Author's Note: This is an idea that has been milling around in my head for a few weeks now. A brilliant anon on Tumblr brought it up, and I thought, hey, why not try to combine these two amazing fandoms? When I started to plan this out, I realized why. It's really, really difficult. But I think that it works, for the most part.
This is going to be a long-term project with a whole bunch of chapters. I don't know how many yet, but it's probably going to end up being book-length. There will be Destiel. I feel like I should point that out now for people who might not be into it. Other pairings are undecided and might float in and out of the plot.
This is rated M for later chapters. I figured that I might as well give it its eventual rating now. There will not be smut directly in this fic, but I might write it as a side-fic. We'll see.
Also, I would really like to thank Anna, Brownie, and Kaileigh for taking the time to read this and give me feedback and support when I didn't have the confidence to keep going. You guys are amazing.
—
Disclaimer: I don't own anything from anywhere. I barely own the clothes on my own back. Anything from Supernatural belongs to Kripke and the rest of the team, as well as the lovely people at the CW. Anything taken from The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Any similar dialogue, terminology, and situations are in direct reference to the book and are not my own creations.
—
Dean has never been able to sleep before a reaping. Maybe when he was five or six—when he didn't understand what it meant, didn't feel the gravity of the fact that he might never again see the girl with the beautiful smile down at the bakery or the kind-eyed boy who always slipped him berries at the Hub. Dean doesn't know when reality began to sink in, but he doesn't remember a pre-reaping night that he didn't spend wide awake on his lumpy mattress, tense, waiting.
Quietly, careful to keep from waking Sam, Dean slips out of bed. The floorboards creak and groan under his bare feet, and he pauses, almost holding his breath, but he doesn't need to. Sam doesn't so much as stir. All that's visible is his brown mop of hair, sticking out in every possible direction as the rest of his body is huddled peacefully beneath the thick green blanket that Bobby gave them last month. Dean cracks a smile; he's glad that Sam doesn't feel the same unease that he does. If he can't do anything else, at least he can keep the weight off of his little brother.
The stairs groan out similar protests as he makes his way downstairs. It wouldn't be so noticeable if there were any other noise, but there's only silence. Most days, there would be plenty of people up and about around sunrise, but not today. Not on reaping day. Those who can sleep are taking advantage of the day off, and those who can't are skulking around, crawling out of their skin and sick to their stomachs. Their empty, grumbling stomachs.
Shutting the door behind him, Dean breathes in the crisp morning air, tasting the signature trace of coal dust. The sun is peeking over the treeline, casting a pink-and-yellow haze over what suddenly seems like a ghost town. He doesn't really know why he's wandering around; there isn't anything for him to do but kick some rocks down the road, hands shoved into the pockets of his ill-fitting pants. There are likely people doing business at the Hub; that joint never totally shuts down. But he doesn't want to show up there, especially since he doesn't have anything to trade. Dean can only stand getting handouts for so long. He's no idiot; he knows that people feel sorry for him and Sam, and they can't afford to say no to a few extra ounces of squirrel meat or a "dropped" scrap of bread. He supposes that he should be grateful, and part of him is. The other part of him wants to put a fist through the face of every person who thinks that he needs pity. If it weren't for Sam, he might actually do it.
For the time being, though, he knows that he needs to remain in the good graces of their neighbors. What he gets from them isn't always free. Freelancing for pay isn't technically legal, but that rarely stops anyone from doing what needs to be done. Got a leaky roof? Dean'll fix it. Dry rot in the walls? Dean can patch it up. Of course, there are other carpenters and handymen, but Dean will do it for cheap. Usually, that wouldn't make him real sympathetic to the other handymen, but there's that pity again. They can't bring themselves to hold it against him, not when he's parentless, jobless, and trying to take care of a thirteen-year-old brother on his own. Just thinking about it makes him bristle.
There's always the tesserae, though. It's his one means of income that doesn't rely on someone else's good humor. It's what makes him feel like he might be doing his job, at least a little. It's something that he'll never let Sam touch—not ever. Only over his cold, dead body.
Eighteen times. His name's in eighteen times. Dean tries to keep his mind off of it; sometimes, he even goes so far as to pretend that he doesn't know, that he lost count a long time ago. But no one ever loses count. No one ever forgets. There are others who are worse off—some who have their names in thirty or forty times. They're not getting any sleep, either.
