Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dean

"Dean. Wake up."

Dean was jolted into consciousness to the sight of his brother looming over him, hair still wet from the shower and dripping down Sam's nose.

"We're gonna miss the Reaping," Sam said, making the face. The bitchy one.

Dean sat up and stretched, blinking confusedly. He was a light sleeper so he should've woken immediately when Sam started walking around; the kid had gotten big over the past few years and his footsteps sounded ridiculously loud on the creaky wooden floorboards of their old house. "Right," he rasped, throat still dry. "Wouldn't wanna miss that."

"The penalty being death and all," Sam added lightly, and thrust a (mostly) fresh towel and change of clothes at him. "Hurry up."

"This could be my last shower, Sam." He stood and grabbed the neatly folded clothes, bundling them so he could hold it all in one hand. "How dare you ask me to--"

"Hurry up."

Sam glared at him with grey-blue-hazel-ish eyes (Sam's eyes were stupid and hadn't ever settled on having an actual identifiable color) and Dean took the opportunity to search his brother’s face for ominous signs. Thankfully, he found none--Sam looked a little tired maybe, but not the way he looked after he had a 'special' dream.

"Time's it, anyway?"

"Dunno, but late."

Dean fumbled on the bedside table for his watch and swore when he found it. They had ten minutes to get to the Main Square of District Twelve.

"You know what? I'm thinkin' I'll skip the shower."

He quickly stripped while Sam hastened off to... somewhere that hopefully had to do with making a quick breakfast for them both, and slipped into the nicest shirt-and-pants combo he owned. The Gamemakers liked to say that it was 'traditional', but it was actually compulsory to dress up for the Reaping.

Because obviously if you're getting auctioned off to die you might as well look good while you're at it.

"We got any food?" Dean yelled while he tucked his pant-legs into his combat boots. The shoes were his only pair, old and worn but sturdy enough, and they'd have to do. He'd been going to the Reaping each year for as long as he could remember and no one had ever been killed for improper dress code, even though it still made him a bit nervous to risk it. District Twelve was usually peaceful and the police force were all Dad’s old buddies, who Dean knew by name, but the Gamemakers' lackeys brought their own law-enforcement.

"Sam! Any food?"

"Some pigeon left over from yesterday!" came Sam's voice after a pause. "That's it!"

Dean rushed down the stairs and stomped into the kitchen, where he grabbed a still-steaming plate of burnt, stringy meat that was mostly bone. It was pretty disgusting, but he licked it clean anyway and watched Sam do the same.

"We should go hunting."

"I know."

They didn't mention how there was the possibility one of them could get picked for the Games.

It was hard to believe that the Reaping still worked with a giant container and little slips of paper with names on them. You'd think in this day and age there would be a kind of computerized random selection matrix thingy... then again, maybe that was easier to hack. Dean didn't know much about computers, that was more Sam's area.

If your name got picked out you instantly became a contestant in the Games; one of twenty-four Tributes, more often known as Hunters (two for each one of the United Districts under the City). In District Twelve this usually meant you had just been sentenced to die in a couple of weeks.

The contestants got thrown into an Arena by the Gamemakers and made to fight to the death with whatever weapons they could find. It was bloody, and uncensored, and televised so that it could be broadcast all over the United Districts. Dean would rather end today at home pretending Sam was the one who wanted to watch the Dr Sexy MD season finale, if it wasn't too much to ask—just him and his brother and some light banter like it had been for nearly five years now; not as an unwilling contestant in the most brutal reality TV show the world had ever seen.

"Come on," Dean said, tossing the plate into the sink with a clatter. "We'll do the dishes when we get back."

If we get back, he thought grimly. If we both get back.

Dean's name was entered nineteen times this year. Sam's, only once.

Every child had to enter their name into the Reaping when they turned fourteen and keep participating each year until they turned twenty-four (Dean was, sadly, a couple of years short of avoiding his fate). But if you volunteered to have your name entered more times, the Gamemakers gave you extra rations: a payment of food supplies for every added risk you took.

Five years ago, he and Sam had needed all the extra rations they could get.

"How long have we got?" Sam asked.

They ran out of the house, Dean stopping to hastily lock the door behind them, and down the narrow cobbled street towards the Main Square. Every District had one, from One to Twelve, but Dean had seen them all on television and he thought District Twelve's Square was the ugliest and the smallest. Which probably made sense, because they were the poorer District by far. Coal mining had never been a booming business, and City taxes took their toll on the District denizens.

"Plenty of time," he lied.

"Dean."

Used to be that kind of stuff worked. But Sammy had grown up; eighteen years old as of last month. "Four minutes. Come on, I'll race ya!"

Sam let out a little choked laugh, like he couldn't believe Dean was stooping that low. But then he got that competitive gleam in his eye. "You know what? Fine. Loser makes dinner."

"Deal."

And they were off, sprinting as fast as they could down narrow alleys and well-known shortcuts to the Square, soon panting in the crisp morning air. The District was completely deserted (everyone was already there bright and early, of course); empty shops, empty streets, empty houses. A ghost town. They passed the bakery where Sam's crush Jessica worked, ran by Pastor Jim's church without a glance and tore through the grim, closed down market where they went to trade their hunting spoils for rice, milk and other essential foods. The stalls flew by in a blur of uniformly grey covers that had probably started out in different colors, only to succumb to the ash and dust with time.

"You getting slow in your old age, Dean?" Sam called smugly, his long legs eating up the road at an annoyingly impressive speed. Dean remembered when Sammy would complain about being shorter than his classmates, looking up at him with those wide cloudy eyes.

"Dream on, kid," Dean grunted and increased his pace.

Exactly four minutes later, they were there.

The Main Square was large enough to fit the vast majority of the population of their District, but it was paved by oft-cracked cobblestones in dire need of repair, as well as completely barren of any decorations whatsoever. District One's Main Square looked like a royal garden, and District Two had this huge gleaming fountain smack in the middle with golden statues spraying water from within (Dean figured one of the fancy golden fish alone could fetch enough to get through a year without needing to submit his name to the Games again). District Twelve's Main Square was sometimes referred to as the Main Space, because that was basically what it was: a whole lot of empty space that only got used once a year.

"Sucker," Sam panted when they grounded to a halt at the very edge.

Dean had clearly let Sam win but didn't point this out because today was the Reaping, and there was a tiny slip of paper with the name 'Samuel Winchester' on it that could end their lives.

It had already begun. Or, the boring introductory monologue had, at any rate. Meg Masters was the Gamemakers' spokesperson and TV presenter for their District; a short, pixie-like blonde with a deceptively playful smirk that didn't quite hide the edge of cruelty in her eyes. Allegedly she was also the daughter of one of the Gamemakers, which was how she'd gotten the gig. It was common knowledge that she was a little bit nuts; no one should be able to announce the names of two kids who were gonna die with that much... panache.

Right now she was repeating the same words they all knew by heart.

"...A chance to win glory and unimaginable wealth!"

The crowd that had gathered for this year's Reaping was just as large and just as silent as last year's. Mothers and fathers clutched their younger children hard enough to hurt (Dean still remembered that, when he was thirteen and Dad was still alive and he'd left a bruise, he'd held Dean's arm so hard at the mere prospect of what would soon come), terrified expressions concealed to varying degrees, families gravitating together as though that could protect their teenage members from the odds. And above all, the thick, cloying silence.

That happened every year as well.

Dean and Sam made their way through to the roped-off area where all the young adults from the ages fourteen to twenty-four were made to stand, closed in together.

"You're late," the guard muttered angrily, beady eyes under thick bushy eyebrows squinting up at them both. Dean just gave him a sunny smile and tapped his watch.

"Check again, handsome. We got time to spare."

It was true; they had about twenty seconds left. After that time the register was officially closed and you either managed to prove you were incapacitated and unable to attend the Reaping, or it was the death penalty.

"Names?"

"Sam and Dean Winchester."

The Reaping was also a good way of keeping a fairly accurate census of the young adult population. After rifling through a few pages, the guy crossed them off the list on his clipboard and let them pass, lifting the thick red-brown cord from its slightly rusted lock.

They shuffled onward but made no move to stand anywhere near the front, both because they were too tall and because neither Sam nor Dean had any desire to see the ceremony from up close. Sam waved at Jessica Moore, who stood next to a group of his classmates, but didn't go to her or Brady, his best friend. Dean decided not to comment on it but was glad it was just the two of them for this.

From the raised platform at the center of the Square, Meg Masters would announce the chosen contestants by picking their names out of a giant glass bowl. As was typical, the stage was the only thing in the entire Distrcit that actually looked like it could belong in Capital City; a brightly colored, festive-looking monstrosity with red City banners at either side and enough generator power to broadcast Meg's voice through the hastily installed speakers set up at intervals around the Square (to be dismantled the second camera crews stopped rolling). Compared to the barren, lifeless space around it, the stage was pathetically overdone.

"The Hunter Games are a tradition that exist since the Twelve Districts rebelled against the Capital City sixty-seven years ago," Meg was saying. "In order to maintain the peace among the United Districts Under the City, each District must offer up two Tributes between the ages of fourteen and twenty-four to become Hunters, and fight in the Arena. As we all know this Arena changes every year, and can range from a deserted plain to a dense forest..."

It was the exact same spiel every fucking time and she always left out the good parts; such as how the Games’ infamy had led to the rest of the world cutting off most international relations with the UD, or how the Gamemaker’s Guards’ methods for subduing the latest protests had included toxic gas. Dean tuned it out and looked up (looked up, and this would never not be weird) at Sam instead. Kid had somehow managed to get a smudge of ash on his cheekbone while running.

"--use whatever weapons they can find in order to fight to survive, and become the last Tribute standing. The Champion will bring riches to his District the likes of which they've never seen..."

"Klutz," Dean muttered with an eyeroll and swiped his sleeve over Sam's face, causing Sammy to startle and snort.

"Jerk," he muttered, but he was smiling a little too, in an indulgent, affectionate way that give Dean the urge to stick out his tongue and act even more childishly.

"And here to greet and instruct this year's elected Tributes, District Twelve's previous winner: Robert Singer!"

She clapped cheerfully and a couple of people in the crowd half-heartedly joined in. Again, other Districts had previous winners. As in plural. Everyone knew Bobby Singer was an old drunk who spoke in gruff cut-off sentences and didn't much care for company, but he was also the only Tribute in District Twelve ever to win the Hunter Games in sixty-seven years.

Singer stomped onto the stage and didn't even glance at the crowd; instead he settled on his designated chair and managed to irradiate disgruntled boredom without moving a single muscle. Dean wondered, not for the first time, how the hell this guy had managed to outlive twenty-three other kids, many of whom must have been way better trained than him. All the previous Games were available online, of course, but Dean never went back to rewatch them, and avoided highlight-reels and reruns on TV when he could. Maybe he'd look up Singer later today, though, if he and Sam had time after hunting their lunch.

"Time for the drawing!" Meg declared.

Dean stopped wondering about Bobby Singer and felt his gut clench in dread instead. He mustn't think about--making plans on Reaping Day was dumb. Nothing was safe yet.

Meg walked to the glass bowl. It reminded Dean of a giant fish tank, but he thought that he couldn't care less what it looked like so long as Sam's name was somewhere at the bottom of the pile.

"And the first contestant is..."

She thrust her arm inside and pulled out a slip of paper, waving it high in the air before bringing it down to her eye-level. Nobody cheered.

Like every year, Dean's heartbeat thundered in his ears and his breathing sped up. Not us, he thought forcefully. Not us. Unlike every year, however, Sam's hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around Dean's sleeve, clutching at the leather jacket tightly. Dean found his gaze once more sliding away from the stage to fix on Sam; his tough little brother, so grown up, so goddamn smart, so tall and strong. No, he thought fiercely. Our lives are fucked up enough, we've been through enough, we don't deserve this, please no.

Meg Masters smiled. Except it was more of a smirk.

"Samuel Winchester!"

It felt like a bullet.

Dean had been shot once when they were hunting. It was an accident; another group of scavengers who, like them, caught their food outside District walls and into the forest. The pain had been instantaneous, starbursting from his shoulder in a spray of blood, sudden and unexpected and shocking. Sam had been too young to come with them, but he'd turned white when they got home. Dad had later told Dean that he'd been good about it, son, and done well not to scare Sammy, 'cause Dean hadn't cried or any pansy shit like that... but he always remembered the agony of the impact, and the way it had ached like a motherfucker for days.

So he knew what to compare this feeling to.

"No," he breathed, reflexive, kind of disbelieving. "No, Sammy. Not you."

How could this have happened? Sam's name was one tiny little slip within hundreds, how had this happened?

"Dean," Sam choked out, and the Gamemakers' guards were already opening the little enclosure's cord and pushing their way through the crowd towards them.

"No." Dean shook his head.

Sam clutched harder at Dean's jacket with one hand and with the other reached out to wrap long fingers around the amulet he'd given Dean for Christmas all those years ago. They were pressed together, not quite hugging, but it felt like everyone around them didn't matter anymore, melted away into nothingness, and this couldn't be real, it wasn't fair and the world couldn't let this happen, please, please no.

"Dean, it's okay." Sam's voice was almost a sob but he was fighting to keep it steady. Dean felt half-dead. "Dean, I'll fight, I promise I'll--"

"No you won't," Dean snapped. Didn't Sam understand? This couldn't happen. This wasn't happening, because Dean wasn't going to let it.

"Dean, I--"

"I volunteer."

The murmurs of the crowd abruptly stopped, which was the only reason Dean registered them at all.

"What?" Sam hissed. He pulled back and stared at Dean. "You what?"

"I volunteer!" Dean yelled, tearing his eyes away from Sam's betrayed gaze. "I volunteer as Tribute in his place!"

"No!"

Sam turned to the raised platform where Meg Masters was watching them, seemingly delighted at this dramatic turn of events.

"No, he can't! Tell him!"

Dean shoved Sam's hands away and tried to get to the dais, like he'd seen the chosen Tributes do every year (some by walking, some by being dragged, but they fucking got there), except Sam gripped the back of his jacket and tugged harder than Dean would have thought him capable of, making him stumble backwards and crash into his brother's arms.

"No," Sam said again, and his voice sounded gutted and rough in Dean's ear. "You can't do this, you can't--"

"Lemme go, Sam--"

"He can't!" Sam yelled.

"Actually he can, if he's older," Meg said apologetically, her voice amplified by the microphone. The lightness in her tone (like this was funny) felt jarring.

"I am! I'll take his place!" Dean said and felt Sam's grip tighten around him, one arm around his waist and the other spanning across his chest.

"No," Sam grunted, low and firm, as though he really thought he had a chance of stopping Dean from doing this, from saving Sam's life.

"Well, then we have our first Tribute of the year!" Meg called, clapping. The sound rang across the empty square, sharp and lonely. "What's your name, young man?"

She couldn't be more than a couple of years older than him, what the hell was she playing at?

"Dean Winchester," he called back, feeling Sam pressed behind him shake his head, no no nononono a chant of denial, and the guards reached them at that exact moment. They tore him away from Sam immediately, methodical and without pity, and propelled Dean forward with so much force he stumbled and nearly face-planted into the dirty cobblestones.

He righted himself and squared his shoulders. "My name is Dean Winchester," he said again, louder and more clearly.

"Dean, no, please, please don't do this to me, Imph--" Sam's voice was abruptly muffled but Dean couldn't look back, he just couldn't.

"Well, congratulations, Dean Winchester! You are the first Tribute of this year's Hunter Games!"

This time there was a weak smatter of applause and Dean climbed the few steps up to where Meg stood without acknowledging any of it. He knew some of the denizens in the crowd, of course; the whole District showed up for the Reaping, after all. Pastor Jim, looking thunderstruck. Caleb, an old friend of Dad's from the force, staring at him as though it was his own son up there. Inside the roped-off area a few of Dean's old classmates were gaping in disbelief (the ones who'd known him a bit better, though, they were the ones who didn't look so surprised by this turn of events).

Behind him, Bobby Singer coughed.

"Aw, was that your brother by any chance, Dean?" Meg asked, and her tone was mocking, as though she was about to ask him whether he was going to cry like a little girl.

Dean couldn't help a glance in Sam's direction, and he realized it was taking three of the guards to restrain Sam, and one of them had gagged him with a black scarf in order to keep him quiet. But it was for the best. It was... the world without Sam would just have been... Sammy would be safe. That was all that mattered. Sam would be safe and alive and Dean could die happy, knowing that.

"Yeah."

Below, Sam made a vicious move to free himself and was thrown onto the ground in the ensuing scuffle.

"He probably wanted all the glory for himself!" Meg grinned, all sly malice. Dean tried to resist the urge to curl his lip in distaste. This chick was fucking evil. "Let's see who gets to compete with this impressive-looking Hunter for the chance of being Champion, huh?"

Undeterred by the lack of audience participation, Meg reached into the bowl again, one slender arm plunging deep and Dean had the sudden thought that there was a good chance he was going to face the person she named in the Arena, and if it came to that he was going to have to try and kill them.

The implications of what he was doing started to trickle in, more real than they'd felt a few moments ago.

What if he knew them, this person he might have to hurt, to hunt? What if it was a girl? What if it was a girl that he knew? There weren't that many chicks around his age in District Twelve, but plenty were still eligible to become Tribute, and he could suddenly spot Cassie, standing not far from the front line, surrounded by her friends. She was looking up at Dean; gorgeous and dark-eyed and shocked. A few steps behind her, Lisa stared fixedly at where Sam was pinned to the ground, but still fighting. And then the terrifying thought occurred to him that, Jesus, what if it was Jessica? Sam's heart couldn't... Dean was sort of counting on her comin' round and helping take care of Sammy now that he was leaving.

But worse than any of those would be if it was some fourteen-year-old underfed kid whose parents lacked the time (or the coin) to trade for some of Dean and Sam's freshly-caught rabbits.

"The second contestant is..."

Meg unfurled the paper and her eyes widened comically. "Oh my."

A murmur started up instantly, and Dean's ribcage felt as though it was contracting in on itself, squeezing his lungs too tight. Because... but no, it was impossible, it was literally impossible--

"It appears we have a rather awkward situation on our hands." She glanced at Dean and suddenly he knew.

"What--"

"For the second Tribute is... none other than Samuel Winchester!"

"What?!"

Everyone started muttering, confusion and outrage on every face, the whispers steadily growing to a buzz of talk that made Dean's head spin because how was this real.

"No, his name was only-- this is a mistake, this can't—“

Meg thrust the slip of paper in front of Dean's face and there they were, the two words that spelled out Dean's death sentence: Sam's name.

Impossible.

Dean turned to look at his brother, because it was just, it wasn't--it wasn't possible... but when his eyes met Sam's he saw something there. Saw something that terrified him.

The guards had released Sammy the moment his name was called and he was standing up, brushing dust off of his hooded jacket without breaking Dean's gaze. Then he started walking towards the stage.

"Sam?" Dean said, and his voice shook a little but fuck it.

Sam didn't reply, just kept looking up at him as he climbed the steps purposely, the set of his jaw matching the terrifying thing in his eyes, the horrible, awful thing that told Dean... Sam wasn't surprised, or confused, or even all that upset.

"What did you do, Sam?" Dean demanded the second his brother got to the dais.

Sam's gaze was hard and he looked as determined as Dean had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry." He sounded anything but. "But it's not a mistake."

"How--"

"Congratulations!" Meg cried. "We have our Hunters for District Twelve!"

The noise of the crowd rose, like cheers, sounded almost genuine now, and Dean knew he should be feeling thankful for this little show of support from their District, from its people towards them; cheering for their victory. But all he felt was lost. He couldn't stop looking at Sam, drinking in Sam's expression and trying to take it apart, to understand what the hell had just happened.

"Sam," he said, putting all his questions into that word.

