s a nice smile.“I’ve also heard a few rumors that he is—or used to be—addicted to something,” Bobby continues. “Couldn’t find any evidence to prove it, though. But that’s still more than I know about Charlie over here. All I could find on her is that she won on a complete fluke—hid in a cave for her whole Games ‘til all the rest of the Tributes offed each other. Since then, she’s been designing security systems for the big-name warehouses throughout the country. Supposed to be some kind of tech wizard.”“Tech wizard? I thought these guys were from 8.”“They are.”Dean blinks and turns his eyes back on the screen. Sam and Bobby both nod at his sides—one more candidate for Dean’s potential pool of allies.Bobby clicks the remote and glides past the next four screens. Dean is familiar enough with all of them— Irv Franklin and Tracy Bell from 7, Annie and Caleb from 6, Josephine Barnes and some dude named Pete from 5, and Olivia Lowry and Frank Devereaux from 4. They’re all potential candidates, too, but Dean can’t say that he remembers much about any of them talent-wise. Tracy Bell’s thing is seduction—lure another Tribute into a quiet part of the arena, then, once their pants are down, stab ‘em where it hurts. Frank Devereaux is a paranoid nutcase who won by shooting at anything that moved. From what Dean’s heard, he’s only gotten worse since he won. Then again, the fact that all of the victors didn’t end up paranoid nutcases is a miracle, so Dean gives the guy a pass.The TV lands on the Tributes from 3, and all three of them freeze.To anyone else, Cas probably looks like a badass. Stoic, scratched to hell, the black training uniform stretched tight over his broad shoulders. But that’s not what Dean sees. To Dean, Cas looks… small. Way smaller than Dean is used to. There’s a long gash up one side of his face, bruises on his knuckles, a swelling in his cheek. If Dean didn’t already know that his Reaping was a setup, this would be all the proof he’d need.Cas stares out at him, beaten but unbroken. Standing straight as ever.Dean clenches his fists.Bobby breaks the silence first.“The… the woman, next to… Her name’s Anna Milton,” he murmurs.Dean forces his attention to the girl on Cas’s left. Another red-head, pale and waifish. She looks like a solid breeze could knock her over. Bobby seems to read his mind.“Twenty-two, soldier to the core. I know she don’t look like much, but… she’s another to watch out for. She has the highest kill rate of any of the victors here. Well, second highest.”He flicks the remote again. Cas’s face—and Anna’s—vanishes.The victors from 2 look every bit as badass as they usually do, but nowhere near as young. The man is practically ancient, a bear of a dude with long hair and an epic beard, both streaked with grey. His eyes twinkle in a way that makes Dean think of the Grim Reaper dressed as Santa Claus. It wouldn’t take a genius to peg the guy as Cain Adamson, victor of the very first Games, highest damn number of kills that anyone’s ever seen—all 23 of his competitors. Dean didn’t think the guy was still alive. Obviously, he was wrong.Neither Bobby nor Sam say anything about him—ain’t much to add.Dean looks back to the screen. The woman is quite a bit younger, buxom, sleek, and decked head-to-toe in black leather. Dean wonders if the guy who rigged the Reaping this year has a thing for redheads, cause this chick makes three. Before he can start wondering if he himself has a thing for redheads, too, he shakes his head and goes back to focusing on the competition.These two will be a definite problem. Even without the energy vibrating off them, they’re District 2, and that’s always cause for concern. But his eyes are trained to look for weaknesses as much as strengths, and it doesn’t escape his notice that the two aren’t standing back-to-back like the other Tributes. In fact, there’s a solid foot of space between them.“Abaddon,” Bobby introduces. “Cain’s last mentee, before he hung up the towel for good. Cold-blooded, ruthless little bitch. I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting her once.” He rolls up the sleeve of his flannel. His skin is pinched with a scar that looks suspiciously like a bitemark. Dean can’t help but sneer a bit—“bitch” is right, it seems. “She doesn’t do allies, she doesn’t do strategy. She goes in for the kill, and she’s got the skill to back that kinda thinkin’ up. My advice? Get as far away from her as quick as you can once you’re in there. And the same advice goes for our last two ‘friends’.”Bobby clicks the remote a final time. An older blonde woman with nails the length of steak knives and a smarmy little bastard with slicked-back hair and a nice suit stare back.Holo-Sam scoots closer to the screen. “Hey, isn’t that the guy—?”