Blowing out a deep breath, Dean runs his hands through his hair. It's getting a little long and he makes a mental note to take care of that later, after the reaping. When his hair gets long, it doesn't look all nice and girly like Sam's; it gets stringy and matted, and Dean supposes that he shouldn't care too much about his appearance, but he's not popular with the ladies for nothing. It doesn't matter on reaping day, though. He doesn't trust his hands to stay steady enough to give a clean cut. More likely than not, he'd slip and give himself a gash in the side of his head, and wouldn't that be a pretty sight? Blood dripping down the side of his face, seeping into his clothes, his best clothes, as the cameras roll. That'd be something.
"Hey, Dean."
Speaking of stringy, matted hair... "'Morning, Garth."
The knob at the end of Garth's nose has turned bright red; it's probably the first part of him that gets cold, what with the way that it sticks out that far from his face. Garth's a gawky kid and he knows how to push Dean's buttons, but Dean can't seem to hold it against him. Not for long, anyway. Garth's the kind of guy that grows on people. District 12 has something of an optimism deficit, and Garth's positivity could be infectious. Sometimes. Other times, nobody could deny that he could act like a grade-a moron.
Garth shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back against the side of the house and it takes a whole lot of self-control for Dean to keep himself from snorting. Despite his best efforts, Garth is incapable of looking cool. He's all stringy hair and gangly limbs and clothes that are at least four sizes too large. "Can't sleep either, huh?"
"Dude, your name's in there, what, three times?"
Garth looks stricken and Dean realizes that the words came out sharper than he intended. "Five. I had to take out tesserae for me and my mom this year."
Dean swallows hard. He knows that it's hard for everyone. He knows that. "That's... Sorry, man. I'm just edgy today."
"Does someone need a hug?" Garth's arms are spread wide and—is he pouting? Dean's pretty sure that he looks as disgusted as he feels. Still, he can't help but be impressed by how quickly Garth can bounce back to his usual annoying self.
Backing away, Dean shakes his head. "No. Not cool."
But Garth keeps advancing and it's not long before he has his gangly arms wrapped around Dean's body. Dean gives him about ten seconds before swatting him away. "Personal boundaries, Garth. Personal boundaries."
"Everyone says that I give the best hugs around."
"No one says that."
"Yeah they do." Garth's all smiles and Dean's actually inclined to believe him.
The silence that follows is semi-comfortable. Dean's always been partial to silence. It gives him time to think—to plan ten steps ahead of everyone else. No matter what happens, he has a plan for it. He probably has five plans for any given situation. They're not all good plans, but they're better than nothing. Knowing that he's prepared gives him a sense of security that, albeit frail, gives him enough peace of mind to get some rest when he needs it.
And yet, he finds himself breaking the silence, because sometimes it hurts to be alone with his thoughts. "You ever think about what you'd do if your name got pulled?"
"Probably die."
Garth says it with such levity that Dean's a bit dumbstruck. It's truth, and everyone knows it. Twenty-four go in, one comes out. It's engraved into the mind of every man, woman, and child. But nobody talks about it like that. Nobody's that open. Nobody's that accepting. Leave it to Garth to break that norm, too.
"What?"
Garth shrugs, hands back in his pockets. "It's the truth. I mean, I'm scrappy and charming"—Dean can't keep himself from snorting this time—"and I like to think that I wouldn't be the first one taken out, but I'm not cut out for that kind of thing. I'm happy sticking around here, stealing food, busting lips, dealing out justice the Garth way."
"Most peoples' lips would bust your fist."
They both laugh at that; Garth doesn't even bother denying it. "Yeah, well, I'm better at taking care of people, y'know?" Dean gets that, perhaps better than anyone. "What about you?"
Dean knew that the question had to be asked. He's the one who brought it up, so he can't be upset about it. There are a million different answers. He could say that he intentionally got into fights to keep his senses sharp. He could say that he practiced knife techniques almost every day so that he'd be ready if his ticket was ever up. He could say that he'd had more than one late-night conversation with Missouri about taking care of Sam if anything ever happened to him. He could say so much.
So he lies.
"Never thought about it."
Miraculously, Garth believes him. Or, if he doesn't believe him, he doesn't ask any questions. He just nods, kicking at a small clump of weeds, suddenly too somber for Dean's taste. "If anyone around here could win, Dean, it'd be you."