Sam opened his mouth to reply but Meg took one of their hands in each of hers and forced them to raise their arms, surprisingly strong for such a tiny girl.

"Sam and Dean!"

The noise grew louder, people calling their names, people who were probably trembling with relief that they'd been spared for another year, but Dean couldn't resent them for that, could only see the mass of familiar and unfamiliar faces in his peripheral vision, all blurring together into a colorful blob in the background with Sam before them, the only thing in sharp focus.

"And my, aren't our Tributes handsome and strong this year!" Meg let go of Dean's hand to run hers down Sam's bicep and something dark and violent inside of Dean roared to life.

"Lady--"

"I think we're going to get an excellent show! Pity only one of you gets to win, boys," she added with a theatrical sigh. That froze the moment like nothing else had, and it hit Dean like a second gunshot, powerful and staggering.

He hadn't forgotten it at any point, but somehow his mind must have protected itself from this knowledge for a few precious seconds. According to the rules of the Hunter Games, he'd either have to let someone else murder Sam, or do it himself.

Which meant that he was either going to die at the hands of an enemy, or there would be a time when Sammy was forced to choose between Dean's life and his own. And Dean wasn't going to let him make that choice.

So it was settled, then. He would die defending Sam, one way or another.

Even if, at the very end, the person he had to kill was himself.

Sam

Sam knew it was wrong. He knew it wasn't normal to feel so... relieved. He knew. The odds were against them. The rules were against them. Hell, twenty-two better-trained Hunters were going to be against them in less than a month and they had no hope of getting out of that.

But he still felt it. Relief, it was relief , this warm twisty thing coming alive in his gut, this thing that unfurled whenever he caught sight of Dean's troubled profile.

They'd just have to win. They'd just have to, and then the Gamemakers would need to change the rules, make an exception just this once. And at least Dean wouldn't be alone. At least his big brother wouldn't get away with sacrificing himself.

At least they'd be together.

He and Dean were escorted from the podium to awkward silence and the loud sound of Meg Masters' heels clicking against the cobblestones. Two cameramen followed them; both guys in all-black garb resting the equipment on their shoulders and angling them up from below, which made Sam think of the picture he and Dean would make next to tiny Meg in her tight blood-red jacket, shot at an angle so they seemed even taller. Maybe that would help their chances of being sponsored, if they looked big enough, menacing enough. After that thought, Sam made an effort to straighten his shoulders and lengthen his strides.

He knew they'd be taken to the Justice Building to say their goodbyes, everyone knew that, but having no family, he wasn't sure who'd come for them. Pastor Jim, maybe, or Caleb?

"Sam."

Dean slowed his steps some so that Meg was walking in front of them, and she noticed, but just smiled brightly. She'd still hear every word they said.

"Yeah."

Dean was looking at him with this utterly shattered expression and didn't even bother framing the question. Sam felt guilt rise like bile in his throat, the same way it had before, but just as he'd done then he choked it down now, because he might have lied to Dean but it had gotten him picked again, and that was something he wouldn't regret.

"I--" he started to say, then lost his train of thought in Dean's eyes. They looked shiny, like Dean was about to cry, which was stupid because Dean didn't cry, or at least he hadn't since Dad died. "Dean, I--" There were five guards around them, plus the two cameramen, and Meg only a few feet away. This wasn't the time, or the place.

So Sam worried his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head.

"Later, okay?"

Dean huffed out a breath and pointedly looked away, expression darkening, and Sam wanted to take his words back immediately, apologize, beg Dean to look at him again. But he was very aware of their surroundings; the pale marble steps of the Justice Building, slippery with the thin sheen of ash on them, and then the large double doors opened before their little committee.

"Have the Tributes been chosen?" the guard at the door asked. He didn't belong to the District's police force, Sam realized immediately. He was dressed in plain black, like the rest of the Gamemaker Guards.

"They have," Meg replied with a little nod at Sam and Dean.

"The train to the City leaves in an hour."

"Good. We'll be ready by then, I think."

The guard craned his neck to look behind Sam and Dean and his expression went from blank to mildly irritated.

"I trust the entire District isn't planning on saying their farewells to these kids? 'Cause you know they don't all fit in here."

Sam spun around and saw, stupefied, that a very large part of the crowd had followed them, slowly and silently, and were waiting below the steps. He couldn't remember that happening before, not since he'd been going to the Reapings with Dean and Dad.

"They're orphans," Meg replied with a shrug. Sam bristled at the casual way she dismissed his parent's deaths, but felt a hand on his shoulder that meant 'no'.

Dean still hadn't looked at him, but he'd known. Of course he had, he was Dean.

"Give them half an hour, then," the guard said, and stood aside to let them pass.

They were escorted into an empty room and left there, alone at last, with only a warning from Meg to 'behave, pretty boys'.

The instant the door was shut Sam turned to try and explain himself—and was shoved unceremoniously up against the nearest wall, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean yelled, hands fisted in the fabric of Sam’s hoodie. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

Sam knocked Dean's grip away, breathing hard, and felt a shudder run through him, something he couldn't identify sparking red-hot in his gut. Dean's breath was harsh too, as though he'd been sprinting, and Sam could feel it in warm puffs against his jaw, they stood so close.

"I'm sorry." But he wasn't. He wasn't sorry and could hear the truth reflected in his own tone, because thanks to what he'd done he'd gotten picked twice, not just once, and he was here with Dean now, not outside the door waiting to come in and say an impossible goodbye.

"How could you do this, Sammy?"

Dean was looking at him with hurt plain in his eyes, and Sam suddenly wanted him to step away, because they were standing claustrophobically close, pressed together, too much. The throbbing heat in his belly was uncomfortable, still unnamed, and insinuating its way up to his chest. So he shoved at Dean with the knowledge that superior height or no, Dean wouldn’t budge if he really didn’t want to, but thankfully his brother stumbled back a little, pliable this once.

"You did it for me, Dean,” Sam said, flat.

"So?"

"Don't."

It was... goddamnit it was so like Dean to be so hypocritical. He'd submitted his name nineteen times, and expected Sam not to do the same?

Dean snorted, looked away. "I'm supposed to take care of--"

"Don't even start with that," Sam snarled, and finally, finally identified the red-hot pulse for what it was: fury. For a moment there he felt so out of control he wanted to choke Dean with it. "Don't. You think I never noticed the days when there was only food for one? I'm a big boy, Dean, I stopped buying the 'I already ate while you were at school' bullshit a month after Dad died. And you wouldn't let me hunt even when I became eligible to submit my name for more rations, what was I supposed to do?"

"So all those times you said Jessica gave you free bread... all those days you said you snuck food from school...?" Dean trailed off, and Sam didn't bother answering him. It had been true, some days. He really had taken food from school and Jessica had tried to help him when she could, but--

"How many?" Dean snapped suddenly.

"What?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and glowered at Sam from under his stupidly thick lashes. "How many extra submissions, Sam?"

"Fifteen."

Dean swore. "You little shit."

"Says the martyr of the family."

"You think I was gonna let...?"

"It was not your decision!"

"The hell it wasn't!"

The door opened.

Sam looked around and found himself face to face with Jessica.

"Jess...?"

She was crying and only hesitated a split second before leaping into his arms.

"Oh God, Sam, oh my God..." she fisted her hands around the soft, well-worn fabric of Sam's hoodie, like Dean had, but her hands were small and engulfed by the material. Sam pulled her closer, so they were flush together in a manner not entirely unlike the way Dean had pressed against him before.

After a short minute she pulled away and walked over to Dean, furiously wiping her tears with one too-long sleeve, frowning like she was disappointed in herself for making a scene. Jess had never been one for drama; Sam had always liked that about her.

"Dean, I can't believe... what you did, that was amazing." She didn't throw her arms around him, but she looked a little like she wanted to. "I'm so sorry you're both..." a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm just so sorry this happened to you. I-I'll be watching... I'll be hoping for your victory. Both..." here she looked back at Sam, and even puffy-eyed and red-faced Sam thought she was beautiful. "Both of you. You'll just have to... they'll have to let you both win."

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

Jess swallowed thickly and gave her eyes another firm rub. "God, sorry, I'm--"

"Hey."

Sam took her hand and squeezed it lightly. He'd always had this idea... this vision of a future in which he married this gorgeous girl and they lived happily ever after. Jess had always been... they'd known each other for so long and they'd dated on and off since what felt like forever. He'd always thought...

Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and shuffled his feet.

"I can... I'll leave, if you kids got somethin' to talk about."

Jess shook her head. "No, there's more people... it's three minutes per person. I should go."

She hugged Sam one last time and then she drew back and kissed him, firmly on the lips. Sam kissed back despite his surprise, and despite the fact that he hadn't even told Dean that he and Jess had hooked up a few times. He figured it must be the thing that was done; taking this memory and others like it to the Arena, precious shards of his past life—funny how it was already his past life and this morning it had just been ordinary. Jessica was warm and soft and delicious and she always smelled of freshly-baked bread, so yeah, Sam tightened his arms around her and kissed back, even though he felt incredibly aware of the way Dean was right there, just a couple of feet away, watching.

They separated seconds later and she left without another word, a whirl of blonde hair, not looking back even once.

Dean made a humming noise. "Well hell Sammy, if I'd known you'd be getting that farewell I woulda asked for--"

"Shut up, Dean."

After Jess came Brady, of course, and then Caleb. Both of them offered advice--play your strengths, team up with other Hunters but only at first, trust no one, trust each other, get your hands on some guns if possible, use bow-and-arrows if not, train hard, listen to Bobby Singer's counsel... but Sam could tell they were shook up, and before he left Brady defiantly declared that he had something in his eye, and Sam pretended to believe him.

After Caleb came Cassie, much to both Sam and Dean's surprise. She didn't kiss Dean like Jess had kissed Sam, she just spoke to him low and serious, too quiet for Sam to hear. She sounded almost angry, like she was scolding Dean, but then she hugged him and Dean looked pleased. After that she hugged Sam, too, and very composedly wished them both good luck.

"You should have married her when you had the chance."

"Shut up, Sam."

Finally it was Pastor Jim's turn.

"Boys."

He was around John Winchester's age--or the age John Winchester would be now, were he still alive, but he looked much older, and it wasn't because of the robes of his office, Sam thought. He looked like he'd aged twenty years in almost as many minutes. This man had babysat them through John's worst times with the drink, had watched out for them all their lives, had seen them grow up. And now he was going to see one of them die.

To no one's surprise, however, the pastor didn't waste time with sentiment.

"It's hunting. You're hunters. You can do this, together."

Sam swallowed. "But they're people, District denizens just like--"

"No. You can't think like that." It earned him a hard look. "They won't be thinking like that and you can't afford to either. I know you youngsters have been hearing the rumors about Cancellation..."

"Sir--" Dean started to say, eyes wide because they were in a City building and saying that word in public was about as safe as suddenly declaring one's intent to move to the Capital as a free citizen.

"Be quiet, Dean, there's not much time. We've all seen the revolts, we've all hoped it would end before it was your turn; well, it hasn't, and this is your fate now. If you feel pity or sympathy you are going to die. So don't."

Sam nodded slowly, and out of the corner of his eye saw Dean nod too. District Eight had seen the most violent uprising of late, and there had even been a few small-scale City protests that triggered the whispers of 'Cancellation' of the Hunter Games... but all that was wishful thinking now. Pastor Jim was right.

Soon after that they were told time was up by a bored-looking guard, and four more black-clad men appeared to escort them to the train station where Meg Masters, Bobby Singer and a retinue of Gamemaker lackeys were going to accompany them and two camera crews on their journey to the City.

It was a short and silent car ride, and Sam and Dean wordlessly agreed to postpone their argument, instead choosing to look out of their respective windows, knowing it might be the last time they'd ever see the District they grew up in. Gray streets flew by and frightened people scurried out of their way. It wasn’t a grand place and it didn’t make for a very attractive nostalgic sight, but it was—had been—their home.

The train station was swarming with journalists and flashing lights.

Sam blinked dazedly and drew automatically closer to Dean, then caught his own movement on a large screen that had been set up to broadcast City News. People jostled for their attention and this crowd wasn’t like the one at the main square. Interspersed with the many, many paparazzi were the gamblers, the men and women whose hearts had hardened enough that they were willing to place bets on which Tributes would win. The guards kept a clear perimeter around Sam and Dean to enable their walk to the train, but it was slow going.

Finally Meg caught up to them just as they reached the sliding door into their sleek silver transport. She was in a different outfit than before--she'd left her long red coat in favor of a dark leather jacket, high heels and fashionable-looking jeans.

"My pretty boys!" she smiled widely from within a circle of guards. “I missed you.” She waved at three cameras simultaneously, then blew a kiss at the one from City News. "Here, stand here, and by all means brood as much as you want, they'll love that."

They had to wait on the doorway of the train for the endless procession of flashes and snapshots to end. Dean was clearly as uncomfortable with the situation as Sam was, but his natural reaction to things that unnerved him was often an overdose of bravado, and right now was no exception; the cheeky, slightly mocking grin he wore was eaten up by the press, who clicked and clicked away and tried to capture Dean's perfect face from every angle. Sam just scowled, although they seemed to like that, too, and he could see both their faces on the giant screen of City News in high definition.

Thankfully it was over when the whistle blew and the train seemed to be threatening to start its voyage with them at the door.

Once inside, Meg directed them to an expensive-looking sitting area and told them to wait there until further notice. There was an enormous television set for them to watch the Reaping Day reel, which would start very soon.

Sam sat down on the large velvety couch and felt disappointed at the lack of windows; he’d never been on a train before, and this just felt like every other posh room he’d imagined (not that he’d been in many of those, either, but trains seemed far more exciting than riches at this point).

Dean didn’t sit.

“Look, you wanna be mad at me, that’s fine,” Sam said finally, unable to stand the tension. “But please say something.”

He hated this feeling between him and Dean. Oh, they argued all the time, and bickered, and sniped at each other, but most of it was playful and teasing. Real fights, like this one, were kind of rare, and the last one had been more than a year ago, when Sam took off to hunt on his own and lost track of time, came home hours later than Dean had been expecting.

“I’ve got plenty to say, Sam.” Dean widened his stance slightly and put his hands in his jacket pockets, like he was preparing for a blow and trying to be subtle about it.

“Then spit it out. Lay it on me, c’mon.”

“You…” Dean stared at him. “You’re not even really sorry, are you?” he said instead.

Sam clenched his jaw. “I’m sorry you feel—“

“No, screw that. You think I can't hear the fucking smugness in your voice, you've got another thing coming. God fucking dammit, Sam!"

“Stop yelling at me like this is all my fault! You shouldn't have volunteered to take my place!"

"What was I supposed to do? Let you die when I could save your--"

"Not save, Dean, trade. You traded your life for mine, and don't think I'm forgiving you for that anytime soon."

"I wouldn’t have cared whether you forgave me or not, if it meant you were alive," Dean said flatly. Sam suddenly wanted to slam him against a wall. His brother had to know that Sam's definition of 'alive' was incompatible with Dean's death.

"It's a good thing I didn't tell you about the extra submissions, then," he snapped.

"Oh, sure! Instead of me having a shot at winning and you staying safe back home, we're now in an even bigger mess! Have you forgotten we’ll be expected to fight each other? If we both make it to the final two they’ll sit back and wait for us to kill each other, Sam!”

"For God's sake, of course we’re not going to kill each other!”

“When have the Gamemakers ever made an exception, you idiot?”

“There’s never been brothers before! We’re brothers, they wouldn’t—“

“Oh yes they would,” Dean interrupted. “Were you not here four years ago, when they made that chick kill her boyfriend? And she did it, too.”

Sam remembered. The boy had been bleeding pretty bad, probably would have died anyway, but the girl had shot him and won the Games for it. “That was a mercy kill. And anyway they hooked up halfway through the game, they knew what would happen eventually. We... we’re brothers.”

Dean rubbed his eyes tiredly, and his shoulders slumped. “I can’t believe this.”

“It’s not my fault,” Sam repeated stubbornly. The odds… the ridiculously improbable odds were to blame. He’d just done what was right. He’d had no other choice. Dean hadn’t let him hunt until he was fifteen, and anyway in those years catching a squirrel on his own would have been miracle enough. Dean had been going hungry, and it had been in Sam's power to help.

They were silent for a long moment, Sam unable to tear his gaze away from Dean’s expression.

“Dean.”

His brother looked at him, and for a second he looked like the old man Sam liked to tease him about being.

“I really am sorry.”

Dean snorted. “But not for the right reasons.”

“Maybe not. I still am.”

Dean let out a long, tired breath.

“Dammit dude, it’s not fair if you use that expression.”

“What expression?” He knew exactly what expression. Years of living with his brother had helped hone it for maximum effect.

“The face.” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched, and he finally walked over to sit on the couch beside Sam. “The you-just-ripped-my-puppy’s-head-off-in-front-of-me face.”

Sam smiled tentatively. “Wow, that was specific.”

“Accurate, bitch, there’s a difference.” Dean was smiling a little too, and maybe the world wouldn’t end today after all. “So… you wanna watch the other reapings?”

Sam really, really didn’t, but it could be useful to take a look at the competition.

“We should, yeah.”

They tuned in right when the host was announcing what an exciting Reaping Day they'd had this year. Like he did every single year.

There were a lot of faces to remember, but several caught Sam’s attention. A very tall, well-muscled guy from District Three whose mother and sister tried to prevent from reaching the stage. From District One, a gorgeous catlike girl whose charming smile held a hint of scorn (the kind of girl Sam knew Dean would love, under normal circumstances). A pair of obviously trained Tributes from District Two, one of whom wouldn’t stop gripping the cross around his neck. A sobbing girl from District Five whose girlfriend sent away with a heartbreaking kiss.

The most terrible of all, however, was a tiny, adorable little girl from District Eleven who couldn’t be a day over fourteen and who bravely didn’t cry when nobody volunteered to take her place. To add insult to injury, the commentator explained that she was the daughter of a previous Eleven winner: the famous Ellen Harvelle, who would now have to train her daughter and try to help her win (and who would be first in line to watch her die if she failed).

Then they saw their reaping: Dean's stupid volunteering act, Sam's struggle to get to him, Dean's face when they called Sam's name a second time. It was really weird, watching himself with Dean from the outside, the way they looked together on that stage with only small Meg between them.

When it was over Sam turned to Dean and saw that his brother was already looking at him.

“That girl. The little blonde one—“

“Yeah.” Dean’s mouth was set. “Yeah, I know. Let’s just hope someone else gets to her first, Sammy.”

*

It was nearly a day’s journey to the City from their District, so they wouldn't get there until tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, Meg had called to inform Sam and Dean that they would eat with her and Bobby Singer at the front coach for dinner, but first they must change into appropriate attire, whatever the hell that meant.

They’d been assigned a room together near the back of the train, despite the fact that Meg told them Tributes were traditionally kept apart. “This’ll be the last favor you get from me, though. You two’d better get used to thinking of each other as enemies.”

As it would turn out, that was the first and only piece of advice Meg Masters would ever give them, and even then it fell to deaf ears.

“Whoa.”

Dean’s grin when they actually saw the room was a sight to see. Huge and childish, lit by the warm lights, it made Sam temporarily blind to the glamorous things before them.

“Dude. This is awesome!” Dean threw himself onto one of the beds and happily bounced several times. “I think it’s a water bed,” he said wonderingly and promptly tossed his leather jacket and crossed over to the bathroom.

Sam wondered whether Dean was as excited as he seemed, or if some of this sudden gleeful enthusiasm was more for Sam’s benefit.

“Sam! Check this out!”

“What is it?”

He followed Dean inside, noting the plush cream-colored carpet had already been dirtied by Dean’s sooty footprints and only being able to smile helplessly.

“Look. It’s a swimming pool!”

It wasn’t a swimming pool. Sam had read about these in one of his books, though.