“Who went all Hannibal Lector on his competition?” Bobby laughs without a trace of humor. “Yep, that’d be him. Richard Roman. Dick. He’s made something of a name for himself with a chain of fine-dining restaurants in the Capitol, but, God, you don’t wanna know what’s on the menu. And the woman, Eve, she’s his former mentor. You can bet those two are gonna be thick as thieves till it comes time for one of ‘em to take a dirt nap.”Bobby takes the remote and turns off the TV.Dean sinks into the couch. A dozen thoughts run through his head, none of them particularly helpful. But he keeps going back to one—how the hell am I gonna get Cas outta this one?
May 6 – Year of the 38th Games
Dean fiddled with the hospital-dressing-whatever-gown he’d been stuffed into, fists clenched and fuming.In the last three hours, he’d been poked and prodded and tweezed and tucked and waxed and, if another goddamn person so much as looked at him while holding a sponge, he swore he was gonna commit his first murder in here, Games be damned. Yeah, it was nice to not smell like grease and moldy wheat for once, and he actually liked feeling his legs rub smooth and hairless against each other, but those were secrets he was all too happy to take to his grave. It was the principle of the matter—he’d spent eighteen years being thrown around like trash, he wasn’t about to be pampered or whatever now. Especially when the pampering was just a manicured version of that same treatment—nice or not, the Capital hags hadn’t exactly been easy on the goods. Even his balls felt bruised.He rubbed at them somberly, too sore to even begin to get hard, and continued to glare at two of the hags who were still in the room with him. They had been putting away their tools or torture instruments or whatever and whispering as if Dean wasn’t three feet away and perfectly capable of hearing them. He might as well be a dog. At least dogs didn’t have the hair stripped off their dicks, though.“… looks as good as he’s going to get,” one of them drawled under her breath. “Couldn’t do much for the freckles, but maybe they’ll find him… charming.”The other one rolled her eyes, which just made Dean cross his arms tighter. “Charming my ass,” he mumbled, “my freckles are sexy as fuck.”As always, neither of them noticed. The second one put away a few more pairs of tiny scissors and closed her bags.“Well, he’s Trixie’s problem now, not ours.”The first barked an unfunny laugh. “I certainly don’t envy that position. How do you dress a corncob?”“Who you calling a corncob?!”Low and behold, shouting actually seemed to get their attention. They stared meaningfully at each other, as if Dean was some kind of bratty kid, then turned to him with their hands on their hips. Dean almost laughed—he’d always thought that Capital stooges were robots, but this was ridiculous.“Never you worry, dear,” the second one simpered. “We’re just leaving. Your stylist, Trixie, is on the way.”Before Dean could ask them anything else (like whether or not they could stick their heads any farther up each other’s asses, for example), they clicked the rest of their bags shut and clopped away. As they reached the door, the first one clicked a button on the wall, triggering red laser lights behind her. Dean snorted—he’d already scoped the room out, he knew there was only one door down that hallway. Keeping him locked in the death spa or whatever it was just overkill.A noise from the wall behind him made him jump, then cuss himself for falling for what was surely one of their little mind games. But, no, it wasn’t a trap. Not an obvious one, anyway. Apparently, the button that triggered the lasers also turned on the TV.Dean looked over his shoulder at the empty doorway, then turned around, eyes glued to the screen. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do.Actually, it wasn’t that bad, either. No Capital propaganda or presidential bullshit, just some fashion show. All the men and women on screen had long limbs, long necks, long nails. A few of them even had tattoos on their skin patterned like giraffe pelts. Dean found his eyes narrowing at them. On their own, they might have been pretty, even the men. With the animal skin grafts, they looked like a new breed of monster. Just another mutated fuck he’d need to eventually put down. Trash.