Dean freezes, the knots in his gut suddenly unraveling and transforming into icy tendrils, reaching up and wrapping around his chest, squeezing the breath right out of him. Maybe he should feel flattered, or at least encouraged, but all that he feels is numb. Not a complete numbness, but the kind of numbness that lingers after an arm's been slept on all night—all pins and needles and shakiness. Painful helplessness. That's the feeling, and he wants to get rid of it as quickly as possible. "Dude, why're we even talking about this? We should be making ourselves pretty."
"No need." Garth runs a hand through his hair before giving his head a sickeningly dramatic toss. "I'm always pretty."
Resisting the urge to puke, Dean simply mimes the act. "I don't know why I talk to you."
"It's probably the charisma."
At least the kid has confidence. Garth'll never get reaped, anyway. The odds are in his favor, as they ever will be. As annoying as he is, it's hard to imagine the Seam without him. After a moment's hesitation, another moment of semi-comfortable silence, Dean reaches out and punches Garth in his bony shoulder, only forceful enough that Garth has to take a step back to keep his balance. "Go home, Garth."
It isn't until Garth is about to duck around the corner of the house at the road's curve that Dean shouts out, "And give your mom a hug."
He might've just woken half of the street, but hey, some things are important. People can forget those things—neglect them—for most of the year, but, on reaping day, everyone does everything that they can to make sure that things are as good as they can be. They forget grudges, ignore injuries, and they hug their loved ones. Because they never know how much time they have left.
As the sound of creaking doors and early-morning greetings begin to echo down the street, Dean ducks back inside, because he has a plan. There's a small chunk of dog meat tucked away in the kitchen, and he managed to barter for a ball of goat cheese and a handful of berries the evening before. He didn't tell Sam; surprises are always better, especially on reaping day.
Especially if it could be the last time.
"Rise and shine, Sammy!"
—
Nothing's better than a full stomach, but the food isn't settling well. Dean's guts are in knots, twisting onto themselves, full of rocks and thorns and maybe even knives. Every year, he thinks that it'll get better, that he might get used to the dread, but it only gets worse. Last year was bad; it was Sam's first year, and Dean put on his best smile along with his best shirt even though the fear was clawing at his insides, turning him into quivering, pulpy mush. This year, it's all knives and claws again, but there's also a drill boring into his skull, liquifying his brain. He can only imagine what next year will be like.
Sam's buttoning up his shirt, one of Dean's hand-me-downs. It's a bright shade of blue, like the sky at midday. It's a popular color in the Seam; after hours down in the mines, there's nothing as refreshing as the clear brilliance of the sky and the rush of clean air sweeping into the lungs. At least, that's what Dean's heard. He hasn't worked down there yet, not officially, but it's not long until he'll don a hardhat like the rest of them. Just one more year, then graduation, and Dean would be lying if he said that he's sad about it. School's never been much of a friend, and there's no love lost there. Being smart is Sam's thing. Sam's impressive brain is what's going to keep him out of the mines. Dean has no problem with his own lungs shriveling up down there in the dark, but Sam wants to be a teacher, so that's what's gonna happen.
"Don't forget to tuck your shirt in. You look like you're swimming in it." But it won't be that way for much longer. Sam's small and twiggy, but Dean has a feeling that he'll hit a growth spurt soon and he'll shoot straight up. Hand-me-downs aren't going to cut it then. Hopefully, Dean will be making enough money at that point to keep the kid clothed.
Sam rolls his eyes, but he tucks the shirt into his tan slacks anyway. "You never tuck your shirt in."
It's true. Dean's white collared shirt is decidedly untucked, and his threadbare, patched-up jacket is far from fancy. He has no reason to impress anyone. He almost never does. "That's because it's for lame kids with girly hair who try too hard."
"Jerk," Sam mutters.
Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his elbow, giving him a good-natured shove. "Bitch."
They leave the house with only a few minutes to spare. Dean's never been one for being punctual, but nobody's late to the reaping. Nobody. Plenty of people straggle in at the last minute, though, and Dean and Sam find themselves practically surrounded by other kids, families, young and old, short and tall, skinny and stocky, a steady, silent river of dresses and buttoned shirts and well-groomed brown hair. As they get up to the square, that river opens to a sea—a buzzing mass of boys and girls giving one last hug to their parents, getting one last word of advice from older siblings. And then silence, lining up, checking in. No one talks after that. Everyone's holding in a collective breath.