“Jacuzzi.”

“Gesundheit.”

Sam snorted. “It’s like a hot tub.”

“We have a hot tub?” A truly manic gleam was lighting Dean’s eyes now, and Sam was suddenly less sure that this was his brother putting on a show for him. “Dude, this thing is big enough to fit the both of us!”

“Uh… you think?” It was really very big, but Sam wasn’t so sure about them both fitting in there. Four, hell, three years ago, maybe. Not now. He still felt overgrown and clumsy sometimes, despite having mostly caught up to his height with his muscles, but Dean was only a few inches shorter than him, and by no means small. The two of them naked in there would be a tight fit. There’d be… touching.

Abruptly a wave of nausea made Sam step out of the bathroom, tugging at the neck of his hoodie to breathe more comfortably.

“Hey, Sammy, everything okay?”

Sam let his body slump at the edge of the bed whose sheets hadn’t been crumpled by his big brother.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, felt a bit of the earlier red anger wash over him, which was strange. Left-over adrenalin most likely, he reasoned. Plus he hadn’t eaten anything since that one bite of pigeon for their late breakfast. “What are we gonna wear?”

Dean cocked his head to the side and looked at him for another moment, then seemed to decide to not force the issue.

“Dunno.” He looked around and gestured towards a large closet at the furthest wall (this room, like the others, had no windows). “Maybe we’ll find something in there.”

What they found was a veritable army of clothes of every shape and size, ranging from the intimidatingly formal to very casual. There were jackets, jerseys, shirts, T-shirts, dress shirts, dress pants, dress shoes, dresses, jeans, and even socks and underwear.

Dean dove in and selected Sam’s clothes for him; a black V-neck tee and some obviously expensive dark jeans that had rips in them (which meant they looked like a slightly tighter version of the exact same pants Sam was wearing). When he asked for underwear Dean handed him a lacy black bra and satin panties.

“Go change, Sammy.”

“Hilarious.”

“Sorry, isn’t that your size?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Can I please have some underwear now?”

Dean threw him a red speedo.

“Dean.”

“For the hot tub!”

Sam shoved Dean aside and grabbed a pair of plain white boxers.

“Jerk.”

Dean smiled at him, and it wasn't a huge grin and it wasn't a mocking smirk; it was one of those rare, completely sincere smiles that took Sam's breath away with how much affection Dean let shine through.

“Bitch.”

Dean

Bobby Singer didn't... seem very helpful.

So far he'd eaten a lamb chop and drunk an entire bottle of wine, all without saying a single word to them, or even looking up from his plate for that matter.

At the start of the meal Dean hadn't really cared because he'd been too busy stuffing his face with unimaginably expensive City delicacies; first the lamb and then steak and then there had been these potatoes, chopped into rectangles and fried, that tasted like juicy salted heaven. And yes, fine, so admittedly some of it got on his fancy green shirt but he was ravenous and this was the most amount of food he'd ever seen on one table, he was sure of it.

He'd also been sipping the wine intermittently and it had this girly fruity taste that was nothing like the hard alcohol Dad had coveted back on their District, but it was pretty good, it made him feel pretty good... or so Dean had thought, only to discover his Holy Grail during dessert. Dean's Holy Grail, it turned out, was called pie. He'd heard of pie before, of course, and seen it in passing at Jessica’s folks’ bakery, but he'd had no idea... and the moan he'd let escape when he first bit into that sugary, creamy apple filling had been horribly inappropriate.

Around dessert, though, was when Singer's silence had started to become... pointed.

Meg had eaten an oozing red steak without taking her eyes off of Sam, who was apparently bent on tasting every single thing on the table that had once been green or had leaves (and Dean decided from then on that he definitely did not like the way she eyed his kid brother; it was too speculative). But hell, she'd at least talked to them a little, even if it was mostly light taunting and some rather confusing innuendo.

By the time Dean conceded defeat before the fourth helping of pie, Bobby Singer's silence had become another presence in the room with them.

"Well, I should leave you to discuss your approach to the arrival at the City," Meg said, standing up and grinning slyly at Sam. "Sleep tight, boys."

She left, and now the silence was just plain awkward.

"Uh... Mr Singer?" Sam prompted politely.

Singer looked up from his empty glass and his gaze went to Sam first, then Dean, and it was steadier than Dean would have expected after all that wine. Dean himself felt a little bit fuzzy and he'd had less than half.

"You two wanna win, eh?"

Sam nodded, eyes all puppy-wide and earnest. Kid was so fucking cute, Dean thought, affection warm and heavy in his chest. Not that he'd ever tell Sam this, mind.

"You idjits have any trainin' whatsoever?"

They were silent.

"Ever handled a gun, ever used a bow-and-arrow, ever killed a man, a woman, hell, anyone? Ever hunted a fifteen-year-old kid whose only crime was gettin' picked for this insane contest same way you were? No? Then I'd say your chances are lookin' pretty grim. Sorry boys."

He sounded bored. He sounded fucking bored, and Dean had been watching Sam's face so he'd caught the exact moment when the eager attentiveness gave way to closed-off hurt. How dare this guy crush Sammy's hope like that?

"Hey," he snapped. "Your job is to help us. You can't say shit like that and then expect us to roll over and die, what kind of unfeeling dick does that?"

Singer raised an eyebrow and that was probably the most interest Dean had seen him show in anything ever.

"Dean--" Sam started to say, but Dean was mad now.

"We may not have any professional training but we've been hunting our food for years," he went on. "And we may not be psycho murderers like some of them kids from Districts One or Two but we know about guns, been using them to hunt since we could, and Sammy here's better at the arrows than me."

Singer stared at him.

"What're you better at, then?" he said finally, face inscrutable.

"I'm good with knives."

Bobby Singer sat back and eyed them more keenly, almost like he was seeing them for the first time.

"Well, well. Seems I got me some fighters this year." He motioned for Sam and Dean to stand up. "Let me see."

Dean felt a bit ridiculous but he scraped back the ornate chair and stood, and made sure Sam did the same. They exchanged a slightly chagrined, incredulous look.

"You're in shape, at least," Singer said. "And the press already loves your mugs; I noticed the extra close-ups you two got during the Reaping Reels."

Dean turned to share another look with Sam, but Sam just glanced at him and nodded with this little shrug like, yeah, he got what Singer was saying.

"Tragic heroes is the best angle for now, but the fact that you're brothers will only help you at the start of the Games. By the end sponsors will be droppin' away from you like flies."

"Why?" Sam asked, frowning.

"'Cause y'all won't be playing to win. Sponsors will think, and rightly so, that you'll be more concerned with savin' each other than savin' yourselves. You won't be thinking selfishly."

Dean kept silent, but Sam looked more upset. "But... but we're a team. We'll be stronger together."

"At the start," Singer repeated. "And only then. It's fine to pose together for pictures, but I want you ready to split up. That's the only way one of you will have a shot."

"But--"

"We'll start with distancing you at the chariot ride, making you both clear and separate contestants; you'll spend the whole of tomorrow with your stylists so you should let them do their thing--"

"No, wait--"

"And go from there. You're both decent-lookin’ enough to get attention, which is great as long as we figure out what to do with that attention by the time the interviews come up--"

"Wait!" Sam interrupted loudly.

Singer looked at him coldly. "You want my help or don't you, son?"

"I do, we do, but--"

"Then do as I say. Else you're both gonna die and I'll be left to curse your stubborn asses for not listenin'." Singer eyed Dean then, thoughtful, and Dean boldly eyed him right back. "Something tells me you're not willing to take that chance and it ain't for your own sake, Dean. I think your brother would do good to follow your example in this case."

Dean promptly forgot about staring down the former Champion, and he glanced guiltily at Sam. The kid had drawn himself up to his full, impressive height, and if looks could kill Bobby Singer would be bleeding to death on this fancy carpeted floor.

"Uh..." he felt a little uneasy, because Sammy was apparently suddenly capable of looming even though Singer didn't seem to have noticed and if he had, didn't seem to care. "So what do you suggest? Sir?"

"Well first of all, you need to stop with that," Bobby said to Dean, ignoring Sam's thunderous expression.

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking like a big brother. Stop staring at the kid like he's..."

Whoa, whoa. "Like what?"

Singer gave a slightly uncomfortable shrug and Dean crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"What?"

"Son, no one is gonna sponsor you if they think you're just gonna be Sam's bodyguard."

"Huh?"

"You look at your brother and even I can tell you ain't gonna let nothing hurt him. You wanna protect him, right? Whatever the cost? He's your responsibility?"

Dean's stomach churned in embarrassment and he dropped his gaze to the floor, not feeling too hot about having his guts carefully dissected in front of Sam.

"If you go into that Arena for the sole purpose of keeping your brother alive you're gonna die a day into the Games."

"He's not."

Sam took a step forward and once more Dean was forced to appreciate his baby brother's height. Sam was already too tall when he wasn't trying; and oh, he was trying now.

"He's not gonna do that and he's not gonna die," Sam said fiercely, Dean suspected partly as a warning directed at him. "So stop talking to him like that. Don't... just don't say that."

"It wouldn't be the first time the last two champions refuse to kill each other," Singer said to Sam, this tired shadow ghosting over his features. "You two think you're the first pair of geniuses as figured they could both win? Someone always caves, or the Gamemakers force them to, and by that point in the Games it don't take a whole lot. People change in the Arena." He was clearly willing them to understand some undeniable truth, but it wasn't his fault if he didn't know that there was absolutely no way, no universe, nothing in this world that would make Dean try to hurt his little brother.

"We won't." Sam looked so fierce and sure of himself and of that fact that Dean wanted to—hug him. A brotherly hug. A manly, brotherly hug. "We'd never do that and they'll have to let us both win."

"That's an attitude that's gonna get you killed, boy--"

"I'll never hurt Dean," Sam growled. Dean knew this full well, of course, which was why he was keeping quiet for now. When it was time, he was ready for what would need to be done. Sammy might not even expect him to actually go through with it.

Bobby Singer sighed and seemed to default back to his indifferent setting.

"Fine, then I'm going to bed. You two idjits decide whether you wanna live or die and tell me in the morning, that seem fair?"

Without waiting for an answer he got to his feet and left them there.

*

"What are we gonna do, Dean?" Sam asked the low ceiling of their fancy room.

Dean had to keep reminding himself that this was a train even as he stretched his arms out on a bed twice the size of his own bunk back home.

"About what?"

Sam snorted. "About the terrible weather there's been lately."

"Sam--"

"About what Mr Singer said. About separating us... distancing us. Or, y'know, pretending to distance us."

Dean was still caught on Singer's unwelcome and intrusive insight from earlier.

"Stop thinking like a big brother. Stop staring at the kid like he's..."

He 'd never know what Singer had been about to follow that with, but when he tried to finish the sentence in his head he could only come up with totally cheesy bullshit, such as “Stop staring at the kid like he's everything,” or “Stop staring at the kid like he's your whole world.”

Probably Singer hadn't been going to say that, but the idea wouldn't leave Dean alone. 'Cause it was... it was kinda true, wasn't it? Mom was only a few memories of warmth and light and beauty bright, until the fire took her and their first house with it, and nothing else had felt quite like a home since. Dad was discipline and a steady presence that had abruptly left them both alone when Dean was seventeen, but Sammy. Sammy felt like the reason Dean existed. Dean loved Sam with a depth and force of intensity he wasn't entirely sure others could comprehend. Sometimes he himself didn’t understand it, either.

He'd never had a lot of close friends, not the way Sam did. None of the Winchesters had quite fit in District Twelve, not even John; something off since Mary had died, but Dean had always thought his kid brother was better at faking it. Whatever 'it' was. When Dad died Dean had dropped out of school, put himself to work, become useful, and Sam had tried to drop out too, but he'd been young enough that Dean's authority had prevailed (and anyway Sammy was made for that shit; he loved studying, did all of his homework, always wanted to learn more). Hunting took up plenty of hours every day, sometimes more than Sam knew, but Dean hadn't really missed that kind of contact with other people either. He felt like, if he had Sam, he had everything.

It had taken him a while to realize that the way he felt about his little brother wasn't exactly conventional, but by the time Dean noticed it was too late to make him second-guess himself. It made up who he was, caring for Sam. Lisa Braeden had dumped him the day after he’d tried to explain it to her and after that he’d never said it aloud again. So if he needed Sam more than Sam needed him, well. That was... it was just how things were. No one needed to know how pathetic Dean was, how needy. Especially not Sam.

You look at your brother and even I can tell you ain't gonna let nothing hurt him. You wanna protect him, right? Whatever the cost? He's your responsibility?

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

Sam rolled over onto his stomach and stared at Dean in the dim light, his eyes glinting. "You know I won't let you die, right?"

"Sam--"

"You have to understand." Sam's gaze felt hot and hard and unforgiving. "You have to accept that I'm gonna protect you."

Dean wanted to laugh at the kid's bravado, aw Sammy, wanted to coo at how very earnestly he said it, how goddamn adorable he looked buried under the large feather blanket, silly mop of unruly hair spread out on the pillow.

"It’s not funny."

Sam lifted his torso off the mattress, leaning on his elbows, and narrowed his eyes at his older brother.

"You'd better get it in your head right now, Dean, I swear it."

The blanket had fallen down to his waist, and suddenly, fleetingly in the darkness, Sam looked tall and... more than tall. He looked big. Just plain... large, all laid out on the bed with his wide shoulders and strong arms, he looked perfectly capable of keeping his word, of protecting Dean. What he was saying felt unsettlingly believable.

"I swear it."

Dean closed his eyes. "I think we should do as Singer says."

Before Sam could start an outraged protest Dean went on.

"But only as long as it gets us to the end. Only pretending. He's smart and he knows how this stuff works, so we do as he tells us until it's time to turn on each other, and then we just don't."

"It won't be that simple." There was a rustle of bed-sheets and the squelchy sound of the waterbed mattress, but Dean was done looking; he was keeping his eyes shut. "He said it was a gradual thing. I think he'll ask us to separate in the Arena at some point."

"Then we do that too."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Fuck's sake, Sam, we'll come to that problem when we come to it, okay? There's still loads of shit to get through before the Arena is our main concern; everyone knows you don't get anywhere without sponsors. For now, Singer's advice is our best bet."

Sam sighed audibly and Dean wanted to chuck something at him to get him to stop being such a little bitch. Sadly, there was nothing practical at hand.

"For now, Sammy."

"M'name's Sam," his baby brother muttered.

Dean pretended he hadn't heard and rolled away to try and get some sleep.

*

The intercom woke them both by announcing the arrival at City limits, and Sam and Dean scrambled out of bed to try and catch a glimpse of it. They had seen many airplane shots of the City on TV, but it wouldn't be the same.

Their room had no windows so they stumbled out into the corridor and walked until they finally found one. It was a thin rectangle of thick clean glass that Sam had to duck down to see through. Dean gaped at the speed the earth flew by and waited, waited for that first glimpse. His breath fogged up the glass a little so he had to keep rubbing it with his palm to see properly but he didn't much care.

Despite being referred to as Capital City (or more often than not just “the City”), this was no ordinary metropolitan territory. Larger than Districts One, Two and Three combined, it spanned miles and miles from the center of the continent formerly known as North America. The City was home to every free civilian in the country and completely off-limits to District denizens... unless they were Tributes in the annual Hunter Games, and therefore part of the pre-Games training and festivities.

There was a silent, expectant minute during which the deserted, ravaged landscape was the only thing they could see, tumbleweed and dark rocks jutting out of the cracked earth, zooming past their window at an impossible velocity.

And then, suddenly, there it was. The Eastern Gate.

Their crappy little living-room TV hadn't done the City justice.

Dean’s first impression was of color. District Twelve was ashy smears and dark streets, famished children, factory smoke, grim cold winters, grey clouds above them seemingly every day. The City looked as if a rainbow had exploded and painted everything it hit in a different, vibrant hue; bright yellows and deep blues and blood reds; impossibly green trees lining the wide, sunlit streets and the people. Everyone was dressed differently and as the train slowed down upon entering the main roadway Dean got to see individual faces staring up at them, some pointing excitedly upon recognising a Tribute train. These people were City civilians who had never gone hungry in their lives, and they’d all grown up watching the Hunter Games on their fancy TV sets without being taught to question why twenty-three kids from far away Districts died every year, with no more explanation than that they deserved to be punished for their ancestor’s crimes.

Only a handful of protests had started up recently, detonated by the particularly cruel games of the past five years. Dean tried to catch a few gazes, tried to look these people in the eye and to judge whether they might be angry on his behalf, hoping the rumors of Cancellation were true… or just waiting to see him die. Needless to say he was too far away and the window was too small to actually manage this.

"You kids ready?"

Dean spun around, startled, and saw Bobby Singer calmly leaning against the compartment wall, dressed in cheap worn plaid and incredibly plain overalls as though he was wearing his least elegant clothes on purpose.

"Well?"

Sam frowned at the question, and it made his nose wrinkle in a way that took ten years off of his age. Dean exchanged a look with his brother and then pointedly gestured at their state of undress; both were in boxers and a T-shirt. And barefoot.

"What do you think?"

Singer rolled his eyes. "I want you ready for your stylists in fifteen minutes. You’ll spend the entire day getting ready for the chariot welcome ride, so best get a move on if you want some food in ya’.”

Dean very much wanted food, especially more of that pie, so he tore himself away from the window and quickly went to their room.

“Sammy, come on.”

They grabbed the same clothes from the night before but had no time for showers. Dean knew he looked like crap; bed-head and sleep-puffy eyes and grimy nails, and he probably reeked, but he didn’t care. Let them fancy stylists do their little makeover thing, he was hungry.

Sam

“Oh boy.”

The look on the girl’s face when Sam and Dean were shown inside the enormous Styling Suite was… a bit frightening.

“Oh boy oh boy… Pamela!”

Her voice sounded choked with barely suppressed glee but it was obviously loud enough to reach the far wall, where a door opened briefly and another female voice yelled: “Coming!” before it was slammed shut again.

The Styling Suite for District Twelve took up the entire top floor of the Remake Center, a City building destined for the preparation of the chariot procession. It was not, in fact, an actual 'suite' so much as a room large enough to fit a basketball court in, maybe even two, although the ceiling was rather low. Mirrors lined the walls and unforgiving, bright fluorescent lights shone around every single one. The row of tables at either side was chock-full of things Sam couldn’t identify, but some of which reminded him eerily of the medical instruments Doctor Greene used back at the District. Littering every surface were jars and pots of makeup, so many of them and in so many colors that the effect was rather that of a demented painter’s lair. Spilling from the overflowing open drawers under the tables was a chaos of combs, brushes, toothbrushes, curling irons and plenty of other things Sam could only guess at. Five sinks shone merrily polished from the end nearest the far door. There was a small shower next to those, and overall the entire room felt more threatening to Sam than the plush train cabin, the fancy car ride to this place or even the frighteningly high building had.

"So you work here all year, sweetheart?"

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. Dean may not have caught on yet but they were definitely the 'prey' in this scenario.

"Yeah," the girl said, breathless even though Dean was barely even trying, even though he hadn't showered in two days and his clothes were the same ones he'd worn last night to dinner, only rumpled. Oh, well. Sam was used to girls acting this way around his brother by now, so he supposed City girls were just like District girls in that sense. This one wasn't exactly pretty, but then again she was wearing so much makeup that her features were barely identifiable under the layer of tanner that made her face look orange.

Sam had never shared Dean's natural propensity for casual flirting, but he didn't resent it either. First, because the kind of relationships Dean had were nothing like the relationships Sam wanted (Cassie being the only exception, maybe, and even then she'd dumped Dean after a few weeks). And second, because Sam had long ago accepted this magnetism his brother commanded as fact and, hell, he'd come to understand it. One simply had to look at Dean, see the way he carried himself; the flash of his stupidly green eyes and the confident tilt of his head, those plush lips curved in an inviting smile... yes, one simply had to see how Dean was made and it was easy to understand.