“Can you believe this bullshit? That’s what they call good fashion?”Again, Dean jumped. He grabbed for tray next to his bed, remembering too late that the sharp-ass tweezers had been taken by the hags when they left. He didn’t have a damn thing to defend himself.But then he saw the person in front of him and thought he probably didn’t need to.The person, a little guy with shaggy hair, legit gold irises, and a matching gold-chain necklace, looked like he weighed a buck fifty at most. He rolled his eyes, spinning dramatically as he spun on his heel toward Dean. The TV turned off with a snap of his fingers.“Please. I could do better than that in my sleep. Relying on cheap gimmicks like that? Come on.”Dean cocked his head forward. This guy talked a mile a minute, and, yeah, Dean didn’t particularly care what he was saying, but he at least wanted the luxury of understanding the dude he was purposely ignoring.“Uh… right,” he answered smartly. “Totally cheap.”The guy clapped his hands together. “See!? You get it!”Dean nodded. “Yep. Sure. And you are…?”“Your stylist, baby!” He gave his arms a flamboyant shake. “Figured you’d be expecting me. I’m here to turn you from drab to fab! Which, good news for you,” he paused to give Dean a once over, “won’t be as hard as some of the other cases I’ve had to work with. You’ve got this half-twinkie, half-bad-boy vibe that they’re gonna go nutso for.”For a long second, Dean didn’t say anything. He just blinked. Then he caught a glint from the guy’s eyes —fuckin’ gold irises—and the words gushed out.“Wait, wait. You’re… Trixie?”The little man—Trixie, apparently—rolled his eyes so hard that Dean was surprised he didn’t sprain something.“You dress in drag one time, and that’s what they remember about you.” He threw himself bodily into the chair across from Dean’s cot. “But, sure, why not? Trixie it is.”Dean gave him another once over, from his heeled oxfords to his cherry-red bowtie.“And you’re my stylist?”Trixie clutched at his chest. “Ouch. Big words from a boy in medical chic! Work with me a little!”He jumped back up to his feet, materializing a lollipop the same color as his bowtie in the process. If Dean hadn’t been watching his hands the whole time, he’d have sworn he pulled it from his ass. He had bigger things to worry about, though, what with Trixie circling him and staring like a hawk.“Yep, nice bone structure. We can work with that,” he mumbled. “I gotta admit, though, I don’t know too much about your neck of the woods. You people are farmers, right?”Dean bristled. He couldn’t say he was ever particularly patriotic where his District was concerned, but that didn’t mean he liked the tone this guy was copping about it. “Yeah. Why? You gonna dress me up as a fuckin’ barn or something?”Trixie rolled his eyes again. “C’mon, Deano, give me a little more credit than that. Granted, I did let my mind wander down some pretty contrived paths at the beginning. How do you feel about The Wizard of Oz? Bela could pull off some ruby-red pumps. You’re pretty and dumb enough to be the Scarecrow.”Dean scoffed and jumped to his feet. “Screw this. I’m outta here.”“Whoa whoa whoa, slow your roll, hot stuff.” For a little guy, Trixie was quick—in the blink of an eye, he was hovering right in front of Dean’s face. Well, his chest, anyway. Even in heels, he was a solid head shorter. “Where the hell are you going? Not sure you noticed, but the door is all lasered up. And what are you gonna wear tonight?”“Guess I’ll just go naked. That’ll definitely get me some attention.”“Fun as that sounds, you know that ain’t how the Games work. Gotta give ‘em some spunk, some pizazz!”Dean banged on the wall next to the lasers. “Hey! You can let me out now! We’re done here!” Bang bang bang!Trixie marched closer, swinging his arms wildly. “Hey hey, stop that! We haven’t even gotten started yet!”“Yeah, I beg to differ.” He pounded a couple more times. The door in the hall behind the lasers didn’t budge.“Deano, I’m telling you, chill !”At that, Dean couldn’t help but chuckle, even as he pounded again at the wall. “The fuck’s it matter to you? I’m just one more dead guy walking. All you Capitol stooges want is a bloodbath, why bother dressing me up first?”He expected Trixie to keep hopping up and down like a crazy toad, or—better yet—give it up and let Dean get the hell out with at least some of his dignity intact. What he didn’t expect, could never have expected, was to find himself smashed into the wall head-first. He didn’t even have the chance to think about what had happened when a searing pain jolted his shoulder. A pressure point. His legs buckled, and the hand pinching his nerve spun him around. The other sunk into his throat.Trixie wasn’t smiling anymore. Not even a little. He looked fucking murderous. Dean tried to swallow, but the stylist’s hand clutched too tight.