Sam's hand curls around Dean's forearm and Dean freezes, fighting down the lump in his throat. "Hey, Dean?"
That damn lump is trying to turn him into a mute. "Yeah, Sammy?"
When Sam smiles, Dean can't help but feel a little lighter—because if Sam can smile, then things can't be that bad. Like the blue sky after a black, dusty morning. "I'll cook dinner tonight, okay?"
And Dean laughs. He laughs because his nerves are fried and his chest burns and, yeah, leave it to Sam to say that right before they get to the table, right before they have to split up—Sam to the back with the younger kids and Dean to the front with the older. Because Sam feels it too; he feels the tension, the anxiety, the dread. Dean wishes that he didn't, but he does. But they always make it through fine. They always go home and eat dinner together, laughing, drunk on the sudden, dizzying lack of worry. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
Dean flashes his best, cockiest smile to the blonde woman who pricks his finger, noting the flush that infuses her cheeks as she takes the blood sample and sends him through. Stronger women have had more embarrassing reactions. He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, meandering over to the assigned area. He slips in behind the eighteen-year-olds, most of whom are somber and steely-faced. It's their last year. If they clear this hurdle, they're in the clear. They know that they're close, so close, but they can't afford to breathe until the reaping's over. Dean knows that he won't be able to breathe until the night after Sam's last reaping. Five left. Five. Damn.
The entirety of District 12's population squeezes into the square, and Dean grunts as someone from behind bumps into him and then immediately stammers out an apology. He hates being that close to so many people, but it would be stupid to think that anything about the ordeal could be comfortable. Nope, gotta dress everyone up, stick needles in their fingers, and then cram them in the same area where they have to stare at themselves on giant screens while they listen to long speeches that are the same every year. Panem this, Capitol that, District 13, war, death, honor, glory. He would probably be able to recite them by this point if he paid closer attention.
It's five minutes to two, right on the dot, and the Mayor steps out—flashing his oversized teeth and waving with a meaty hand. He takes the first seat, followed closely by a much smaller man dressed as flashily as ever in a blood-red suit that shimmers when struck by sunlight. District 12's escort and the Capitol's gift to all of Panem, Crowley. Dean can only imagine how much Crowley hates being stuck with the one district that no one takes seriously; in fact, thinking about it is what usually gets Dean through the reaping without losing his mind entirely. Crowley's big, round head is already so inflated, it probably wouldn't take much for it to explode. A few witty, well-timed insults should do the trick.
Then Bobby takes the last seat, looking unsteady. Probably drunk. He usually is on reaping day. Dean didn't think that his chest could get any tighter, but it could, apparently. It's been two weeks since he last saw Bobby. Previous victors aren't supposed to visit the Seam. Why should they? They've got everything that they need. But District 12 doesn't have much of a precedent for how a victor should act, so Bobby does what he can to see them. The big, empty house and the fancy food doesn't suit him, but he'll never argue with the booze—although he sneaks what he can to Ellen's bar, where she sells it to the Peacekeepers, and they both have a big laugh about it later.
Bobby wanted to move them in after their dad died, but that wasn't seemly. They aren't related—not by blood, and that's what matters. So they moved in with Missouri and they get to see Bobby a few times a month, if they're lucky. And they always get to see him up there on reaping day, slumping in his chair, looking almost stricken. Sometimes, he looks for Dean in the crowd, but not today. Based on the way that he's squinting against the sun, Dean guesses that he's hungover, not drunk after all. Very little surprises Dean, but that... That's surprising.
It's two o' clock and the mayor's up at the microphone, speaking too loudly, sending nervous glances toward the cameras. No matter how many times he gives the same speech, he continues to get tripped up by the cameras. Sure, there's a lot of material to cover, and all of Panem is watching, but nobody cares about him. They're watching for the spectacle, not to listen again to the natural disasters and the wars that lead up to the near-destruction of the world, or to the way that Panem emerged like a diamond from pressurized coal. Everyone already knew the story of the uprising—how the districts banded together against the Capitol and how, after so much death and destruction, twelve of them were brought to their knees while the thirteenth was wiped off of the face of the planet. And no one would ever forget how that led to the Treaty of Treason and, more importantly, the Hunger Games.