"Hello, boys!"

The far door was flung open and a woman emerged from the other room, followed by three more people carrying ominously heavy-looking boxes.

"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you!"

Sam couldn’t help staring a little and felt Dean perk up beside him. The woman (Pamela?) was much younger than expected and pretty, pretty in a way Sam wasn't used to seeing in person, although he'd seen plenty of City beauty on television.

Once again, the contrast between low quality on a small screen and real life became glaringly evident. Jess' beauty, for example, was real and honest and raw to Sam; she worked long hours and she didn’t have enough money to paint her eyes or take proper care of her hair, but she remained undeniably gorgeous. When compared to her, Sam had always thought City people looked plasticky and impossibly accentuated; lips too red and cheeks too pink and not a trace of a day's work on them (the only exception in District Twelve being, of course, Dean, who defied any and all standards of human attractiveness).

This woman seemed to embody City beauty, but up front the effect wasn't fake at all; it was staggering. Pamela's eyes were very blue, with thick eyeliner and eyelashes that couldn't naturally be that long, and her hair was long and flowing dark down her shoulders. She was wearing a black dress with strategic tears along the sides and high-heeled boots, although she was by no means short. Her nails were painted black, and she had a tattoo of something flowery on her shoulder.

Her three minions were two men and another woman, each in a plain black uniform and also wearing makeup, although they all looked decidedly less orange than their coworker.

"Oh, my."

The woman had started out with a winning grin but it faltered once she drew close enough to actually get a good look at Sam and Dean. Then her expression mimicked her assistant's; pure, unadulterated glee.

"My, my my." She ignored Sam's awkward nod and Dean's half-wave and just stared. "They're so tall."

"I know right?" her assistant said, face quite literally aglow.

"This is what I get in my first year? This?" Her gaze raked them both up and down without an ounce of shame. "They did not do enough close-ups during the Reaping Reels." Then she fixed her eyes on Sam. "Are you Samuel Winchester, gorgeous?"

Sam was so nonplussed he forgot to answer.

"Yeah, this is Sam," Dean said, giving the woman a charming smile. "But if anyone's gonna be called gorgeous around here it should be you."

She let out a bark-like laugh, apparently delighted. "Oh, I like this one too! So much pretty, Jesus. I'm Pamela, your stylist. I get to decide what you'll be wearing for the chariot ride." She shook their hands vigorously, still with that wide smile. "You must be Dean."

"That's me."

"So what are we gonna be wearing?" Sam blurted out.

"Baby, if it were up to me? Nothing at all." Pamela smirked at him, and Sam gulped.

"I thought you just said it is up to you," Dean put in, his smile unwavering.

"Well, we can't go NC-17 on national television now. Much as it would help ratings..." she trailed off, her eyes going to Sam's crotch pointedly. Sam fought the urge to cover himself.

"And Sam was underage a month ago," Dean added, drawing Pamela's gaze again. She didn't seem at all abashed, while Sam kept getting this urge to duck his head, torn between amusement and being plain old embarrassed. He wasn't exactly used to this sort of open admiration from an older woman. Or a younger one. Or any woman ever. Except maybe Meg Masters yesterday, but that had been totally different.

"Yes.” She nodded challengingly at Dean. “Which makes him one of the lucky ones, kid, don’t you forget that.”

Dean blanched, and Sam knew that he, too, was remembering the fourteen-year-old girl from District Eleven.

Suddenly it hit him again, why they were here. Had he really forgotten?

Pamela’s expression softened and for a few seconds there was a weary sadness behind her eyes. "This is about making the best of the worst situation, boys. Just so you know, I tend not to dwell on what can’t be changed, but I am truly sorry about what you’re going through. Your Reaping was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen, and I have to watch these Games every year same as you do.”

Sam made an effort to shake off the grim mood threatening to take him over. They’d have enough of that in a few days. He should just hold on to the relief that Dean wasn’t going through this alone.

“So,” Pamela clapped, effectively dismissing the serious moment. “I got a call from Bobby Singer about themed but not identical costumes, and we've been working on them non-stop since. I promised him I’d get you noticed, and I keep my promises.”

She winked at them, grin back in place as though nothing had happened.

“You two are going to be a blast, each in your own right, and I’ll get you sponsored in no time."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Previous District Twelve Tributes had not been very lucky. Typically Hunters wore something characteristic of their District, but there was nothing very artistic about coal so costumes had been... unflattering, to say the least. Lots of sexy coal miner outfits had been attempted over the years. None had been particularly successful.

“Well, time's a'wastin', so say goodbye to your big brother, Sam, you're not going to see him for a little while."

Pamela sidled up to him (her head was level with his shoulder even with the heels she wore) and Sam looked at Dean, uncertain.

"See you later?" he hedged.

Dean nodded, his smile a little bit off (more fixed, less sincere) and his stare lingering on where Pamela was touching Sam's arm. Like Sam, Dean probably wasn't used to older women giving his younger brother a second glance, let alone the looks Pamela was aiming his way.

"Dean, you'll be with my amazingly talented coworker Missouri. She'll be here any second, we're still preparing quite a lot of stuff."

"Uh, oka--"

"Sam, your fine ass will be with me. Get naked."

"Huh?"

"Both of you, actually," one of the male assistants piped in apologetically.

"But what do you mean, naked?" Dean said, his eyes incredulously wide.

"What do you think we mean, Dean?" Pamela asked with a sly smile.

Sam gulped again.

*

Eight hours.

They spent eight hours inside the Styling Suite. Lunch included.

Eight.

When Missouri, Pamela's coworker, had finally emerged from the far office, she and her assistants had helped set up a bunch of temporary screens with several enormous black panels that split the room in two, leaving the sinks and the shower on one side and them on the other.

Sam was made to shower first, then his hair was scrubbed again and cut because, as Pamela calmly informed him, it looked like an upturned bird's nest had fallen on his scalp. Then his nails were cut and filed (filed... he was glad Dean would undergo the same thing or he'd never have lived that down), and at several points so many things were being done to his body at once that he felt rather lost to the plucking, painful sensations in an intensely unpleasant way.

When it was over and Sam asked for his clothes (after the shower he'd been given a pair of tight black boxer-briefs and nothing more), Pamela laughed.

"Honey, that was to get you presentable. Now comes the fun part."

From the other side of the screens, Dean yelped.

All these hours later, and Sam was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He was wearing black cargo pants and these big, futuristic-looking black boots, but not much else. His entire torso had been covered in glittery black powder that was probably meant to resemble coal but actually did nothing of the sort; instead it highlighted the lines of his body so that his lithe muscles actually looked way more impressive than they were. Pamela had even left traces of it on his face, so it looked like fake shiny grit on his cheekbones and jaw.

And they’d put makeup on him. Like, actual makeup, with a brush and everything, so that his face was perfectly smoothed. Pamela had added a touch of pink on his lips, taken care to smudge a bit of the black powder around his eyes. He couldn't remember ever feeling so self-conscious, including that one time Jess’ little sister had insisted on braiding his hair. He looked… he looked stupid, like someone playing pretend, surely. Dean was gonna laugh himself silly at the sight. Sam could almost hear it: aw shucks, Sammy, did they confuse you with a girl again?

Sam twisted awkwardly around to look behind him in the mirrors. They’d strapped a weirdly clunky black contraption to each of his shoulder blades and Pamela had refused to tell him what it was. It pulled at the skin on his back when he moved his arms.

“Checking yourself out, little brother?”

Sam startled guiltily and looked around. He’d thought he was alone, that everyone was on the other side, finishing Dean’s costume.

But no, there Dean was, squeezing himself in between two screens—

Sam’s breath lodged in his windpipe.

Dean.

What...? What had they done to Dean?

It--it was... Sam had always known Dean was beautiful. Fact. Impossible to forget, and not easy to ignore. Remarked upon often enough, to be sure. Redundant words, always, an overused litany.

But.

But the air in District Twelve was thick, a suspension of ash and dust that lent a grainy, dark filter to everything you saw. And maybe... maybe until this very moment Sam had been able to avoid facing the truth of--of something that here, now, was made absolutely obvious, something that couldn't be overlooked anymore. Like a window being scrubbed clean, all filters removed, every particle sucked out of the air; the image of Dean sharpened to such painful clarity that it tore through Sam's defenses with terrifying ease.

Dean looked... not real. He looked like something out of a dream.

He was wearing a pair of pants not unlike Sam's in shape, low-slung and slightly baggy, but instead of black, Dean's clothes, and boots, were blood red. He was also shirtless, and they'd painted his bare chest with streaks of deep, rich ochre, so it looked like dark gold-dust that made him nearly glow in the warm lights. They'd let him keep his amulet on, black cord and all. The tips of his artfully spiked dirty-blond hair were dyed scarlet and orange, and oh, it should have looked comically bad; something for Sam to mock him about until the end of time, it should have looked hilarious. But Sam didn't feel like laughing.

Sam was stuck. Stuck taking it in, how goddamn gorgeous Dean was. Dean’s lips... fuck. Fucking hell, Dean’s mouth. Had it always looked so ridiculously full and pouty pink and inviting? Speechless, Sam tracked the lines of muscle that cut into Dean's flesh, a sight he'd seen before, but never in this light, never with this focus. The subtle crest of his hipbones, the iron strength in his arms... it was as though Dean's body was forcefully burdening him with knowledge he never should have had, and now his brother's impossible eyelashes and narrow waist held strange new secrets Sam wouldn't have even considered yesterday.

"Huh. Look at you."

Sam jolted back into awareness and realized Dean had been checking him out while his brain was busy ringing with white noise.

"Not bad, kiddo," Dean said appreciatively, then let out a low whistle. "Where were you hiding those abs?"

Sam couldn't answer. His guts felt liquefied and volatile, like he might puke at any second. And Dean was just standing there, looking at him. Looking like that.

"Well, at least you look like a fucking dude," Dean continued, oblivious to the tide of nausea making Sam's head spin. He then looked down at his own gleaming chest and grimaced. "I look like a painted whore."

"I."

Completely out of the blue Sam remembered the noise Dean had made on the train when he'd tasted his first bite of pie; a pornographic groan of pleasure that had made Sam's belly flip-flop with embarrassment.

"I--I. Uh."

Sam's pulse was a hot throb in his wrists and in his neck and in his... his... oh god ohgodohgod.

"I."

Oh please no. Please.

No.

No way, no, come on.

"Sam? Cat get your tongue?" Dean quirked a puzzled brow at him. His eyes were shining and the little golden flecks in them were more noticeable than ever and too much, Sam thought frantically, it was, everything, all of it too much.

"N-no." Sam swallowed. He was going to puke. He felt shuddery and out-of-control and sick, so sick. "I-I just..." He drew in a panicked breath with absolutely no idea as to what he was going to say... in time for Pamela and her team to appear.

"Boys! Let's get going, we don't want to be late."

They were ushered to the same elevator they'd come up in and Sam, Dean, Pamela and her three assistants filed inside with space to spare (the thing was larger than the living room of their old house).

"Bye!" the girl who'd greeted them called. Behind her, Missouri fondly rolled her eyes at Dean, who winked.

Sam resolutely faced the wall and tried to take deep breaths in case that would help calm his erratic heartbeat, or maybe stop his nervous system from firing spasmodic, epileptic shocks through his spine every few seconds. He had the hysterical thought that the heat his skin was giving off would be visible, a haze in the air that would outline his body, make it fuzzy around the edges.

“You two are going to be a sensation,” Pamela was saying. “Trust me, something like this has never been attempted on the chariot procession before.”

She still refused to answer Dean’s questions as to what, exactly, the contraption strapped to their backs was, or why it would be such a hit.

By the time the lift doors hissed open Sam’s breathing seemed to have evened out, but he still felt dizzy.

There was a man waiting outside, carrying a clipboard and speaking into a headset.

“Are you Twelve?” he asked, half-distractedly, and seemingly unfazed by Sam and Dean’s getups.

“Dude, do I look twelve to you?” Dean asked. He had obviously settled on his smartass cocky persona for the evening, Sam thought, unsure as to whether he’d have preferred brooding, pissed-off Dean instead. God, he couldn’t even look at his brother right now, for risk of hyperventilating again.

“Yes, we’re Twelve,” Pamela put in with a fond eyeroll. “Is everything on schedule?”

“For now, sure,” headset guy replied with a shrug. “In ten minutes, who knows? Follow me.”

He led them down a short corridor and out into... what looked oddly like an enormous parking lot. Except, the twelve cars set up at intervals each had a large carriage attached where the Tributes would ride in, and a crew of people milling around every one. There were no cameras here, for which Sam was vaguely grateful, but he knew what came soon enough; marching out in front of thousands of cheering citizens, people he’d never seen before and would never see again, people who in a few days would watch him struggle to stay alive and lay bets on his chances of survival.

“You’re over there,” headset guy pointed at one of the furthest vehicles.

“Thanks, we got this,” Pamela said with a confident nod and led their small group onward.

As they walked, Dean stared openly at the other carriages, where most of the Tributes were already standing in preparation. Sam looked around as well, of course (anywhere but at Dean, anywhere but at Dean) but it all seemed kind of blurred; as though his brain was having enough trouble dealing with everything else going on and now refused to process new information.

“Sammy. Oh, Sammy, look,” Dean breathed, nothing short of reverence in his voice at the sight of a girl wearing a fancy sparkling fishing-net... and not a stitch more. She eyed them contemptuously and raised her eyebrows at Dean when he didn’t stop gaping the entire walk past. Sam, hysterically, sent a prayer of thanks that it appeared they’d been lucky with the amount of skin Pamela had covered.

As though she’d read his mind, Pamela threw him a smirk over her shoulder. “See, Sam? It could have been way worse.”

She had no idea.

“Worse how? I’m covered in glitter.”

And neither did Dean.

On the next carriage stood someone Sam distinctly remembered from the Reaping Reels; handsome, dark-skinned and tall, the electric cables crossing his naked chest in an X made the guy from District Three look pretty impressive. He met Sam’s gaze and gave him a polite nod, which Sam returned automatically.

Dean missed this because he was too busy gaping at another girl two carriages over, this one with lustrous long black hair and chalk-pale skin, wearing a fur two-piece that would do little to protect her from even the slightest breeze. She seemed to sense someone staring because she looked around until she spotted them, but before Sam or Dean could do anything one of her stylists barked at her angrily.

“Madison! Face forward, please!”

Sam looked away and realized they’d nearly reached their destination. A group of people was waiting for them around the District Twelve carriage, mostly technicians. Unsurprisingly, the carriage itself was black, but it was much nicer than Sam had expected; something sleek and understated, as opposed to other more generously decorated ones. The classic car that would pull it forward was the real attraction of the ensemble, though, and it drew his gaze immediately. It was a gorgeous ride, an old Chevy from before the Uprising.

“She’s a beauty, this one,” Pamela said as they approached. “Been in use for a long time, I’ve heard, but I love her quiet grace. They call her the Impala.”

Dean eyed the vehicle with the same kind of adoration he’d given fishing-net girl. Sam realized he was tracking the gap between Dean's slightly bowed legs a few moments later and immediately jerked his head away, shame burning acidic holes through his stomach, or so it felt like.

“Wow! They look gorgeous, Pamela!” one of the techs exclaimed. Something about the way she said it, however, and the way she was smiling widely at the stylist instead of either of them, made it sound as though Sam and Dean were mere props or pretty mannequins.

Sam felt a ripple of revulsion break through his panicked fog.

“Thanks, Em.” Pamela smiled back, a little thinly, and directed Sam and Dean to climb onto the small platform. Dean went first, but when Sam moved to follow him Dean shook his head subtly. Caught staring up at his brother’s gleaming body, Sam complied with the unspoken command without a thought.

“All right, look,” Dean announced, loud and firm enough to get everyone’s attention. His legs were set apart in a wide stance and Sam was staring again. “Either you tell us what the big surprise is or I’m ripping those things off my brother’s back and we make a run for it, y’hear?”

Several jaws dropped at his tone. The pretty doll speaks.

“Okay, okay,” Pamela said quickly. “Look, this sounds way worse than it actually... it’s kind of a modified flamethrower, all right? We coated you in protective, non-flammable materials and you’ll be perfectly safe. It’ll look amazing.”

Dean stared at her. Sam did too.

“You want to light us on fire?”

“Flamethrower?”

“Uh, okay maybe flamethrower is a bit of an exaggeration. It just gives off a bit of synthetic gas, like a lighter only... bigger. But not as dangerous, I promise. Get it? The costumes are a play on fire and coal!” Pamela sighed at their less-than-enthusiastic expressions. “You’ll be safe, I swear. We tested it out, look.”

And without a warning she sneaked a hand around Sam’s torso, pulled some sort of lever with two loud clacks, and stepped away. There was a rustling noise and then heat bloomed across Sam’s back.

“Sammy!”

Sam had gasped, but more in shock than anything, because it didn’t hurt. The device exerted soft pressure against his shoulders, and the twin jets of fire gave off an almost pleasant sort of warmth.

Dean leapt off the platform and landed in front of him. “Sam. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam said. He twisted to try and get a look at his back, and nearly singed his hair in the process.

“No turning!” Pamela said. “Sorry, thought I’d mentioned that. Also try to keep your arms in front of you.”

Sam nodded, panting. “Right. Got it.”

“Well...” Dean was looking at Sam with wide, admiring eyes. “It does look pretty awesome, actually. Like you have wings, dude.”

Pamela beamed at him. “That was the idea.” She turned the flames off by pressing down on a hand-held remote, which seemed convenient, and ushered them both back onto the platform, because the other chariots seemed to be getting into position. When Sam hoisted himself onto the stairs he felt a firm slap on his ass.

“Damn, you could bounce a nickel off that thing!”

Dean snorted, not altogether amused, but Sam decided he liked Pamela after all and smiled down at her.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh no, thank you, sweetheart." She winked. "Now, you turn the device back on with the red switch on the top left, but I want you to wait until you’re just outside, all right? And obviously be quick to back away after.”

They both nodded down at her.

"Good. Okay people, listen up!" Pamela turned back to her team and the technicians preparing the final touches to their ensemble. "We get one shot at this, so everything needs to be perfect!" She kept calling instructions until the last second, when the Impala’s engine roared to life and they started to move in its pre-programmed path.

Dean nudged Sam on the arm. "We should probably get ready to switch these things on, huh?”

"Right."

The enormous door of the enclosure opened slowly and with it, came the noise of the crowd outside. The route of the procession itself was short; from the Remake Center to the Training Center with a brief stop at the Main Square of the City, where the Gamemakers would greet them. But it was one of the most important events, pre-Games, and the chariot for District One was already moving forward to tumultuous applause.

“Potential fire-hazard aside, the wings really did look awesome,” Dean muttered, too low for anyone but Sam to hear.

“Great.”

“I mean it, you looked badass, dude.”

“...Thanks."

Sam tried to picture himself; clad all in black and with fiery wings. Hm. Maybe he wouldn’t look so ridiculous after all. Maybe he could still escape this nightmare with some of his dignity. Maybe the little freak-out over Dean earlier had been more of a fluke than anything, and later this would all feel like nothing more than a crazy, adrenalin-induced nightmare.

It was almost their turn now, and Sam felt a flare of hope that he would have thought impossible ten minutes ago. But maybe, god, just maybe everything would be all right. Maybe he'd get better, and the weird Dean-attraction would just go away with these ridiculous costumes.

“Sammy, c'mon. I’ll do yours if you do mine.”

Then again maybe not.

Dean  

Pamela had been totally right.

They freakin’ rocked those costumes.

With eleven other Districts to march before them, Sam and Dean had the disadvantage of being last and not exactly popular, historically speaking. But once they got the fires going, the crowd went wild.