“Listen up, kid, cause I’m only gonna tell you this once. I am not some ‘Capital stooge’. I ain’t a goddamn thing like any of them. You don’t know the first thing about me, Dean. So don’t you dare presume to tell me who I am. Got it?”Trixie released his throat enough for Dean to move his head. He hesitated, just long enough to confirm what he already knew, that he couldn’t get out of this. Then, he nodded.The fingers pressed against his pressure point relaxed. Dean heaved in a ragged breath.“Good.” Trixie cleared his throat, then took a step back. In Dean’s condition, they were at the same height, perfectly eye-to-eye. “Just so you know, I wasn’t assigned to you. I asked for you. What you did for long, tall, and lanky yesterday? I ain’t ever seen anyone do that before. Color me impressed. But don’t take it for granted.”He stared deep into Dean’s eyes, almost scanning him, it felt like. Dean wasn’t sure what expression he was giving back, apart from choked, but, whatever he’d done, it must’ve worked. Trixie gave a little click of his tongue, then both his hands released Dean’s body.He shuddered, struggling to force himself upright again. Trixie, meanwhile, bounced away, the deadly glint in his eye shifting back to that blank, uninterested glee from before.“Great! Well, now we’ve got that out of the way, we can talk about getting Cinderella dressed for her cage match!”A barely-there touch to Dean’s back had him following the guy back to the cot. He had no fucking idea what to make of this stylist, but he was 99% sure of two things at this juncture: 1) he was batshit crazy, and 2) he was telling the truth.Neither of them made him feel particularly at ease, but he didn’t see any point in arguing.“Look, I’m gonna be blunt,” he continued, pushing Dean gently back onto his cot. “You guys, and 11, and 12—nobody gives a fuck. Nobody in the Capital, nobody in the other Districts—nobody. So, my job? Make them give a fuck.”Dean scoffed. “And you plan on doing that with, what, fashion?”“Damn right!”Dean’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline. “You’re not serious.”“Dead serious, Deano. I’m doing the exact same thing you are, and don’t you forget it. I take stuff that nobody cares about, and I use it in a way that nobody’s gonna forget. I use clothes and shoes and shit. You use yourself. And they’re gonna fucking remember us.”The guy’s eyes lit right up like golden spotlights. Dean didn’t know if he should be excited or terrified.“So, how much do you know about Dodge City, Deano?”* * *The chariots for the Opening Ceremony of the Games always looked awesome on screen. Even Dean couldn’t lie about that. Gilded gold and decorated like ancient Roman carriages, they looked like something straight out of a gladiator movie. Fucking badass.That was just on screen, though. Up close, they looked like silly school-production props set to fall apart at any second.Dean hated himself for actually feeling disappointed about that.With a roll of his eyes, he straightened his sarape and looked away. For what had to be the sixth or seventh time in an hour, he caught his own eyes in the mirrored wall, shifting from side-to-side so he could get all of his angles.Trixie wasn’t what he’d expected, that was for damn sure, and the jury was still out on whether or not Dean liked him, much less trusted him, but he had to say this—the guy knew his stuff.If Dean didn’t know he was staring at himself, he’d have sworn that the man in the mirror was his personal wet dream come to life. Not that he’d ever admit to it, but, in the confines of his own brain, he could be as honest as he damn-well pleased. He was decked head-to-toe in flannel and leather, the spitting image of an honest-to-God cowboy. His feet were stuffed into a pair of butter-smooth brown leather boots, spurs to the side and silver thread drawing paisley designs across the shafts. His dark blue jeans were stuffed inside, all the better to show off the boots and their design (as well as Dean’s calves, if he had to say so himself). His waist was drawn in with a belt that matched the boots, a turquoise buckle the size of his fist holding the two ends together under a worn serape, and a bolo tie laced around the collar of his black, long-sleeved undershirt. A wide-brimmed, real suede Stetson completed the look.Yep. Wet-dream incarnate.The sound of heels clipping down the hall made him jump. Flushed at the thought of getting caught ogling himself, he