This (like pretty much all my stories) was originally posted on my Tumblr, just in case anyone had stumbled across that and wondered what the fuck one of those stories was doing on here.
If I owned Supernatural or The Hunger Games I wouldn't be writing fanfics, now, would I?
Dean Winchester sheathes his knife, shoving a now-headless rabbit carcass into his bag. Briefly he debates whether to sell it or cook it for Sam and himself and maybe their father, if he decides to come home that day. It's doubtful he will, though.
He takes another look at the jagged tear in the rabbit's flesh that goes straight through its liver. It doesn't look fantastic, but it isn't the worst thing he'd ever sold and he knows he'll get at least enough money for a couple of vitamin supplements. They'll be years old and much less potent than when they'd left the Capitol, but Sam's a growing kid and Dean's determined to provide him with more than the typical Seam diet of stale bread and bits of small game.
Uncovering the tunnel leading back out of the woods, Dean crawls under the fence, stopping for a moment to unhook his belt loop from where the rusty cyclone fencing has snagged it. The fence is only just sizzling to life, but even on full power it barely manages to shock anyone. Once, just after their mother had died, Sam had tripped and fallen into the fence. For a torturous millisecond Dean thought him dead for sure, burnt to a crisp by the wires, but Sam picked himself up and brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants.
After Dean finishes his selling and buying, he makes his way down the hill to the house. It's a run-down little thing with no windows and a roof that leaks in the rainy months but he supposes it could be a hell of a lot worse.
"Happy Reaping Day."
Sam greets him at the door and takes his bag, emptying it onto the table. A tiny mason jar of wax and two bluish pills roll out onto the knotty wood.
"Ah, great, we needed some of this for the sink," Sam comments, turning the jar of wax over in his hands. Dean nods.
"Yeah," he says, hanging up his father's leather jacket on the nail they'd put in the wall and brushing Sam's bangs down over his eyes on his way to the sink. "'S why I got it, Sherlock."
Sam scowls as Dean hands him a cup of water. He bites his lip and looks briefly at the edge of the table before his eyes dart up to the door, then downs both vitamin pills in one go. His eyes, however, stay deliberately low and Dean's eyebrows knit together.
"What is it, Sammy?"
"What? Uh. Nothing," replies Sam unconvincingly, shifting his weight to his other leg. "Dad stopped by this morning while you were out aaaaaaaaand he had some stuff for me to give you."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up almost into his hairline and he pauses in the process of cleaning spinal tissue from his bag.
"Well, lay it on me," he says, and Sam glances towards the bedroom.
"It's in there," he says. "Whatever it is, he said he found it laying in a box and decided you might have some use for it."
If Dean's eyebrows could go any higher, they would. Their dad hasn't given a fuck about them since their mother died, and even before then he only cared enough about them so that Mary wouldn't divorce him. So when Sam tells Dean he's got a special delivery from Papa Winchester, forgive him if he's a bit surprised.
He heads into the bedroom and finds a butcher-paper-wrapped parcel sitting on the covers. It doesn't have a note or anything on the top of it, typical Dad, but holding the brown wrapping together is a small pin. It's kind of dull— it probably used to be shinier but the Seam isn't a good place for keeping things looking brand-new— but it's obviously got some heavy sentimental value attached to it. Dean unpins it from the package and sets it on the bed as he unwraps the gift.
It's a light blue buttoned shirt, slightly yellowed from age and life in District 12, and a pair of black slacks. Both of them are coated in a thin layer of coal dust— again, District 12 life. Dean tries them on and has to wear a belt to keep the pants from falling about his ankles, but walks out without it to get a laugh out of Sam. He washes his face, hair, and armpits in a bowl of tepid water before pulling his pants back up and putting the belt on again, leaving his shirt untucked until Sam decides to fulfill his job as mother hen and nags him until he tucks it in. Dean returns the favor when Sam washes himself and gets dressed in the clothes Dean wore last year for the Reaping. Jesus, that kid almost grows too fast for Dean's hand-me-downs to keep up with.
They leave the house and end up in the square in the first wave of people to arrive. Peacekeepers have their tables set up and Dean gets his finger pricked for his sixth time, Sam for his second before they can enter the area set up for the audience. They separate now, Dean off with the other seventeen-year-olds and Sam with the younger ones. Dean chuckles. From where he's standing he can see Sammy's head and the top of his shoulders sticking out like an appendix amongst the sea of his shorter classmates.
"Hullo."
Half the audience jumps at the sudden loudness while a couple of Peacekeepers twiddle with the sound system on the stage. A shortish man clad in all black stands at the microphone, and he gives it a short smack before continuing. The sound makes the audience flinch.
"Hullo and happy Hunger Games to you miserable lot," he drawls. His skin contrasted with the rich darkness of his clothing gives him an elegantly hellish appearance and makes his skin even more white than it already is. "Are you ready to sentence another two young folks to death? I sure am."
The man's name is Crowley. He took over the job of MC-ing Reaping Day for District 12 after his predecessor Lilith got the train of her dress caught under a high-speed train coming from the Capitol. Needless to say, she died and he went up in the Capitol's hierarchy. You'd think he'd be a bit happier than he is.
The tape starts playing, startling Crowley, and he curses at it before turning to watch the brief documentary. It's more like propaganda, detailing the rebellion and subsequent defeat of twelve of Panem's districts and the annihilation of the thirteenth. The good thing is, it's relatively short, and before long Crowley's sticking his hand into the reaping ball and holding the names of two lucky winners. Er, losers.
"Let's see who gets to die this year," he says cynically, opening one of the papers with a fingernail.
This is the moment where the audience goes completely silent, not moving, not even daring a breath. Dean fears for Sammy with his two entries, ignoring the thirty-someodd slips with his own name written on them. Does one of the two sit in Crowley's hand? He pushes the thought to the back of his mind, hoping desperately that, just like last year, Sam's name lays at the bottom of the ball, safe from Crowley's fingers.
May the odds, Dean thinks, hoping it reaches Sam from across the crowd, be ever in your-
"Samuel Winchester."