Every now and then Dean would catch a glimpse of himself on a screen set up high in the air, and he would be amazed by the awesome effect the wings created. His crazy hair and red-and-gold outfit went from being totally lame to scorching hot thanks to the two jets of flame shooting from his back and, if Dean did say so himself, the scorching hot part was in every sense of the word.

He remembered Pamela's suggestion that they not wave or smile, and found it easy to follow, because he hadn't forgotten, not for one second, why he was here with his baby brother. Oh, sure, those people behind the waist-high fence were leaning forward adoringly, yelling his name, crying out for him and Sam to look at them, but to them he was just another source of entertainment. Maybe an important one, maybe even the highlight of the year, but gone soon enough. So he curled his hands into fists and glared at them all, half-disgusted and half-furious, wishing the wings were real and he could just take Sam and fly him away from here.

Sam, who'd been acting kind of dorky and quiet since the Styling Suite, was looking out at the public with an almost tragically grave expression. He’d always been a deep little fucker. Dean knew he couldn’t well turn to look at him too often, so when he could he tried to watch Sam through the screens they passed. The lethal angles of the guy’s cheekbones and narrowed eyes, smudged with that black powder, were lit up from behind, and every time he saw him Dean felt a surge of hot pride at the impressive sight his kid brother made.

They'd stolen the show. No one was paying any attention to the chariots in front of them. By the time they pulled into the Main Square of the City (an expanse ten times the size of District Twelve's and ringed by buildings about a million times more wealthy) the sky had darkened and Sam and Dean's still sparking, flickering wings were one of the main light sources, aside from the television crews.

The crowd quieted soon after, signalling that it was time for the welcome speech.

Since the disappearance of the Presidential office and position, the Gamemakers had taken over the government of the United Districts under the City, and despite the many rumors of dissent from within all twelve of them now stood on the balcony of the City Office Building. The speech was given by a different Gamemaker each year, and this year the task fell to Uriel: an ex-military commander with a deep voice and authoritative intonation.

He announced the Tribute's names through a microphone and then explained, yet again, why and how the Games served as a necessary reminder of the Districts' past mistakes. He even made a passing mention at District Thirteen, which had been completely obliterated during the war and was now allegedly a barren wasteland (some of the older folk back at Twelve called it the Hell District, but Dean had never really understood why, or how the nickname originated).

Finally Uriel wished every Tribute good luck and good hunting and the ceremony was, abruptly, over.

"What, no afterparty?" Dean whispered at Sam, peering up at the eleven other Gamemakers standing in the shadows behind Uriel. He knew most of their names and could remember at least half of them presenting twice, most notably perhaps Anna Milton, who he'd had a huge crush on as a kid, before he understood what she was. Beside her stood Alistair, an incredibly creepy-looking dude who was now, yep, talking to Azazel, the Gamemaker with the trademark yellow contacts. They all looked like they'd already forgotten the twelve lavish chariots below.

With one notable exception.

Even as Dean stared up at him, the Gamemaker called Castiel slowly raised his eyes and seemed, for a moment, to be looking right back.

*

A second after the doors of the Training Center shut behind them, Sam and Dean's wings flared out and they were surrounded by their prep team, this time including Missouri, Pamela, and much to Dean's chagrin, Meg.

"Fantastic!"

"They already love you!"

"What a triumph!"

"You are both so pretty, my God--"

“Beautiful!”

Girly compliments aside, Dean gladly let Missouri's assistants manhandle him out of the contraption.

"Excuse me," said a soft voice beside him.

Amidst the confusion and people, Dean's eyes fell on the chick in the fur bikini thing, undoubtedly one of the Tributes from Eight, the textile District. Holy shit, she looked even better up close.

"Hey."

Hot or not, however, Dean was perfectly aware of the fact that from this point onwards every Hunter would have a strategy, and this girl was no exception.

"I'm Madison," she said after a short pause.

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you. Congrats on the costume." Her eyes flicked to the side and Dean followed them to Sam's broad back, still glittering black and currently being divested of the remaining fire-generator over his left shoulder blade.

"Thanks. You, uh..." Dean raised an appreciative eyebrow at her getup. "Well--"

"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes. "Anyways, just wanted to..." again, her eyes went to Sam, only this time they slid down to his tight ass as Sam bent over to allow one of Pamela's assistants to reach his shoulders properly. Madison looked back up at Dean guiltily once she realized he’d caught her staring. "Uh, that is, I have a sister."

“O-kay?”

“No, I mean... she’s younger than me and if she’d been chosen, I’d like to think I would have done the same thing you did.” Madison’s expression was startlingly earnest, but Dean didn't trust her for one second. "I'm sorry. I saw the Reaping Reel, and you... that's—these things shouldn't happen." She sighed, bit her lower lip. "I mean, obviously none of this... my point is that I'm sorry. It was a brave thing you did, volunteering. That's all I wanted to say."

"Yeah, well. Had no other choice."

He didn't really know what else to add, but Madison didn't wait for further elaboration either. With a sad sigh and a nod, she took off.

Dean watched her go, slender legs and dainty steps, and that was probably why it took him a couple of extra seconds to realize Sam's stylists had freed him as well, and his brother was talking to another Hunter. This other dude, though, looked nothing like Madison, which was to say he wasn't small or thin or soft or unthreatening. No, this guy was practically as tall as Sam.

"—please call me Jake," the guy was saying, and shaking Sam's hand.

"Sam," said Sam.

Well well, people looking for alliances already? That was impressively fast work, Dean thought suspiciously. Then again, it wasn't like they had that much time left, and Sam’s sheer size put him forward as a tough contender for sure.

"Shiny costume you got there," Jake told Sam. His eyes took in Sam's shoulders and pecs in a way that made Dean think of Madison from moments before, and the way she'd checked out Sam's body. Huh.

Deciding this was his cue, Dean stepped to Sam's side. "Goes with his sparkling personality," he put in, grinning widely. "Yours is... electric."

"Y'think," Jake replied flatly. District Three was the forerunner in electronics and the most technologically advanced (although the City still reaped all the benefits, of course), and Jake's stylist had put him in midnight-blue pants that had criss-crossing computer cables instead of suspenders. The guy was kind of hot, actually—for a dude, Dean figured, although he was no Dr Sexy—and it didn't look bad, but Dean was finding himself having a hard time of approving anything about this kid, and with perfect reason.

"Well, I guess I'll see ya 'round, Sam."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. It was nice to meet you."

Sam still seemed a bit confused, but he gave Jake a tentative smile from under his bangs, dimples peeking out, and Dean frowned. His frown became a scowl when Jake then proceeded to leave without even acknowledging Dean's existence.

"Boys!" came a drawl from behind Dean, startling them both. "You two should really get a move on if you want to sleep at all. One would think you'd want to take advantage of what little time you have left."

It was Meg, cheerfully mean as always.

"Dinner will be sent to your rooms, but I'm guessing it's gonna take some pretty thorough scrubbing to get all of this off.” Her fingers trailed down Sam's ribs and okay, seriously, what the hell was with people groping Sam today? Be it physically or mentally? “You’re gonna do each other’s backs, right? Such good brothers, so caring."

“What—“ Sam began, but Dean had had enough.

"Come on, Sammy," he said and hauled his kid brother towards the nearest elevator by the arm. His hand came away stained dark, and a strange thought fluttered through his mind then; that there would be evidence, if anyone tried to touch Sam again. That Dean would have a way of knowing who it had been, and then--and then...

"Sleep tight!" Meg cooed at them. Dean snapped out of the totally weird headspace he'd gone into.

Pamela waved goodbye and Missouri tossed a prophetic "See you soon" in their direction, but thankfully none of the other Tributes tried to approach Sam or Dean as they made their way through the many techs, cleanup crews, stylists and contestants milling about the Training Center parking lot.

That was... not until they were inside the elevator itself.

"Hold it please!"

Oh no. Not her.

The little blonde girl stuck one bony arm between the doors and wriggled inside, then let them shut after her.

"Thanks for waiting," she said sarcastically. Dean stared.

She was wearing a ridiculous farm-girl costume complete with cowboy boots that made Dean wonder what the hell her stylist had been trying to achieve. With her hair in two braids like that the girl didn't look fourteen, she looked ten.

"My name is Joanna-Beth but you can call me Jo," she informed them both primly and pressed the button for the eleventh floor. Of course; she was District Eleven. Agriculture. "You're Sam and Dean, right? The brothers?"

"Yeah," Sam replied faintly.

"Well, that must suck."

The elevator was so fast in this building that it dinged open moments later, and Jo trotted out. "Good luck, and good hunting," she said, something almost like defiance in her tone, as though she was daring them to mock her.

"You too," Sam said quickly. "It was nice meeting—“

The doors slid shut.

"Well, shit," Dean breathed. He felt so suddenly and brutally angry that he nearly put his fist through the elevator wall, which would have been a serious problem. "Fucking... shit."

Sam remained silent, still staring at the closed doors like he'd been struck dumb.

* 

Waking up the next day was weird, because he and Sam each had their own quarters now, and despite being on the same floor they were pretty far apart.

Dean showered and dressed in a cool tracksuit that echoed the dark red color of the pants he'd worn yesterday, but at a much more subdued hue. The highlights in his hair had mostly faded, but there were some orange-y remnants from last night, and his eyelashes still looked weird because the water hadn't completely washed away the mascara, only smudged it a little on his eyelids. Well, fuck it; he was a guy, he was not going to ask for makeup remover. That shit would eventually flake off on its own, right?

He and Sam hadn't talked about how they'd meet up, but since the alarm sounded at the exact same time for each Tribute, Dean figured he'd find his little brother downstairs for breakfast. It soon appeared that he was right, but he'd been expecting to see Sam at a table by himself, maybe even having saved Dean a seat.

Instead, Sam was sitting with Jake and two other kids Dean vaguely recalled from the Reaping Reel, and already eating. Pie, to be precise. Eating pie. Without Dean.

"Mornin' there, Sammy," Dean said, slapping a hand down on Sam's shoulder with enough force to make Sam spill some of his juice onto his own wrist as well as the posh white tablecloth. "Oops."

"Dean!" Sam spluttered. But, to Dean's surprise, Sam didn't look upset, and he wasn't even making the face. He looked... a little bit wide-eyed, and a little bit embarrassed, like he'd been caught doing something wrong which, damn right, he had.

"Wanna introduce me to your new friends?" Dean said, sunny smile still firmly in place.

"Uh." Sam gaped at him for a very long moment, then seemed to shake himself awake. "Right. Well, you met Jake..." Jake nodded. "...and this is Andy..." a nervous-looking kid gave a little wave. "... and Lily." Lily was a looker; Dean remembered her from the Reels. She'd cried miserably as her girlfriend kissed her goodbye. "Andy is from District Six, and Lily is Nine."

Jake was clearly strong, physically capable and resourceful, but Dean didn’t trust him as far as he could throw the chariot they’d ridden on last night, and he was doubtful about the other two as well. Andy looked to be about Sam's age (they all did, actually) and was probably a good kid, but they had a name for his type back at the District: cannon fodder. Lily seemed to be in better shape and possibly made of slightly tougher stuff, if the haunted look in her eyes was anything to go by, but that still didn't tell him much. If they were planning on joining some sort of team, no matter how short-lived these pacts were in the Games, they might as well find better players, right?

It occurred to Dean then, even as he declared his intent to get some food and left the table, that maybe there was something a little bit wrong with him if he was capable of making these judgements so quickly. These kids were going to die, and Dean was going to contribute to their deaths, directly or indirectly, to protect Sam. He hadn't had even a second's doubt about it. Should it scare him, how easily he dismissed other people's lives in favor of Sam's?

Shouldn't it?

With that disturbing notion slithering inside his brain, he was a bit distracted and bumped carelessly into another Tribute on the way to the buffet.

"Whoa, sorry."

The arm he instinctively put out to steady them was slapped away, and Dean blinked. It was fishing-net girl.

"Oh, great. You." She sighed wearily and moved around him.

"What?"

Large green eyes met his with scorn. "'What'?" she mimicked. "The next time you're wearing something that's ninety-percent translucent be sure to let me know, I'll come by and drool at you to make you feel better."

Her accent was impossible to miss: she was District One; precious stones and oil. The richest District by far.

"Geesh, relax," Dean said, lifting his palms defensively. "You should take it as a co--"

"If you say 'compliment' I am going to break both your legs right here in this dining room, and you'll die a minute into the Games," she snapped and flounced away in her elegant sporty uniform. "Sexist pig," she added over her shoulder.

Dean tried to discreetly check out his surroundings in case he'd managed to—nope, every single person was staring at him. Including Sam.

What a fantastic start of the day.

*

Most of the other Tributes headed immediately to the Training Complex, which was underneath the building itself, but a guard came up to Sam and Dean to tell them that Bobby Singer was waiting for them at his quarters, to discuss strategy.

"Finally," Dean muttered. The other Hunters must have already planned this with their multiple ex-Champions, probably on the train ride to the City, but he figured better late than never.

They arrived at Singer's room five minutes later, after having discovered that it was on the twelfth floor, just like theirs.

"Come on in."

Singer motioned at the unmade bed for Sam and Dean to perch on the edge of and promptly dropped on a chair in front of them.

"So. We’re off to a good start. Pam and Missouri know what they’re doin’."

They nodded.

"But this isn’t much unless you keep up the interest. Training scores and interviews will be here before you know it and I still don’t know how you wanna play this.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow. “You saying we get a choice?”

“You get the choice as whether you listen to me or die, sure,” Bobby said expansively. Beside Dean, Sam sighed in a very long-suffering manner.

“Then tell us the plan.”

“I want you to be fan-favorites,” Singer said without hesitation. “Boys, girls, we need to get everybody wanting you both to win before the Games even start. The public should identify with your tragic situation, and want to change it. Turning you into heroes means they have to root for you. If we play it right, this’ll get you both sponsored, no preferences, which is why we’ll start with you as a team.”

Dean was heartened by this apparent change of pace from their previously indifferent coach, but a bit apprehensive about the actual words coming out of Singer’s mouth.

“So we are gonna be... united, or whatever?”

Bobby Singer looked between them. “Until the interviews, yes. I don’t see another way of getting you two to realistically ignore each other, correct?” Neither of them answered, but their expressions must have given away enough because Bobby snorted. “Right. After, though...”

Sam tensed. “What happens after the interviews?”

“You stop training together. Stop spending your free time together. It’s only the last day, so don’t eat together either, to send a message to the other Tributes—“

“That’s not gonna happen,” Sam said instantly. Dean knew he wasn’t talking about not training together for one day.

“I’m not saying you’re not allowed to talk anymore, boy.” Singer glared at Sam, voice rising. He hadn’t understood. “But you need to give the appearance of some sorta separation—“

“No!” Sam burst out, leaping to his feet. “There’s got to be something else we can do, some other way of—“

“Alright, look.” Singer stood up as well, obviously angry. “You either accept that one of you is gonna die or you both will, in which case I am done helping.”

“No, wait.” Feeling left out, Dean also got to his feet and put a placating hand on Sam’s arm. “Give us a second?” he said to Bobby.

Bobby grunted and headed to the toilet. “You have ‘till I’m done,” he said.

Dean immediately shoved Sam’s muscled shoulder, even though it felt a little like pushing an immovable fleshy wall. “I thought we agreed on this!” He hissed. “Fake it ‘till the end, Sammy! What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“You’re cool with us splitting up in the Arena?” Sam snapped, abusing his height to crowd Dean, who refused to back down even though he could practically taste the pie on Sam’s hot breath (and it made him weirdly hungry again, for some reason). “Of course I don’t care about the interviews, it’s all PR bullshit anyway and Jake says—“

“Oh, we’re staking our lives on what Jake says now?”

“No, but he’s watched more Games than us and he says that no matter what happens before, the Arena is where you live or die! And he’s right!”

“Bobby hasn’t even said anything about the Arena—“

“He’s leading up to it.”

“You don’t know that—“

“Yes I do, okay? He implied as much on the train, you were there.”

“Then why are you so hung-up on this, Sam? We already decided to play along, it’s not like it’ll be permanent! Why are you still fighting—“

“Because I can’t!” Sam exploded frantically, his face inches from Dean’s. “I can’t not know whether you’re okay, Dean, how can you...?” The energy seemed to drain out of him suddenly and those earnest, intent eyes sparked with the same guilty fear from earlier at breakfast, which in this context didn’t make much sense. “Christ.”

Sam jerked away and slumped down on the bed, flushed.

“Sammy?”

“How can you be okay with this?” Sam asked his new sneakers in a low, hurt voice.

The truth was that Dean wasn’t okay with this, obviously. He was about as far from okay with it as it was humanly possible to be, but he had perfected his previously half-formed plan while Sam and Bobby argued.

He couldn’t team up with Sam in the Arena. Fine. Dean wasn’t going to leave Sam alone, of course, but Sam couldn’t know that.

So he’d follow Sam’s team. Track them, and protect Sammy unseen. All he had to do was convince Sam that Dean trusted him to take care of himself, that he’d do the same on his own, and this might just work. He wouldn’t get sponsors but he didn’t care about that. He could make sure Sam was okay until the very end, and then, well. It might even be best to finish it without saying goodbye. Make things easier for Sammy. Kid was tough; he’d be sad for a while and then get better. If Sam won he’d go back to District Twelve a billionaire; he could marry Jess and start a family, live a great life. Maybe even a better one than he would have had if they’d never gotten picked for the Games in the first place.

“Dean?”

“It’s the last thing I want,” Dean said, which was the easy part ‘cause it was true. “But we’ve gotta trust this guy, Sammy. He’s not the only one who thinks there’s no way we can both win and we’re gonna have to convince them all that we believe they’re right. The only way of doing that is to act like we each wanna beat the other, and if that means spendin’ less time together for a day then hey, you should be glad you’ll have to see less of my mug for a few hours, huh?”

“It’s the Arena, Dean,” Sam said, finally looking up at him from where he sat. Even at this hour, the kid looked wrecked, and Dean wondered whether he’d had a vision tonight, or just general trouble sleeping. “I told you I don’t care about one day after the interviews. We’ll be in the actual Games after that. You realize we’ll have no way of contacting each other? No way of knowing if the other’s safe?”

The toilet flushed and Dean stepped closer, standing between Sam’s legs to lean down and speak in a quiet rush. “Then we keep a thorough recount of who’s died. We figure out a signal. It’s not impossible; we can plan it and make it our secret.” The door opened. “I trust you to take care of yourself, Sammy.”

Sam’s gaze flashed at that and Dean felt an uneasy twinge, but Bobby was back and they didn’t have a chance to keep talking.

“You girls come to a decision?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, we’ll do as you say.”

The old Champion looked from one to the other steadily. “Look, our District is the smallest, and the only thing this means is that you've got the advantage of an unexpectedly good first impression and novelty, ‘cause there's never been siblings on the Games before. But that’s not gonna win you anything. No one ever said this was fair, but it’s what you got, and there ain’t no changing it now. I’m sorry, boys.”

Sam nodded absently.

“Well, I suggest you go train with the others for today, and after dinner I want a private word with each of ya.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Remember, for now it’s okay if you work together. You mentioned being good at the bow-and-arrows, right Sam? And Dean, you said knives?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, our Dad was in the police force and he taught us some hand-to-hand combat. Made us practice.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, but guns are what we’re both best at.”

“There’s hardly ever guns at the Arena, and if there are they’ll be at the Cornucopia, which you should both get the hell away from at the start.”

The Cornucopia was literally an enormous horn filled with useful (and not-so-useful) tools that the Tributes could take at the start of the Games. Unfortunately there tended to be a lot of takers and the initial bloodbath was usually over the possession of said tools, which was why it made good sense to steer clear of it.

“So we’re avoiding the shooting range at the Training Center?” Dean clarified.