straightened his tie a final time and spun firmly away. He couldn’t say it was a bad decision. If he was hot, Bela was searing. He hated to admit it, but she'd been right back on the train—they were both gorgeous. In a tight leather skirt that hugged her thighs and showed off her neat, tan legs, Bela looked the perfect cowgirl counterpart to his cowboy. She wore heeled, bright red cowboy boots and a matching vest that hugged her breasts. She was still short, even for a girl, but the shoes put her a little closer to Dean’s height. Made them seem a little more equal. United.Also gave him a better view down her shirt. Again, he had to hand it to Trixie. “Eyes up here, pervert,” she snapped.That accent, the faint lilt that made her sound like Capitol trash, broke him out of his trance. True to her word, she'd hit the gym as soon as they were checked in at the hotel, a monstrosity of a thing that solidified Dean's initial idea of a chrome prison. He'd barely seen her at all in the three days since. Even at meals, they just grabbed their food and went back to their rooms. He'd actually forgotten how annoying she was. He let his genuine smile creep into a lecherous smirk—if that’s all she thought of him, he might as well act the part.“You’ve got my eyes wherever you want ‘em, sweetheart,” he drawled.Bela was less than impressed. With a roll of her eyes, she jerked her head toward the chariot and sauntered off, obviously expecting him to follow. He gave himself another cursory glance, then did as she wanted. Not because he wanted to appease her, but because even he could read the signs. Chariots out? Music on? Drone cameras whirring? It was almost showtime. The fact that the other Tributes had started gathering near their own chariots only confirmed the fact.“I can’t believe you agreed to these stupid costumes. I feel like a pay-per-view stripper.”Dean’s brows jumped up under the brim of his hat. “The hell do you know about pay-per-view strippers?”She didn’t answer. Instead, she hefted herself into the chariot, fluffing her hair and readjusting her hat as she did. Dean huffed, then jumped in after her.“Well, I think we look awesome. And even if we don’t, we’ve still beat out the competition. Look over there at 8. Would you seriously rather look like a rug factory vomited on you?”Begrudgingly, Bela darted her eyes over in the direction Dean pointed. He knew she’d seen what he wanted her to when a wicked little grin ticked up her cherry red lips.“Oh Lord, they’re human shag carpet mannequins.”Dean snorted. They weren’t bothering to be quiet, and it bit them in the ass—the Tributes from 8 turned in their chariot, eyes like daggers as they stared at him and Bela. The effect was somewhat ruined by the purple, gold, and fluorescent orange strings hanging off them.Bela gave a cheeky half wave with just her fingers and blew them a kiss. The girl shot her the bird. Dean’s smile got a little more sincere. Like he’d thought when he first watched Bela march up to the stage, he knew he was gonna love her or hate her by the end of this.
“Tributes, to your assigned chariots. All Tributes, to your assigned chariots.”
The announcer’s voice echoed off the mirrored walls and stone floor. Dean’s spine stiffened, but he covered it well with a wink in Bela’s direction.“Showtime.”As expected, Bela shot him yet another wilting glare. He straightened himself up and pouted at her, letting his eyes linger again at her low-cut dress. She smiled, serene, and looked away. A second later, her heeled boot came down on his toe, easily cracking his nail.Before he could do anything else, the trumpets blared overhead. Up at the front of the queue, the chariot holding the Tributes for District 1 rambled off. The roars from the stadium were deafening, even from near the back of the line. A few seconds passed, then the chariot for District 2 followed.Dean held back his cursing, barely, and gripped the edge of the chariot tighter. It’d be just perfect if he fell out of the thing on his ass.They were up to 6 now. Ash and Jo. The guards through the hall kept him from getting to talk to either of them, but he could make them out just fine. The kids from 7 were shaking, trying hard to smile and epically failing at it if their reflection in the mirror was anything to go by. The kids from 8 still looked pissed, but they’d turned that anger on each other instead of Dean and Bela. Both of their chariots started moving forward, Dean and Bela’s right behind them. The lights from the arena got brighter. A pit opened up in the center of Dean’s stomach—give him a monster any day, a whole football team of people to flirt with and fuck, but put him in front of a crowd when he’s not distracted by the thought of Sammy getting hurt? Yeah, that wasn’t something he was prepared to deal with.He shot himself another glance in the mirror, and then they were off.They’d barely passed under the arch when something touched his skin. He looked down, shocked, to see that Bela had grabbed his hand.Dean yanked it back, mouth half-open to ask her what the hell she was doing, but her eyes stopped him. For one, they actually held a hint of emotion, something he’d yet to see in her. For another, that emotion was straight up fear.