Dean almost scoffs as the mayor adds that "it is a time for both repentance and thanks." Yeah, because it's definitely not a time to feel exploited or resentful. It's not a time to hate the people that herd them into the square like cattle so that they can lead two of them away to their deaths. No, it's not a time for anger. It's a time for thanks.
After the mayor lists off Bobby and some dead guy as District 12's past victors, he finally returns to his seat, looking pleased as punch. Dean's eyes are locked on the glass bowl that holds eighteen slips of paper with his name printed on them. There are thousands of slips in there, but eighteen still seems staggering. It only takes one, and he's got eighteen.
Crowley's up now, nearly blinding in that ridiculous suit, and his eyebrows are raised. The derision in his expression would likely be missed by most people if it wasn't for the giant screens broadcasting a close-up of his face. "Well, that was...enlightening." And Dean almost likes him then. "I suppose that it's time to wish you all a very happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor. And if they aren't..." He trails off with a shrug, almost gliding over to the girls' bowl. The girl always gets picked first, in a show of what the Capitol wants to be taken as chivalry.
To add to the show, Crowley slowly dips his hand into the bowl, swirling the slips of paper around his fingers before reaching halfway into the pile and retrieving one crisp, white rectangle. Then he's back, front and center, and he clears his throat before reciting in his clearest voice, "Joanna Harvelle."
Dean harshly sucks in the stale, too-warm air. He doesn't know when his head snapped to the right, when he started to desperately pan the crowd for the girl's small, blonde head, but he sees her step out from a cluster of thirteen-year-olds with pained, but obviously relieved, looks on their mousy little faces. He knows that it's got to be taking every ounce of self-control for Ellen to keep from crying out—from darting out from the crowd and grabbing hold of her little girl, screaming death threats to anyone who had the gall to try dragging her away. But she's quiet, somewhere in the crowd, and Jo's walking up to the stage with her chin raised, handfuls of her yellow dress held in her clenched fists. She doesn't look at Crowley as he throws an arm around her shoulders and presents her to the rest of Panem; she just keeps staring straight ahead. Jo's a strong kid. Dean tells himself that she has a chance for survival, mostly because that's the only thing that will give him even an ounce of comfort. It's Jo, and it's too much to think of watching someone slitting her throat in the arena. She's strong, and she's got Bobby. She'll be okay. She'll be okay.
Crowley's hand's in the boys' bowl now, and he doesn't use as much flourish as he pulls out a slip from the bottom of the bowl. The rasp of paper sliding against paper echoes over the square before Crowley places his lips far too close to the microphone and announces the second tribute.
"Samuel Winchester."
Nah. Nah, Dean has to have heard that incorrectly. Sam's name's in there twice. Two slips in thousands. There's no way that his name got picked. It's time to get his ears cleaned, because it can't be Sam. His mind's playing tricks on him. More than once, he's woken up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, with this exact moment burning in the back of his eyes, ringing in his ears. Samuel Winchester, echoing from speakers, from the hallway, from a mineshaft. What he just heard was a reverberation. It was his imagination.
But the cameras are focusing on the kids toward the back and Dean turns around, unable to do more than watch helplessly as the lines dissolve and the sea parts—smaller then larger bodies moving stoically aside to make way for a lanky boy with an all-too familiar mop of brown hair. His head is held just as high as Jo's, but the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. Then it begins to sink in. Then Dean starts to understand. And his feet are carrying him toward Sam before he can process any of it.
"Sam! Sammy!"
A peacekeeper's placing a gloved hand on Sam's shoulder to guide him up to the stage and Dean's fighting through the crowd, which doesn't part as easily for him as it did for his kid brother. The kid brother who's turning, searching for him, pleading with his eyes, but Dean doesn't have time to translate that look. Dean doesn't want to translate that look, because if Sam wants him to accept this, he's going to be sorely disappointed. It's the end of the line when the peacekeeper shoves Sam forward, putting an end to the stalling, and, subsequently, to Dean's composure.
He probably knocks over a kid or two as he makes a final push through the throng, but he doesn't care. There's a line of peacekeepers ready for him, prepared to throw him back in line—or, more plausibly, to drag him off to some detainment room where they would probably have to kill him, because there's no way in hell that he's going to let this happen. Dean's strong, but there are more of them and they're taller and they have guns. He knows how to fight, but he's unfocused and he only manages one well-placed punch before they have him on his knees. Breathing's impossible and he tastes blood. The world is swirling into twisted shapes and muddled colors, but he knows that Sam's getting close; maybe he has one foot on the steps already, greeted by Crowley's open arms and predatory grin.