“Yup, and the wrestling mats and the archery range and the knife-throwing station,” Bobby said. “Try and practice stuff you’re not good at, learn things. You never know, it might help you survive.”

“Okay. Well, thanks Bobby.” It came out so natural that it took Dean a second to realize he’d just called this man he barely knew by a familiar nickname. “I mean, Mr Singer, sir—“

With a very strange look on his face, Singer shook his head. “Nah,” he said gruffly. “Bobby’s alright.”

“Oh. Okay, well, thanks.”

They left the room and the second the door had shut behind them Sam rounded on Dean.

“I’m not stupid.”

“Huh?”

“I know what you’re doing, Dean.”

Dean blinked, hoping to convey his total innocence. “The hell are you talking about, Sammy?”

“‘I trust you to take care of yourself’?” Sam quoted disbelievingly. “Since when?”

Dean started walking to the elevator, heart pounding. This was gonna take a bit more convincing than he’d first thought. Goddamn Sammy and his huge everything, which apparently included a giant brain.

“You’re being totally paranoid, Sam.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are. We’re both adults now, right? I’ll get fishing-net girl to see the light and since you clearly love Jake so much you can team up with him—“

“What’s Jake got to do with—“

"Come on, Sammy, that kid is only gonna stab you in the back first chance he gets."

"I know that."

Distraction accomplished.

"Then why are you even hangin' out with him?"

"He could be useful! And he's been really nice to me, which is more than I can say for anyone else..."

"Dude, last time I checked you were into chicks." Dean grinned, still basking in his victory over Sam’s brain, but then--

“So?” Sam snarled angrily. “Maybe I like guys too, you ever think of that?”

… Dean had not thought of that.

Dean hadn’t even considered that. Not ever, for all his jokes about Sam’s hair and tendency towards chick flick moments. Almost as though it had been deliberate (even though it hadn’t, dammit), the actual ‘liking guys’ part of being gay had never been included, or even implied, when Dean mocked his little brother for wanting to talk about their feelings.

But he was thinking about it now.

And… yeah, upon reflection, he was very much not cool with his little brother being molested by other guys. Girls were fine, girls were great; Sam was always taller than them anyway, stronger, capable of picking them up, manhandling them (not that he actually did much of that back home; kid was still a virgin, for God's sake. But he could if he wanted to). It made Dean happy to think of Sammy with chicks; kissing them and touching them with those big hands of his... Guys were—no. A guy like Jake, who was nearly Sam’s height, was a threat.

Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Dean was disappointed in a mild, distant sort of way to discover that he had, in fact, secretly been a homophobe all this time (Sam used to reproach him for it but Dean had never honestly believed him). And okay, kind of a sexist douche, too, like Bela had said. The problem was that he knew plenty of chicks who could totally kick ass, and several of them were in the Games. Danger wasn’t all about brute force. But something about the visual of a guy...

This brief inkling of rationality faded further into the background when Dean actually conjured up the mental image of some random dude macking on his baby brother. A dude who was as large as Sam, as strong as Sam, able to push Sam around. Fuck. No. Just... no. That was so not gonna happen. Not if Dean had a say in it.

“Dean.”

They’d both stopped walking and just stood there, in the middle of the corridor of the twelfth floor, staring at each other with looks of shock (Dean) and mild panic (Sam).

“You... you serious, Sammy?” Dean croaked finally.

“Uh...” Sam was blushing a very unattractive shade of red. “I... I’m not sure.”

“He was checking you out, you know. I saw him,” Dean blurted out. He felt a tendril of guilt at the admission, then wondered what the hell he had to feel guilty about. He’d only been watching out for Sammy’s virtue, which had seemed in serious peril last night, what with Meg and Pamela and Madison and everybody deciding Sam was on the menu.

“What?”

“Yeah. Last night, when he came over to talk to you and you were all... lathered up and shit. He totally checked you out.”

Sam blinked. “Really?”

It was then that realization hit Dean like a ton of bricks. “So you do love him,” he breathed.

“What?” Sam laughed. “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me in our entire lives.”

Untrue, but Dean was busy being overwhelmed by utter horror. “I can’t believe you.”

“Dean—“

“You’ve got a crush on another Hunter?”

“Dean—“

“Are you crazy?!”

“I don’t have a crush on him, Jesus!”

“But you just said—“

“I know what I said!”

There was a long, very tense pause.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, you’re not supposed to...” Dean floundered for words strong enough to convey his total dismay at his idiot little brother. “That would literally be the worst thing that could happen at this point.”

“Actually, it really wouldn’t,” Sam said, with this bitter chuckle like he’d just made a joke that flew right over Dean’s head. “Look, we should go, we’ll be late for training.”

And he just started walking, as though nothing earth-shattering had just happened.

It took Dean a solid minute to get his shit together and follow him.

Sam

Okay, all right, so the... the thing with Dean? It wasn’t going away.

Sam put down the set of weights he’d been lifting and wiped his sweaty forehead, taking care to keep his gaze fixed forward and not let it stray to the side.

He was a freak. A freak with a crush on his brother.

Not only did he have weird psychic visions in his dreams, not only was there something legitimately, demonstrably fucked up about him, but also, he couldn’t 'unsee' what he’d realized yesterday. He’d always known he loved Dean very differently from how Jess loved her little sister, for example, but this... he’d never expected this. And looking back with this new knowledge, having had a sleepless night to thoroughly overthink his reaction to Dean’s body, it was hitting Sam just how many signs he’d missed in the past. Because now that he thought about it, there had been some pretty weird dreams during a time in his early teens, before the visions began, and Sam... maybe Sam forgot about them, maybe he just blocked them out with the new development. Regardless, this was happening to him right now, and so far trying to ignore it hadn’t worked.

He grabbed the weights again and cursed the fact that the repetitive movements left him with too much headspace to think.

The thing was that... back at Bobby Singer’s room? With Bobby Singer only a flimsy door and few feet away? He’d thought about doing some pretty insane stuff. Stuff like... grabbing Dean by the shoulders and just smothering him, maybe by hugging him, maybe by kissing him, Christ, Sam didn’t even know. He’d felt a crackling heat in his belly when they stood close enough that their height difference was marked, and having to look down at Dean (who was still every bit as perfectly proportioned and crazily attractive as he’d been last night) had been... fuck. Sam had been so out of it for a moment, so caught up in that electric tension that buzzed whenever they fought, the feel of Dean’s breath mixing with his own. Stupid stupid stupid. It was already disastrously dumb to contemplate hugging Dean without some sort of cataclysmic event having happened beforehand (the last time they’d hugged, Dad had just died, and Sam had been thirteen), the rest was... unthinkable.

“Impressive.”

Sam whirled to see Jake standing behind him.

“Hey.”

Jake gave him a serious nod. “I said ‘impressive’.”

“Yeah, we heard you the first time, pal,” Dean said. He was doing push-ups, and being incredibly distracting while doing so. Sam tried to avoid looking down at Dean’s sweat-shiny skin and powerful shoulders or at his strong arms, moving and bunching in a hypnotic rhythm (Dean’s firm, round ass was completely off-limits, even in his mind).

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Jake said. And then, to Sam. “Mind if I join?”

He and Dean hadn’t talked about the whole teaming up thing again (they hadn’t really spoken at all, actually) but Sam figured it didn’t hurt to have Jake on their side. Better than against them, at least, the way the guy was built.

“Sure.”

The Training Center was basically a giant, amazingly well-equipped gymnasium. There were also a few stations with instructors that taught you how to do snares, or camouflage yourself, but Dean had scoffed at the camouflage guy and he and Sam were both pretty good at the snares already, so apparently today was for getting in even better shape and buffing up a little. Sam had decided to just go with it. There were still ten days left until the Games, after all.

He pushed that morbid thought away and concentrated on the weights. Or tried to, at least, for about five minutes. Ignoring Dean’s body and occasional grunt of effort (that Sam’s mind kept trying to misinterpret or remove from context) drove him to glancing at Jake, and what he saw made him pause.

Jake was lifting the exact same weight Sam was, but the way his arm moved... it wasn’t faster than normal, but it looked... odd. As though he was putting absolutely no effort into it. It was a pretty heavy set, if Sam did say so himself, and should look a bit more strenuous than this, surely? Sam kept sneaking surreptitious looks and soon decided that Jake was definitely hiding something. It didn’t seem right.

“Hey Sammy.” Dean’s hand landed heavy and proprietary on Sam’s shoulder for the second time that day. It felt hot and yet managed to raise goosebumps all over Sam’s skin. “Wanna go learn rock-climbing? You never know.”

Sam turned to Jake. “What do you think?”

Dean huffed audibly but Jake gave him a curt smile. “Sounds fun.”

“Great.”

They spent the entire day at the Training Center, pausing only for lunch, which Sam and Dean ate with Jake, Lily, Andy, and another girl called Ava, all of whom later joined them at the gym.

It was still early stages, but the Hunters were already starting to segregate into groups. Some preferred solitude, but others were pretty obviously forming tentative alliances. The Tributes from District Seven, Isaac and Tamara, were clearly in it together (and Sam was about ninety-percent convinced they were together together). Madison, the girl who’d spoken to Dean yesterday after the procession, could be seen hanging out with gorgeous fishing-net girl. And, to Sam’s unspeakable relief, tiny little Jo seemed to have made a friend as well; a guy from the electronic district, like Jake, particularly distinguishable because of his mohawk.

The largest group, though, was probably the one led by Gordon Walker. Gordon was the oldest amongst the Tributes (he would have escaped his fate in a month), and a clearly well-trained Hunter from District Two. He gathered an instant following in a group comprised entirely of guys Sam’s age or older, who all hung on to his every word. They made Sam very nervous and had taken over the archery and shooting ranges without question.

After dinner, Sam and Dean said their goodbyes to their new acquaintances and went back to Bobby’s quarters for their separate counseling sessions, where Dean spent a whole hour alone before Sam was allowed inside.

“G’night Sammy,” Dean said to him in passing. It hadn’t been the most comfortable of days between them, but the small tired smile Dean sent Sam’s way was entirely genuine. Sam’s heart leapt and something inside of him tore a little bit at the same time, because even a gesture as innocent as that smile meant too much to him now. His love for Dean combined with his attraction to Dean seemed to have ended Sam’s capacity to think of Dean on a uniquely platonic level. He couldn’t dissect the two emotions, couldn’t separate them; it was all tangled together, despite the fact that he’d maybe remained unaware of the existence of one in favor of the other for a long time. Dean’s eyes were heavy-lidded and he looked a little sleepy, but also somehow like he was unknowingly inviting Sam to mess him up before putting him to bed.

Sam knew that Dean loved him, knew this like he knew how to breathe, but it was so different from the way he loved Dean, so good and so pure.

Unlike Sam, apparently.

Nope. Sam was fucked. 

*

Not only was Sam fucked, he was royally, unbelievably screwed.

Which... meant the same thing, but still. Right now, standing under the coldest shower Sam had ever had (and District Twelve’s warmest setting was tepid, so that was saying something), it felt important to reiterate.

Holy hell. He’d thought he had it bad yesterday.

Well, that was before he actually fell asleep.

He felt worse than sick, he felt wrong. Like maybe a mistake had been made when he was put together. Like something inside of him was tainted, and twisted, and the cruel whispers of inhuman, depraved, monstrous, disgusting wouldn’t leave him alone. It couldn't be normal, the things he’d dreamt of doing to Dean. Of begging Dean to do to him. Even within the incredibly fucked up parameters created by him lusting after his own brother, his thoughts in the night had been (were, still, even right at this moment if he wasn't careful) so dirty that the feeling in the pit of his belly was a mix of incendiary arousal and self-disgust; every new image a sharp shock of perverted pleasure.

Admittedly Sam didn’t know much about how two guys got it on beyond the basics (this not really being a widely accepted topic of conversation on the smallest, most conservative District), but his brain had come up with some seriously hardcore suggestions.

And so, in the midst of his third panic attack induced by this topic in as many days, Sam shuddered under the freezing spray and felt his teeth clatter together and endured it all for the sake of his brother.

He thought that there should be something preventing him from thinking about Dean that way: a biological barrier, something like an internal STOP! sign, because it wasn't right... but there wasn’t. There wasn’t anything preventing him from imagining Dean here in the shower with him, wet and wanting Sam back, eyes still ringed by that dark shadow from his leftover mascara. He was smaller than Sam nowadays, small enough that Sam might be able to pin him against the wall, but he was also firm and strong enough to hold his own if he wanted, Christ, all that lightly freckled skin for Sam to—

His head made a dull thunk against the tiles.

*

There followed a few days during which they developed a sort of routine.

Every morning Sam and Dean would eat with the group and talk about things that took them far, far away from the present, which meant they got to know the other Hunters relatively well on a superficial, we’re-all-going-to-try-and-kill-each-other-at-some-point-in-the-near-future level.

Jake talked about his family, his girlfriend (and Dean had made a very embarrassing noise at that), and growing up in District Three. Andy was still rather nervous around them, but he had a way of speaking that made you want to do as he asked (Dean was especially susceptible to it amongst their group). Lily was mostly quiet, and she had a weird thing about touching people skin-to-skin, like she had to concentrate before she could allow the contact. Then again, Sam was crushing on his brother, so he couldn’t really afford to judge.

Ava was quirky and funny, but very much overwhelmed by the Games. She trembled at the thought of holding a knife, burst into tears during a particularly grueling training session, and refused point blank to learn how to shoot. She had a fiancé back in District Six but didn’t like to talk about her suddenly aborted wedding-plans. “She’ll be amongst the first to go,” Dean had whispered once, resigned and sad, and Sam had nodded in agreement.

Occasionally Madison would join them, and Sam was dismayed to discover that if these were any other circumstances he’d probably have fallen for her. She had a dry sense of humor and a sort of brave façade that he liked instantly, except of course inevitably Dean would be in the vicinity, and Sam would be forced to compare the two. And there really was no comparison. It was unfair to anyone to even try, because Dean had had a lifetime to worm his way into Sam’s heart.

Fishing-net girl was called Bela Talbot, and she had a pretty serious hate-on for Dean, which for some reason made the idiot put extra effort into making her like him. Thankfully it seemed as though every attempt made things considerably worse, and Sam enjoyed watching them backfire spectacularly but tried not to dwell too much on why.

After breakfast they all went to the Training Center, and then, exhausted and sweaty, they had lunch together as well. Evenings were a bit more flexible, and often Sam or Dean would spend one with Bobby, being scolded or more often lectured in a slightly paternal manner that became familiar with frightening speed.

They didn't see Meg all week, but you wouldn't hear either Winchester complain about that.

As of day two, Dean snuck into Sam’s room for dinner every night.

They could ask for almost anything they wanted, so they tried something new every day, with pie being the only fixture for dessert. Fortunately for Sam, Dean remained entirely oblivious to his effect on his little brother, but unfortunately for Sam, this often meant Dean came over dressed comfortably in loose gray sweats and a black wife-beater.

Sam had developed an intense dislike for the outfit.

The sweats were too big on Dean and clung to his hips so precariously that Sam was convinced all it would take for them to fall was the smallest tug. The wife-beater, while at least the proper size, still left a tempting belt of skin above Dean’s waistband, and overall the whole thing kept Sam on a state of constant vigilance and never-ending tension, which combined unpleasantly with the hot sludgy guilt rolling around his gut. He still refused to take matters into his own hand, so to speak, but the cold morning showers could only go so far in calming him down, and on the fourth day he'd woken up mindlessly rubbing himself against the mattress and couldn't stop his hips from rutting desperately—thinking of shooting all over his brother’s face, Dean’s head tipped back and pearly white liquid dripping from his lashes and between his obscenely full lips—until Sam came panting for breath and for reason. He couldn't look Dean in the eye the whole morning.

So yeah. The crush didn’t go away.

The day before the demonstration in front of the Gamemakers, two days before the interviews, and four days before the Games began, Sam sat on his bed and came to a decision.

He couldn’t make it go away. Maybe it had been triggered by stress, fear, panic, this batshit situation they were in, maybe by the power of Dean’s gleaming golden chest, he’d never know. But this thing was here to stay and felt oddly like it had been here for a while. So. He had two options.

Option one was doing the mental equivalent of sticking his fingers in his ears and shouting “LA LA LA CAN’T HEAR YOU” at the top of his lungs. Possibly not the most psychologically healthy, but potentially effective in the short term (and the short term was really the only way he could afford to think right now).

Option two was gritting his teeth and accepting this as fact, then trying to deal with it accordingly. He might be seriously disturbed. This didn’t mean he could allow his relationship with Dean to change, and especially not to worsen. He still loved Dean more than anybody else in this world. Okay, so he also wanted to sign Dean's body in bite-marks and suck a tattoo of bruises all over his brother's skin. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Sam just had to swallow down his pride, his desire, and his doubts about his sanity. Who knew; maybe in the future this would just be something else about him that he could ignore, like the fact that he was six foot five or had indecisive-colored eyes.

It wasn’t like he’d have a lot of time to lust after his brother during the Games, anyway. His primary concern would soon be solely in keeping Dean alive and also hopefully from doing something incredibly stupid like sacrificing himself to save Sam.

So he could do this. He had to.

He’d just have to deal.

* 

“Bela Talbot!”

Bela stood from the bench and went into the Training Center, alone. Inside, a panel consisting of the twelve Gamemakers would rate her skills with a number that went from one to twelve, and that number, too, would determine her ability to draw sponsors.

The remaining twenty-three Hunters were alternately sitting or standing in the slightly cramped corridor, with guards situated at intervals to prevent any pre-Games fighting, (which was strictly forbidden, but had happened several times over the past few years anyway).

“Hey Sammy, wanna bet on what score she gets?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.” After a short pause, Dean grinned. "Think I could score with her if—“

“God, shut up, Dean.”

Dean flicked his ear and Sam flinched away. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Bela was the first, and one by one the rest of the Hunters were called in after her. They probably left through the other exit on the Complex, since no one came back (ominous sense of foreboding aside). They had five minutes each, and the order was by District, so it was slow going, and nearly two hours later Sam, Dean, and both District Eleven Tributes were still waiting.

Jo was looking intently at the floor.

"You got an idea of what you wanna show those bastards, kid?" Dean asked her very seriously.

"Yeah." She gave a firm nod. "Yeah, I'm good thanks."

"Great. In the end, it's just a number, but it'll do you good to do your damnedest."

"I know. My mom won the Games, remember? Stop trying to help me, I've gotta kill you." But her mouth was tugging up in a reluctantly pleased smile, and she was blushing a little. Dean didn't seem to have noticed, but it occurred to Sam that she might have taken a shine to his brother, which was such a desperately sad notion that he couldn't even handle it.

"Steve Wendell."

Jo's fellow District Eleven tribute stood up.

"Good luck," Sam wished him impulsively. Dean turned an incredulous "Dude" stare at him, but Wendell smiled, startled.

"Thanks, Sam."

And then there were three.

Two of which were gaping at Sam open-mouthed.

"What the hell was that?" Jo asked. "He never talks to anyone! He's never spoken to you before, right?"

"Yeah, what the hell, Sam?"

Sam let out a shaky laugh. "We can still be civilized, right?"

Dean and Jo exchanged a look and then replied at the same time: "... No!" 

*

Dean was called first, so Sam waited out those last, agonizing five minutes alone. Then came a polite: "Samuel Winchester?"

He thought about answering "Nope, not me", just to see what would happen, but sadly remembered it would probably only get him into trouble for being cheeky or something.

"Welcome, Samuel," a deep voice said when he walked into the Complex.

Someone had added a large rectangular table that looked exactly how Sam had always imagined a judge's panel would look. The twelve Gamemakers sat lining one side, facing the majority of the structures and stations, which had all been set up like a normal training day. Sam couldn't see any writing pads or scoring cards, but then again none of that would have really been in place with the eerie feel the group emanated. The table was blank, and so were the Gamemakers' expressions.