“Just take it,” she pleaded. “Keep us alive a little longer, will you?”Dean blinked. That second of hesitation, confusion, was more than enough to buy her what she needed. With a starlet smile, all shiny white teeth and full lips, she jerked their hands high, palms pressed together and fingers interlaced.Over the noise of the crowd, the commentator’s voice finally caught Dean’s ears.“—don’t look like they’re getting along at all. That’ll cost them in the Games, as we all learned from the debacle with District 4 last year. But District 9 obviously doesn’t have the same problem! Would you look at them! Gorgeous pair, and so spunky! They’re together, they’re united, they’re not afraid to say, 'This is us!' Just outstanding!”He wanted to frown, he did, but Dean had caught on well enough now to keep his own 60-watt smile plastered on. He immediately understood what had happened. Unlike him, Bela was listening. Strategizing. She knew that the District 8 kids’ arguing was gonna cost them points, and she didn’t want to suffer the same fate. Whether they kept it up in the Games themselves didn’t matter—after a point, the only thing that would keep them alive in there was a gift from the right sponsor. Dean and Bela playing nice for the camera, giving them all a tease of “are they/aren’t they”, would guarantee they’d get it.The chariot for District 7 did its little victory lap at the front of the queue before shuffling off to the side with the other odd numbers. That was their cue. The piece de resistance, as Trixie had called it, whatever the fuck it meant. Dean glanced at Bela to make sure she was ready, but he really shouldn’t have bothered—she already had her free hand out, throwing waves and blowing kisses to anyone who caught her eye.Dean held his breath, closed his eyes, and pictured the woman who ran the entries in District 9. The dude who ran the factory he worked at. Every fucking guard he’d ever had to lay down and take it from. The flirty smile that followed came all too easy to him. He could do this. This ride was just another bribe. He wasn’t playing a spectator’s sport, he was playing a whole crowd of johns who had his winning ticket. He knew how to do this. This was second nature.With a completely engineered twinkle in his eye, he cocked a hip toward the drone camera and lifted his hand. The District 8 chariot rounded off to the opposite side, leaving the way clear for the platinum seats at the head of the arena. If Dean looked up, he knew he’d see Lucifer staring him down. He couldn’t afford to get his head out of the game, though, so he kept his stare vague enough that it settled just to the right of the president. A bulky, barefaced man with an evil grin stared back. The overhead lights caught his eyes, flashing them bright yellow as they narrowed on Dean’s face. Dean realized his mistake instantly. Fuck knew who this guy was, but he’d rather be staring down Lucifer. Not him.Bela clenched his palm, and he was back in the chariot. Just before they reached the front of the queue, just like Trixie told them to, Dean and Bela whipped out their wrists. A jolt went through Dean’s sleeve, and, then, sure enough, there it was: a pistol. A starter’s pistol, but still—no one in the audience would know the difference. A matching one, worn and rusted for effect, materialized in Bela’s hand.