Even though ice has replaced the air in his lungs, he has enough left to manage one more shout. Two more words. That's all that he needs; that's all that Sam needs. "I volunteer!"
Aside from the low ringing from the microphone, there's dead silence as the world comes back into focus. Nobody so much as twitches; Dean has everyone's full attention, probably the attention of an entire nation, and he might waver under all of it if not for his resolve that this is right—that this is what has to happen. Because this is the plan. This has always been the plan.
"I said that I volunteer," he repeats, because everyone looks so dumbstruck and it's getting under his skin. "I'll do it. I'll go in his place."
Although reluctant, the peacekeepers haul him to his feet, and Dean's actually grateful for their grip on his arms, because he's wobbly and the last thing that he needs to do now is fall on his face. When Sam breaks free and runs back toward him, shouting his name along with a string of protests, Dean's sure that his legs are going to give out. But they don't. They don't, because he's got to be strong. He can't volunteer and then go all soft. No matter what, he's got to stick to his guns, because weakness is unacceptable now. Weakness will get him killed.
So he squares his jaw and tells Sam that it'll be okay as they're dragged off in separate directions. He seems to be telling a lot of lies today. Crowley's face is inscrutable as Dean hauls himself up the stairs, but he pulls him over to the microphone all the same.
"Can't say that anyone was expecting a volunteer today. District 12's first, if memory serves." The mayor nods in affirmation and Dean can't bring himself to look at Bobby. "Care to tell us your name?"
No, Dean doesn't care to tell anyone his name. He's not even sure that he can speak, but he doesn't have much of a choice, so tries to push down the boulder in his throat. "Dean Winchester." He practically croaks the words, but it's good enough.
"Then that strapping young lad was your brother, yeah?"
"Yeah." Yeah, because there's no other reason why Dean would be up there, trying not to shake, trying to keep from showing them that he hates this, that his heart's in his foot and he wants to lose his breakfast all over the stage.
Mercifully, Crowley turns his attention back to the crowd, and at least that pressure's off. Dean really doesn't think that he could talk more if he tried his hardest. "Well, then. Let's have a round of applause for District 12's first-ever volunteer, shall we?"
No one claps, and that's fine; Dean didn't expect applause. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want recognition and he sure as hell doesn't want any more attention. People are still stunned, and maybe a few of them are even sad to see him go. Almost everyone in the Seam knows him—or, at the very least, knows of him. They've all helped each other out at some point, and now they're standing there and everyone knows that he's not coming back. Maybe it's upsetting for the moment, but they'll forget all about him in a few months.
Then something starts to happen. Dean doesn't know what it is at first, and he doesn't know why, but one person moves, a few more follow, and then everyone is moving in unison. They raise the three middle fingers of their left hands to their lips, then extend them in the air in a gesture that Dean's only seen after someone important died. It's a gesture of affection—of gratitude and reverence. Of things that Dean doesn't deserve. But they're doing it. District 12's entire population, standing there with their hands held out toward him. It's surreal and Dean strains to fight the tears that are springing to his eyes. Before his vision blurs, he catches a glimpse of Garth's face in the crowd, and he's almost completely certain that the scrawny idiot started all of this.
The overwhelming swell of the moment breaks before it can crest when the mayor begins to recite the Treaty of Treason, which is probably a direct attempt to redirect Panem's attention. It doesn't take long, but it's effective. Dean's resumed control of his body and is somehow able to keep himself from breaking apart into unsightly chunks as he's asked to shake hands with Jo. Her hand is small and warm and far steadier than his. Their gazes lock for a moment, and he knows that they're thinking the same thing. Even if they fight their hardest, they can't both come back. They won't be all right.
It isn't until the anthem stops playing and they get marched through the entrance of the Justice Building that Dean begins to understand what he's walking toward. His body has been carrying him forward like a machine, programmed with an objective, a mission. Now his mind is catching up, and it feels like lightning in his brain, traveling to his muscles, trying to lock them up—trying to get him to balk. They can't both come back, and the odds say that neither of them will. The doors close behind them and Dean realizes that he'll never see the square again.
Dean always has a plan. This one sucks.