They all had an ageless air about them, no matter how old they really looked. Anna Milton, for example, was young and strikingly beautiful, but then again she had been since Sam was five, so who knew her real age. Ruby, a fan-favorite with an attitude (who Sam reluctantly had to admit was kind of hot), looked only slightly older than him and always had. Then there were sharply dressed Crowley and creepy-eyed Lilith, who John had spoken of as though they'd been this way when he was born.

"You may proceed, Samuel," Uriel said. Sam recognized his voice as the one to greet him, as well.

"Uh, okay. It's Sam, actually."

This seemed to elicit a frisson of reaction.

"You have our deepest apologies, Sam," yellow-eyed Azazel said, and he sounded mocking, as though he found this hilarious for some reason. He reminded Sam of Meg.

But then the Gamemaker Castiel leaned forward, something almost heartfelt in his eyes.

"Our sincere apologies, Sam," he declared in his low, scratchy voice and sounded much more honest than his companion.

"It's--no, it's fine."

He realized his minutes would run out quickly and went to the archery range. It was his first time there, but the weapons felt familiar in his grip. He held the bow steady and nocked an arrow, feeling fluid, graceful. It had taken Sam a while to relearn this move since his growth spurt, but there was a reason Dean freely admitted Sam's superiority at the bow and arrows.

His mind went comfortably empty of thought and he hit the bull’s-eye on his first attempt.

"Not bad there, Sammy."

Sam's calm shattered and he whirled. Azazel was grinning widely, but he hadn't been the one to say it; it had been Gabriel, the joker of the bunch, who people referred to as the Trickster for the macabre tests he liked to inflict on the meanest, strongest tributes.

"Please don't call me that," Sam said breathlessly. He didn't know why he said it, because it was probably suicidal to talk back to these immensely powerful beings, but it was an instinctive reaction. Only Dean got to call him that.

"Our apologies again," Castiel said, with a pained glance at Gabriel. "Please continue, Sam."

Sam shot a couple more bull’s-eyes, then moved back several paces and did it again. He didn't miss a single one, but it still felt a hollow victory. The Gamemakers unnerved him, and Gabriel's comment had dispelled any illusion of tranquility.

He fired the guns at the shooting range and hit the best scores again.

"That's great, Sam," Anna said with a smile. "You have a minute left."

Sam didn't know what else to do. He'd figured shooting would be enough, since he couldn't wrestle, but now felt doubtful.

"Fifty seconds," Azazel said gleefully. "Say, Sam, any other abilities you wanna share with the class?"

Sam froze. Something about the way he'd asked... "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. Any hidden superpowers you wanna reveal, aside from the habit of never missing a target? Now would really be the time."

"N-no. No superpowers."

His heart was pounding. Azazel sounded mocking, like he knew, like he could somehow tell that Sam sometimes saw the future.

"The previous Tribute was your brother, correct?" an older Gamemaker asked. He was dressed in a sharp suit and Sam couldn't remember his name.

"How many Winchesters do you know, Zachariah?" Ruby said with a snort.

"Dean was ssscrumptious," the Gamemaker closest to Sam hissed softly. The others ignored him and he spoke low enough that Sam wouldn't have heard if it hadn't been for Alistair's seating choice; but Sam did hear, and it made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end.

"Yeah, Dean's my brother," he said, firmly. "And you'd better go easy on him, okay?"

That actually made them laugh. The red-eyed woman started to clap delightedly, and Gabriel wiped fake tears from his eyes. Even Raphael cracked a smile. The only one who remained stone-faced was Castiel.

"Or what?" Ruby asked, chortling.

"You're adorable, you are," Lilith commented with a venomous smile.

Sam curled his hands into fists as searing hot anger bubbled up in his chest, fueled by the ease with which these people dismissed the value of Dean’s life. In a second, Sam’s fear and awe of them faded before the fury he was feeling, and a reckless desire to do something about it seized his mind. They may not understand this, but he wasn't going to waver, and he wasn't going to back down. They might laugh now, but he was going to win, with Dean. He'd show them; he'd beat them all. Screw the rules. He could protect Dean, he was strong enough, he would—

"Fancy that, he said the same thing to us about you," Crowley said.

The table cracked in two.

*

Sam didn't know how he'd done it, but he knew it had been him.

The stunned silence that followed told him the Gamemakers knew too. And before anyone could comment on it, Sam fled.

He sprinted to the far door and shoved it open, then ran and ran until he found an elevator to take him to the twelfth floor, where he burst into his quarters and slammed the door behind him.

What. The fuck.

He panted for air, leaning against the solid wood for support, aware as every second passed that he'd promised Dean and Bobby to meet them at Bobby's room to watch the televised scores, but he couldn't--couldn't--because he had... What had he...? How had he...? What the fuck!

He slid to the floor, right there with the door at his back, his elbow hitting the knob painfully on the way down. His head was pounding, as though his brain had swollen too big for his skull and the pressure was about to split it in two.

He'd felt something. A sort of energy, like a pulse, fueled by his rage and determination and set alight at the thought of Dean. And he'd broken... he'd broken the table. With his mind.

Oh, god.

"Sam?"

Someone was knocking insistently, every reverb a stab of agony at the base of Sam's neck.

"Sammy, was that you?"

Sam realized he'd probably made a bang loud enough that Dean had heard it from Bobby's room.

"Sammy!"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm okay."

He stood up, knees weak, thighs cramping.

"Open up, dammit," Dean ordered, and even though his voice was muffled there was obvious panic there. Sam clicked the lock and let him in, still feeling shaky, out of control, kind of drunk.

"Dean."

"Sammy?" Dean scanned his face, clearly worried by what he found there. "What happened."

"I. Dean, I...”

The sudden urge to bury his face into the comforting curve of Dean's neck and crush their bodies together made Sam sway where he stood, dizzy. There were spots dancing before his vision.

"Sam, hey, hey..." Dean grabbed his forearm and led him to the bed. "What happened in there?"

"I... I broke the table."

Dean stared at him. Then he seemed to relax and almost grinned. "Dude, you what? How the hell did you do that? Were they pissed? I bet they were pissed."

Sam stared down at his hands. They weren't shaking. He curled them into fists on his lap. "I don't... know."

"You don't know what?" Dean asked, confused, a hint of a smile still crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"I don't know how I did it."

The smile vanished. "What... what do you mean, you don't know how you did it?"

"I mean I don't know, Dean! I was angry and then the table split in two! On its own, except it was me, I made it do that!"

After a long, silent minute staring fixedly at his sneakers, Sam felt a light touch at the top of his head. He kept still, hardly daring to breathe, and then Dean's fingers carded through his hair, soothing and wonderful... and the little choked noise that Sam's throat made would forever haunt him as the most pathetic sound to ever come out of his mouth.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said, low and rough, but gentle for all that. "We'll figure this out."

"I'm a freak."

"No, you're not. You're... special."

Sam laughed shakily, but careful not to move in case Dean decided to stop what he was doing. God, it felt so achingly good. "That's crap."

"God's honest truth, buddy. You're... not like most people, but that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Just different."

"Doesn't it scare you?"

Dean's hand slid away and Sam mourned its loss.

"Scares the crap outta me, Sam." Sam tensed. "But that's just 'cause I worry about you, and I want you to be okay. We don't know why it started and we don't know where it came from, but that doesn't mean it's gonna change how I treat you. You're still a dork, and you'll always be my pain-in-the-ass little brother."

Chest tight, Sam let out a long breath. He felt so relieved and so sad at the same time. It was messing with his head. Dean had no clue that these 'abilities' weren't the only way in which Sam was fucked up.

"Thanks."

"Yeah, well. Bobby's waiting for us to go watch the scores."

Sam stood up. "Right."

"Look, anything above a five is good, but even if you score lower, it doesn't mean much. The Arena is where it all goes down, right? Who cares about some sponsor sending you shaving cream?"

Sam laughed weakly and Dean's eyes lit up, like he was proud to have accomplished that much.

"I don't know about shaving cream but I'm pretty sure we could do with some sponsored food."

"Screw it. It's probably a gross energy bar that tastes like ass."

"How the hell would you know what that tastes like?"

Dean's grin could have powered an entire District, and he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You really wanna know why I speak from experience there, Sammy?"

"I meant the energy bar."

"Hey, don't knock it 'till you've tried it. As a certain Rhonda Hurley would tell you--"

"I don't wanna know, Dean."

“Well I sure as hell didn’t either when she first offered to do it to me.” This conversation should have ended several minutes ago, Sam thought pitifully. “But it was a religious experience Sammy, honest.”

“Please stop.”

“Tell you what; when we go back home, I’ll introduce you to her, how’s that sound? She could teach you a thing or ten.”

To do to you? Sam found himself wondering, and then the image of Dean spread out under him while Sam licked inside—

“We’re gonna miss the scores,” he grunted and strode to the door without another glance at his happily oblivious brother.

*

Ten minutes later, Dean got an eleven.

And Sam... Sam got a twelve.

*

"Well, I got no idea how you did it, but that was unprecedented. And good. Real good, boys."

It was the highest score in the history of the Hunter Games. No one had ever gotten maximum points before.

But that wasn't all. Jake had a twelve as well.

"There's something weird about that kid," Dean declared firmly. "He's creepy."

"No he's not," Sam countered automatically. He was still a bit dazed about his score, finding it hard to sink in. And more than that, finding it hard to understand what the number meant. "He's just... intense."

"He doesn't smile. Ever."

"Which is totally understandable, given our current circumstances."

"Nah. I don't like him."

"Name one Hunter that you like that isn't female and hot."

"I don't like Bela!"

"Funny, I never said you did, but interesting jump there—“

"All right, that's enough you two," Bobby cut in, before they could really get into it. Sam rolled his eyes, fighting the irritation he always felt at his brother's instant loss of a hundred IQ points around Bela. Dean was such an idiot. "The interviews are tomorrow and Pam wants you available all day, so we ain't got that much time. Sam, go entertain yourself for an hour, then get back here for the briefing."

"Is it because I'm the youngest that I always go last?" Sam said drily, standing up to leave.

"Nah, it's 'cause you're the ugliest," Dean threw at him casually.

"We should really do this by height, then."

"Sasquatch."

"Midget."

"Focus, you two."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm going."

Sam decided to work out in his room while he waited, so he was surprised, and half-naked, when Dean came through the door only fifteen minutes later.

"Uh... watcha doin', Sammy?"

"What's it look like?"

Sam tried not to feel self-conscious and sat up on the floor, where he'd been doing sit-ups wearing only a pair of black boxer-shorts.

Dean averted his eyes, looking kind of nervous, and Sam was instantly on edge by proxy. "What is it? What's happened?"

"Huh?" Dean coughed. "I--nothing. Just, Bobby says we should really talk about the whole splitting up thing before we can continue. You know. In the Arena."

"You told him?"

Sam stood, but it only seemed to make Dean more flustered.

"Yeah, well, you were being such a damn girl about it--"

"I wasn't being... Dean, if I knew you were telling me the truth when you said you trusted me of course I'd consider the damn plan, but you don't trust me, so--"

"Whoa whoa, hang on a second," Dean raised his palms defensively, eyes wide. It distracted Sam for a moment, the way they were so green. Freshly-mown-grass and recently-polished-emeralds green, not that Sam had ever seen either of those things outside television. "I trust you, Sam, you gotta believe that. I just..."

"You just what?"

"I just... dammit." He sighed and rubbed a palm over his face, exhaustion in every line of his body. "I can't just watch you go off with Jake and hope that you'll probably, maybe be at some future rendezvous point, okay? That's not in my DNA. I can't."

Finally, the truth. Sam knew it. He'd known it all along.

"I broke a table with my mind today, Dean. I can take care of myself."

"He got a twelve, Sammy. Who knows what that kid is capable of?"

He was perfectly aware of the fact that now it sounded like they'd reversed their positions on this, but after training with the others for the past week Sam was more than considering the plan, he was actually on board with it. He didn’t like the idea any more than Dean did, but it was their only option.

Bobby was right. They needed to convince everyone of their independence, or the sponsors wouldn't bother with either of them. Jokes about shaving-cream aside, sometimes a sponsored gift could mean the difference between life and death.

So they needed to start out separately.

The initial chaos at the Cornucopia meant they couldn’t know which of the Hunters they might run into inside the Arena, nor which ones would survive the first bloodbath, but at least they could each trust in having a temporary ally in Jake, Andy, Ava or Lily, maybe even Madison or Bela.

Well, probably not Bela in Dean’s case, but. The others, yes.

And so, much as Sam hated it, he knew he’d have to trust that Dean would be okay and persuade him that Sam would be fine by himself as well. Which, upon reflection... might actually be harder than single-handedly winning the Games.

Dean

Sam took another step forward, so that they stood close enough that Dean had to look up a little to meet his gaze. It was an unnerving and totally unfair move on Sam’s part; emphasizing his height because he wanted to prove a point, and it made Dean’s pulse race even faster.

Also? Sam stank of musky sweat.

"Dean.” Sam used his most soothing tone, puppy-eyes on full, Captain, as though Dean were a skittish animal about to bolt (which Dean was not, thank you very much). “You know why we have to do it, and you know I can handle myself in a fight."

"Dude, back off, you reek."

He received an exasperated look, are you serious?, but Sam did as Dean asked.

“Better?”

Sam spread his arms wide from nearly across the room. Kid had started to buff up pretty recently, but this past week of training had just made it all the more obvious. In a few years Sam would be gigantic. Even right now his corded muscles seemed to be actively mocking Dean's point and—was that a tantalizing hint of chest hair? But... but no, just because Sammy looked like a million-feet-tall hunk with massive shoulders didn't mean that Jake couldn't knife him in his sleep.

“Not really.”

“Dude, come on. Can we at least talk about this?”

"Thought we were already."

Sam sighed again. “Look. You need to find it in you to believe that I can handle it. This is basically our only option to win, Dean."

“It’s not that simple. We have no idea what the Arena will look like. It could be a freaking wasteland for all we know, and how would I find you then?”

“We come up with a signal, like you said—“

“What kind of signal? Audio? Video?”

“Be serious—“

“When do we decide to meet? When it’s only us two left? What are the odds of that even happening?”

“I don’t know, but we need to work together to figure it out!”

“I like to think I’m asking practical questions."

“We’d have a better chance of staying alive if you helped me answer them instead," Sam snapped.

"You're the one who's suddenly all for picking a different time zone, Sammy."

"That's not what I'm saying at all! I’m saying I want to go with the earlier plan, where we split up until there’s less competition and then team up once we’ve got all the sponsored gifts we need. Don’t play dumb, you know exactly what I’m talking about."

They shared a look. Sam was starting to seem pretty pissed.

Well too bad, because so was Dean. He felt charged with restless energy and the anger was a lovely conduit. "Look, dude, you're saying you want us not to be in the same group? That's fine with me. You wanna skip over rainbows with your dream boy? Great! Just don't expect me to not keep an eye on you while you're at it."

"Will you cut that out? I don't like Jake!"

"But there is someone! I knew it!” Dean crowed, but instead of vindication all he felt was more anger. “Madison, then? Ava? Lily digs chicks, so... oh god, not Andy, please. I’d understand if you were crushing on some dude like Dr Sexy, but—“

Sam snorted. “Right, ‘cause I’m the one crushing on Dr Sexy.”

Dean felt his cheeks heat, because Sam was being fucking ridiculous.

“Hey dude, just ‘cause you’ve suddenly decided you’re into dick doesn’t mean I wanna have anything to do with any but my own.”

Boy, was that the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?" Sam crossed the space Dean had managed to put between them in two easy strides. "I don't like any of the other Hunters, Dean, male or female, but if I did it would be none of your damn business!"

The words were designed to hurt, and they did.

“Ah, but this is why I can't leave you alone out there, Sammy," Dean said, trying for a smirk that felt all wrong on his face. "You don't wanna die a virgin, do ya?”

The level of ‘fail’ was undeniably epic when Sam looked, if possible, even more furious.

“Stop trying to turn this into a fucking joke,” he ground out. Dean's breath choked at the swear word, so unlike his baby brother. And then Sam added, unexpectedly; “And I’m not a virgin, asshole.”

It was a little like being punched in the gut. By Iron Man.

“What?” Dean said, shocked and struck-dumb, but feeling like he should be congratulating the kid or patting him on the back. It was too late, though; way too late to grin proudly and ask for lewd details like Dean should have, would have done if not for the totally weird off-kilter feeling threatening to take him over. “You... what?”

Sam looked like he was regretting saying it. He rolled his eyes with forced nonchalance.

“Look, it’s—it's not a big deal."

But it was. It was a huge deal and Dean was damn near trembling with—fury, yes, it was definitely fury and maybe he could admit that he was… disappointed that Sam hadn’t told him, had never wanted to share—Dean had told him when he got rid of his V-card, the same goddamn night. And he could still remember fourteen-year-old Sammy telling him about his first kiss, so wide-eyed and excited, going on and on about that girl Amy Pond and how smart she was and how pretty and funny and blonde, how her green eyes would shine and all that crap—what had changed since then?

“When?” he said. He felt fucking cheated. Not like a chick, okay, but Sam hiding this from him was pure betrayal. Dean had told him everything.

Sam blanched a little at his tone which served him right, Jesus.

“When, Sammy.”

“Last summer, with Jess.”

Dean had never liked that girl.

Several moments passed. Then Sam let out a long sigh. "We kind of strayed from the point, there."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah. And I'm the one with trust issues."

"I didn't wanna make a big deal out of--"

"Forget it, dude." Dean looked up at his apparently not-so-kid brother. "Remind me again how I'd be so wrong to insist on watching out for you?"

"I'm only asking you to trust me. Don't you trust me?"

Damn those eyes. Just... damn them.

Dean sighed. "I just said I did, Sam, but--"

"Then believe me. When I tell you that I can do this, that I know you can too and that's why we've both gotta be in it for real if we want to win. And we are gonna win. Believe me."

Something strange happened to Dean then. He'd been angry, and hurt and confused and pretty fucking terrified for his brother’s life, and then Sam said 'And we are gonna win' like it was simply fact. Like it was a given. And, for the first time since they'd gotten into this mess... Dean believed the kid.

"Okay."

Sam blinked.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're serious. No more virgin jokes? Just... okay?"

"What more do you want from me, Sammy?" he smiled a little, and Sam's entire face lit up in one of his rare megawatt grins. It was blinding.

"Thank you. We can do this, Dean, I know we can, you’ll see—“

"Yeah yeah, okay, let's not get all mushy-eyed about it now. We’ve got a few minutes to work this out before I get back to Bobby. Better make ‘em count.”

*

"Come on Sam, admit it!" Pamela exclaimed. "You missed me!"

"I really didn't," Sam replied, ducking his head, but he was smiling sheepishly and using his dimples to their fullest, Dean couldn't help noticing. Well well. Apparently Sammy had game, who would’ve thought?

"Liar. You were counting down the seconds until we'd see each other again."

"Was not!"

They were both dressed and minutes away from their grand interview, an event that happened at the studio on the ground floor of the Training Center (the existence of which Dean had discovered earlier today). Game organizers had set up a temporary waiting area for the Hunters, but plenty of stylists and ex-Champions were milling about as well.

“It’s okay baby, I missed you too!”

Every Tribute would be greeted by the host of the main City TV network (commonly known as the CTN, and the only channel available to District denizens) in front of an audience of hundreds, to be interviewed for two minutes that would be broadcasted across the United Districts under the City, and therefore seen by millions of civilians and denizens alike.

This was their last chance to impress sponsors, and after tonight they'd have to seriously cut back on the time he and Sam spent together.

Needless to say, Dean wasn't exactly looking forward to any of it.