“You know how to shoot these things?” he asked.Bela didn’t bother to answer. In his other palm, she ticked off her fingers. Three… two… one…They held them high and fired away.There wasn’t any kickback, but the sparks were bright enough to almost make Dean flinch. He thought he did a good show of covering it, though. So did Bela. If she’d been shocked at all, she didn’t show it. Much as it annoyed him, he was a little impressed by that.Before he could think much more on that, the noise from the audience drew his attention. There were some ohs and ahs, a few whoops here in there, some laughter. A few of the people in the crowd with kids covered their eyes, but none of them actually looked scandalized. Then again, they were letting their kids watch other kids march to their own slaughter, so Dean didn’t understand why they’d even pretend to be upset over a few “bad words” in the first place. He didn’t let that disgust ruminate, though. Much as he hated to admit it, Bela was right—if they wanted to stay alive, they had to put up a front. A show of unity. Amusement.He sidled a little closer, waited till she looked over at him, then shot her a wink obvious enough that even people in the nosebleeds would see it. Sure enough, the crowd erupted with catcalls. The monitor at the end of the arena jerked away from the split-second shot the cameras had taken of the District 12 Tributes and zoomed in on Bela and Dean. The bright, sparkling banner illuminated their faces, smirking under the words they’d shot from their pistols: “Yippee-Kay-Ay, Motherfuckers!”When Dean clutched Bela’s hand a little tighter, when his face split a little with pride, it wasn’t for show.Yep. Trixie damn well knew what he was doing.The next few minutes flew by without Dean noticing. He knew the crowd was still shouting, knew that the commentator’s were still going, but he couldn’t hear one over the other. All he could focus on was keeping his eyes away from Lucifer’s spot and the steely-eyed man who stood beside him.And, then, it was over. The chariots turned and went off in separate directions, each into a different hole cut into the side of the stadium. The gate slammed behind them. The chariot slowed. Bela and Dean slid out the back. Bobby and Ruby stood at the end of the hall, half-hidden in the poor lighting.Ruby gave them a small, short round of applause. “Congrats, you didn’t suck.”Neither Dean nor Bela bothered to respond to that. They’d both learned enough by now to know it was impossible to tell if she was being sarcastic or genuinely sucked at giving compliments, and they’d both decided separately that they wouldn’t care. The fact that she returned to her comm immediately after, as if Dean and Bela weren’t worth any more of her time, didn’t help any.Bobby, meanwhile, had an eyebrow arched and his arms crossed in front of his chest.“The hell are you wearing, boy?”Dean looked down at himself and smirked. “It’s called a sarape!”Bobby rolled his eyes. “Looks like a blanket to me.”Dean opened his mouth—no one who dressed like an old-timey lumberjack had any right to mock his clothes, Capitol couture or not—but the sound of clapping, louder and more sincere than Ruby’s, interrupted him.“Fine job, kids!”Dean turned on his heel. Sure enough, the midgety little Stylist was marching their way. With his maroon vest and shiny pants, he looked just as weird as always, maybe even worse stood across from Ruby in her designer gown and Bobby in his lumberjack chic. Dean still hadn’t made up his mind, even after the fireworks display outside, but he couldn’t help wrinkling his nose—he hadn’t even heard the guy walk in.Thankfully or not, Bela didn’t seem to have the same reservations. She spun the fake pistol out of her belt and tossed it in Trixie’s direction. He caught it without looking.“Yes, well,” she drawled haughtily, “I would have preferred it had the guns been real.”“You and me both. Wouldn’t that have been a showstopper?” Trixie chuckled. “You know, I had all sorts of plans for these. They were originally going to say Fuck Azazel!, but I thought that might be too on the nose.”He reached out his hand for Dean’s. Reluctantly, he tossed it over, too. It wasn’t real, but it was still a gun, and Dean couldn’t deny that he felt a hundred times more comfortable with it in his hand.“Azazel?”Trixie rolled his eyes. “Mister Gamesmaster. Don’t know if you saw him, but he was sitting on Lucy’s right. Smug little yellow-eyed prick.”A shiver ran down Dean’s spine. Trixie was saying something, probably trying to get off of Bobby’s bad side from the sound of gruff grumbling in the background, but Dean couldn’t focus. He had a name to go with the face. He’d never heard it before, certainly never seen the dude before five minutes ago, but, if there was one thing Dean had learned to trust in his life, it was his instincts. Right now, all of them were screaming at him to run, and run far, from Azazel’s line of sight.He glanced up at the stone walls surrounding them. The cameras were off, and now they were just prisoners again. There weren’t any doors besides the one that closed behind them, the same one they’d leave through once the rest of the crowd took off.Yeah. Run away. Fat chance.