"Are you sure this isn't a bit small on me, though?" Sam muttered to Pamela softly, biting his lower lip. Man, he was really amping up the charm there, and judging by Pamela's increasingly appraising smiles, it was totally working.

"It's perfect, Sam. Stop fretting, you'll rumple it."

It was way too small on Sam’s bulk, Dean thought, and too tight, but. Whatever. Thankfully, this time their outfits were quite tame; a fancy black tux each, of different cut, without any shining or glowing involved whatsoever, for which Dean was incredibly grateful. Once again, Missouri had let him keep his amulet, and just for that he was content.

"I agree with your stylist, Sam. You look hot as hell," a female voice declared silkily.

"Oh great. You."

"Hello, Dean."

Bela looked... smoking. She was wearing a very low-cut flowy green dress that matched her eyes, and enough jewels to bring a hot-air balloon back down to earth. The whole thing reeked of riches and suited her amazingly well.

In spite of himself, Dean eyed her up and down. Then sideways.

"I see your brother remains charming as ever," Bela said to Sam. Sam's focus hadn't fared much better than Dean's, but with some effort he seemed to pull himself together and meet Bela's gaze.

"Dean was raised by wolves," he said lightly.

"Wolves? Wow." And Madison made four. Fantastic. "Well, they did a bang-up job. You look hot as hell too, Dean, by the way."

"Thank you, Madison. That wouldn't be fur you're wearing, by any chance?"

It was. Madison rolled her eyes. "I'm afraid my stylist has a thing."

They all laughed, and it occurred to Dean that it was incredibly surreal, this thing that was happening between them right now.

"Miss Talbot! You're up next!"

They'd switched the order of the Tributes again; this time Dean would be last, so Bela was second now.

"Good luck," Madison wished her. Bela managed a weak smile and was whisked away by two men with headsets, through the door and out onto the stage.

On the temporary screen, they all watched Balthazar, the host, greet her warmly.

The man had played interviewer for the Hunter Games tributes for as long as Dean could remember, and he was very popular, but there was something about him that reminded Dean of the Gamemakers; a sort of timelessness, beyond the fact that Dean knew the dude hadn't aged a day since the first time Dad let Dean watch the Hunter Games on TV.

To his credit, though, Balthazar was very adaptable to each Hunter, and seemed to be trying to help them sell themselves as best as he could. Everybody had an angle that they must have discussed with their consultants, and he just played along.

Gordon was mostly silent and brooding. Jake was serious and concise. Ash, Jo's mohawked friend, was crazy-smart and hilarious. Ava was adorable and Andy was compelling. Madison was bold but relatable. Lily was tough, the uber-religious Kubrick was full of faith, and Jo herself was absolutely heartbreaking, the camera cutting to shots of her mother, Ellen Harvelle, stading with the other District Eleven ex-Champions.

As the Tributes went in, the members of their team would leave the waiting area, probably to greet them on the other side. By the end it was just Sam, Dean, Bobby and Pamela in the large room. Meg Masters had looked in briefly to say a snarky goodbye and wish them both good luck and good hunting, because she wouldn’t see them again ‘unless one of you two yahoos actually win this thing!’. Possibly that would turn out to be the highlight of the day, Dean reflected.

And then it was Sam's turn.

"Look alive, Sammy," Dean said. Sam just nodded.

He left through the door and appeared on the screen seconds later. It was surreal.

"Whoa!" Balthazar's tinny voice came clearly through the speakers. "This one is huge!"

On the screen, Sam laughed a little, quiet and embarrassed. Dean could practically hear the audience melt before the dreamy, tall-dark-and-handsome Hunter.

"Seriously though, you are gigantic, my friend! Tell us how you managed to grow this tall, please!"

Balthazar made Sam sit on the couch opposite him and Sam shrugged.

"I think it's genetic. Not really my fault."

Dean felt a presence at his side and realized Bobby stood next to him, silently watching as well.

"Interesting choice of words there, Sam. Genetic?"

Sam looked away and did that nervous thing where he chewed the inside of his cheek. "Call it Freudian," he said finally. Balthazar chuckled.

"He's good," Pamela whispered absently, almost to herself.

"Indeed, indeed. What a tragic Reaping yours was, Sam. I bet getting picked not just once, but twice, must have really shocked you."

"Yeah, I guess."

Balthazar frowned. "You guess? Don't you know? Weren't you devastated, when they announced your name for the second time?"

"No."

"No?"

The crowd's silence became expectant.

"No, I was... relieved."

Dean's stomach clenched. He knew they'd previously decided this, but he also knew Sam's tells when he lied to other people, and he wasn't lying now. Which meant... what?

"Relieved? Sam, this is a most unusual reaction! Participating in the Games is an honor, of course, but wasn't that your brother up there, who'd volunteered in your place?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course. But back then I was so mad at Dean for taking my place..." Sam ducked his head down, so the fringe of his bangs obscured his eyes, and smiled wryly. "I went a little crazy, if you've seen--"

"Yes, yes, I think we even have some footage..."

They played a video of Sam being restrained by not one, not two, but three City guards, gagged and still fighting. Dean had to look away, overwhelmed.

"Right, well. I just figured..." Sam paused and Dean glanced back at the monitor just in time to catch Sammy's knuckles flexing. His tell. "I figured he had no right, his name wasn't even entered all that many times, and they'd chosen me, y'know? Anyway, I didn't want him to get hurt, but after he volunteered, I didn't want him to be alone either. It... there were a lot of feelings involved." Cue another rueful little smile. "I just wanted to be there with him. And now here we are."

"How sad. And you don't have any other family back home? Anyone to win the Games for?"

"Well, my parents are dead, but I don't think family ends with blood."

"How romantic! “ Balthazar turned pensive. “It must help to focus on nice things, beautiful things. Not that your brother isn't, forgive me, truly, spectacularly gorgeous."

Dean snorted and on the screen Sam made an odd, high-pitched sound before forcing a smile. "Believe me, you're not the only one who thinks so."

"I'm sure! Now Sam, some would say you're practically destined to fight your brother. Do you agree?"

"Maybe." Sam glanced at the camera, and pitched his voice low. They zoomed in on his face when he answered, and in that suit and with the light make up he looked way more adult than he really was. He looked kind of hot, actually. "Probably. But you can't beat this kind of fate, and Dean and I... we've come to terms with it. We've talked and made our peace. It's all done now. We know what our roles are."

"Well, that record-breaking score must be for a reason! And you got one more point than Dean, your marks were perfect!"

Once again, Sam was modest and replied with downcast eyes. "Yeah. I... can't say much about that, unfortunately."

"Oh well, we'll live." Balthazar winked at him. "Maybe I can get Dean to reveal some secrets when he comes in now. I wish you the best of luck, and good hunting, Sam Winchester."

"Thank you very much."

The two guys from before motioned at Dean frantically, and he walked over to stand right behind the door.

"Good luck, son," Bobby called.

Before he could turn to acknowledge those words in any way, somebody pushed him forwards and Dean was blinded by the focus lights, and engulfed by the unexpectedly stifling temperature in the studio.

"Dean!" Balthazar went over to greet him and shook his hand. "You're a vision!"

"Gee, thanks."

The spectators lined rows upon rows of increasingly high seats, set in a half-circle around the stage. Much closer to Dean and Balthazar, however, was the filming crew; four cameras and two sound techs holding their mics high up in the air, showing no signs of growing tired, amongst other people whose jobs weren’t instantly apparent. There were tons of cables involved, though.

"I was just talking to your brother!"

Up close, Balthazar’s blue eyes were far sharper that Dean had first thought. The guy might act rather goofy, but he looked like he missed little.

"I saw. Sam's a charmer, eh?"

Bobby had been brutally clear. "You call that kid Sammy on national television? It's over, Dean. So for Pete’s sake don't."

"Oh yes. All those dimples!"

Dean smiled tightly at that. Sammy's dimples had become a frequent source of trouble for him lately.

"Does pretty run in the family, then?"

"Our parents are dead, dude. Kind of an insensitive question there."

Balthazar's eyes widened almost comically. "Goodness you're right, I am so sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

"Well, moving on then. My buddy Castiel tells me you did, and I quote, someting 'rather impressive' at the examination. There are very few cases of scores above ten in Hunter Games history, so can you reveal anything about that?"

"I... don't think I can, no. Sam and Jake clearly went one step beyond, though, you should ask them what they did."

"Eh, yes, well, eleven is still an incredible score!"

The host winked at him, and Dean conceded with a sly grin that was all show. He just wanted this over.

“Thanks.”

The remaining minute passed quickly and Balthazar wrapped it up to loud and annoyingly enthusiastic applause. Dean looked at the huge crowd of mostly happy, excited faces, and right at that moment, it felt impossible to think that people were revolting against the Hunter Games. Was Cancellation even an option? Was it true, about the disputes within the Gamemakers? The tradition had been going on for decades... who were Sam and Dean to suddenly decide they didn’t like the rules?

“And that concludes our round of interviews to this year’s Tributes! Tune in tomorrow for the last day of training and speculation on the examination scores! A repeat of tonight’s interviews will air at nine, and on Friday...” Balthazar stood from his chair with a flourish. “The Games begin!” 

*

“We should’ve totally gone with four courses of pie like I said. This is our last meal, Sammy.”

After making sure he wasn’t seen, Dean had sneaked into Sam’s room to have dinner for the final time. Breakfast tomorrow would be eaten on their way to the Arena.

“Right. ‘Cause indigestion is the way to go hours before a life-or-death competition, Dean.”

It had been a tough, long day for Dean. Training alone, watching Sam from a distance... having to bite back a nasty comment whenever Jake got too close to his baby brother (which was ridiculously often over the course of a single freakin’ day), being unable to march up there and wrench Sam away from prying eyes. Gordon Walker had even come up to him, deceptively friendly, and offered an alliance, which Dean had politely given a non-answer to because who knew what would happen in the Arena, right?

One thing was sure though; they’d made it clear to everyone that it was over between the Winchester brothers. That, as of this moment, Sam and Dean were going their separate ways.

“Indigestion? From pie? I could never.”

And now here they were. Finishing a blueberry pie between the two of them and avoiding the serious talk they both knew needed to happen.

“Well, you’re gonna have to go without pie for a few days soon,” Sam commented, subtle as a brick. “What do you think we’ll have to eat, in there?”

“Depends, doesn’t it?” Dean settled more comfortably in his chair. “If we get lucky, and when does that ever happen, it’ll be a forest, something that’s a little familiar. Maybe rabbit, squirrels... I don’t think they let any birds fly overhead, or they’ll get fried by the force-field around the Arena.”

“Right.”

“Then there was that year with the goddamn bears, were you old enough for that?”

“Oh yeah, that was crazy!”

They went off into a tangent about the creatures the Gamemakers threw into the Arena to kill off a few hunters if things were moving too slow or getting boring for the public. The bears were definitely the most memorable of late (some sort of bloodthirsty breed undoubtedly engineered and trained for the very purpose of killing humans), but there had been others; wolves five years ago, and poisonous snakes a couple of years before that. Genetic manipulation had become huge during the war; and many animals had been turned monstrous and used to fight.

“Well, if they do the bears again this year we’d have food for ages—“

“Dean.” The change in Sam’s tone halted Dean instantly. It was time, then.

“Yeah?”

“You... you have to promise me that you’ll take care of yourself.”

Dean reluctantly discarded the idea of making that into an ice-breaking masturbation joke. “Dude, I said I would—“

“Yes, but promise me.”

Sam’s eyes gleamed threateningly from behind the stupid strands of hair that insisted on falling over them. In this light they looked darker than usual.

“I said I would,” Dean repeated sternly. “And I will.”

He stood up from his chair because it was late and sleep was important today, perhaps more than ever, even though right now there was nothing Dean wanted more than to stay up all night with Sam.

“You will too, right Sammy? Remember the signal, remember everything we talked about?”

“Of course.” Sam stood as well. “You’re leaving?”

Something about his voice made heat surge in Dean’s chest; a shameful flare of hope that Sam felt the same he was feeling. That it was a waste to sleep tonight, that they should just stay here, awake and aware, not missing a moment, silent or talking didn’t matter, as long as they were together.

But Sammy needed to rest; the Gamemaker Guards would come for them first thing in the morning. They wouldn’t see each other again until the Arena.

“Gotta get that beauty sleep,” Dean said, faking a yawn and stretching lazily (his stupid sweats nearly fell off in the process, but he hadn’t been able to find smaller ones).

Sam took a couple of hesitant steps toward him.

“I... uh. Dean?”

“Yeah.”

They were kind of close, now. Just a little over ‘acceptable’ in personal-space-bubble etiquette, not that Dean thought of space in those terms with Sam. But. It was worth noting this time, for some reason.

“You...” Sam inhaled roughly. “Don’t you dare die on me, okay? Just—don’t. Please.”

His mouth was set defiantly and a muscle ticked in his jaw, indicating it was clenched tight, daring Dean to turn his feelings into a joke again. But Dean wouldn’t, couldn’t do that.

“I’ll try, I pr—“

“Not good enough.” Sam shook his head, hair swishing with the movement. “No. You... you have to live. For me. Or I won’t—look, you just have to, all right? I will never forgive you if you let yourself get hurt. If anything happened to you I’d...” the intense set of Sam’s features crumpled, just for a second, as he seemed to contemplate his own words. “I’d lose it, okay? I would..." he cut himself off again and shook his head. "You’re my brother. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Dean stared at him, heart pounding, throat constricted at the vehemence in Sam’s tone. Sammy’s voice had changed ages ago—from sweet and childish to deep and masculine, with a hilarious awkward period in between—but it seemed to Dean that the fact had only become apparent right now.

“I won’t die if you don’t, Sammy."

Maybe it was the wrong answer, because something dangerous flashed in the darkness of Sam’s eyes at the words. His body moved like he was about to step even closer, palms flexing, lips parted to draw in a harsh breath and for one fleeting, insane moment Dean thought Sam was gonna.

Something.

But then it was gone, and Sam blew his hair out of his eyes and shrugged and shuffled his feet at the same time, unnecessary all of it to declare just how very exasperated he was.

“Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

They didn’t hug or anything sappy like that. They were grown-ass men. Well, Dean was anyway. Sammy was... actually Sam was getting there, too. But still, a hug right then would have been too much. Too much contact and—no. So Dean gave Sam a meaningful pat on the shoulder and let himself out of the room. Because he was not a chick, and neither was Sam, despite the occasional evidence to the contrary, and tearful goodbyes were exclusively for chicks. Common knowledge and all that.

Except for how, after the door had shut, he stayed staring at it for a whole five minutes before he could force his feet to move.

*

Dean was alone.

His arm itched from where they’d stuck the needle in with the tracker, and the Arena uniform Missouri had given him (black cargo pants and sturdy boots, with a black undershirt and a forest-green hooded jacket; the same for every Tribute) scratched uncomfortably at his skin. The only familiar thing about his ensemble was the comfortable weight of the amulet against his chest; a small token that Tributes were allowed to bring with them if it couldn't be used as a weapon.

He'd been blindfolded since he left the Training Center, so he had no idea where this place was in relation to the City, but it had been a two-hour voyage by hover-car (Dean had not enjoyed being in the air, he discovered after up-chucking his breakfast. Twice).

He was in a small, completely bare room except for the very ominous circular platform at the center, with D12 emblazoned on it in red. Officially, these rooms were known as the Catacombs of the Arena because they were right underneath, but in the Districts they were more commonly referred to as the Twenty-three Stockyards. For twenty-three Hunters, this was the last room they'd be in before they died.

When the guard had shown him inside she’d only said “Stand in the circle and wait,” so naturally Dean looked around every corner of the room, but found no way to open the locked door from the inside and no other obvious escape route, like say a conveniently breakable window. The only way out was up, through a circular hole in the ceiling right over the platform. Which would bring him onto the Arena.

God, he hoped it wasn't a desert again. He and Sam knew next to nothing of surviving in the desert, and the fact that this year’s Tribute uniforms were clearly adequate for forest camouflage didn’t really mean anything, because it wouldn’t be the first time the Gamemakers messed with their heads before it even started.

Dean tried to take a deep breath because that was supposed to help or whatever, but before he could calm down even a little the door made a grinding metal sound and opened.

Bobby stepped inside, in his usual completely-opposite-of-glamorous clothing and old ball-cap.

“How you holding up, kid?”

The truth was that he’d barely slept, his blood was roaring with adrenalin and the keen pang of missing Sam (of just knowing how much he was going to miss Sam in the very immediate future) was making his chest feel tight. Plus he could still taste the vomit at the back of his throat, bitter and gross.

“I’m good.”

Bobby snorted. “Sure you are.”

“You seen Sam?”

The man gave Dean an uncomfortably shrewd look. “Yeah. Went to him first. Kid asked about you, too.”

Dean nodded. “He seem okay to you?”

“In a few minutes twenty-four platforms like that one will lift all of you kids up onto the Arena to battle to the death. How was he supposed to seem?” The question was rhetorical, but Bobby barely paused anyway. "Look, from what I could tell, you two are at nearly opposite ends of the Circle."

The Hunters were lifted up in a circular formation, where they had to wait for one minute before the Games began. At the center of the Circle was the Cornucopia.

Bobby gave Dean a hard stare. "Don't run to him, Dean. Don't even look at him. Just turn around and forget the Cornucopia. Just run away."

Dean took another deep, shaky breath. For God's sake he was Dean Winchester, running away went against everything he knew. And running away from Sam?

"Hey," Bobby said, almost gentle. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"It's not just that you could never hurt him... you'll be fighting to keep that kid alive, won't you?

Dean's head snapped up to meet Bobby's steady, understanding gaze. "I--"

"It's okay. I'll admit this is sorta last minute to confront you about it, but I suspected from day one. Hell, all I've been trying to do these days is convince both of you idjits to listen to reason, but I could tell it fell on deaf ears. I ain't stupid."

"I... Bobby... he's my brother." A buzzer went off in the room, indicating they had two minutes left. Dean's shoulders sagged. "I ain't gonna let him die."

"Yeah, all right. But you know he's the same about you, right?"

"I... he said that?"

The notion shouldn't have made his pulse pick up and his chest warm with incredulous gratitude.

"Yep. So the plan's to only be apart at the start?" Bobby said, businesslike now.

"For as long as we can, yeah."

"Okay. I'll get as many of the sponsored gifts to you before then, but son, if you make it to the final two... it'll get ugly. I'm sorry to say I can guarantee that."

"There's nothing they can throw at us, Bobby," Dean replied, unapologetically. "Nothing that would make us turn."

"... I believe you."

Another buzzer went off, and the door opened. Two City guards came inside.

One of them pushed Bobby aside. "On the platform, kid," he said to Dean. "If you don't do as we say, we have ways of forcing--"

"Relax, cupcake. I'm going."

Dean raised his palms and stepped inside the circle.

"In one minute this platform will raise you onto the Arena. You are to wait another minute before you step onto the terrain. If you attempt to step outside before then, you will be killed. If you attempt to disable the platform mechanism before then, you will be killed. If one of the Gamemakers decides you're looking mighty twitchy for his or her taste, you will be killed. Got it?"

"Got it."

There was a whirring noise and then the ground beneath Dean's feet started to vibrate. He turned to Bobby.

"Watch out for Sam, okay?"

"I'll watch out for both of you, Dean. Good luck, and good hunting."

The ceiling above his head opened in order to allow the platform to lift him through, and Dean blinked as the morning sunlight blinded him.

As his eyes adjusted to the brightness the mechanism whirred to a stop, in time for him to hear the infamous commentator's amplified voice ring across the terrain:

"Hi, hello. I-I'm Chuck Shurley and welcome, to the sixty-seventh annual Hunter Games. So without, er, without further ado... I present to you the twenty-four Tributes from Districts One to Twelve.

"Let the Games begin!"