Disclaimer: Supernatural and The Hunger Games belong to each of their respective owners; I'm merely the crazy person who decided to play with their toys.

Chapter One

"Who provides for the raven its prey, when its young ones cry to God for help, and wander about for lack of food?" (Job 38:41)

Dean jerked awake, sweat dripping from his brow and a weight draped across his middle. At first, he thought it was just the dread of the reaping, or perhaps his empty stomach rebelling. A bleary look down revealed the skinny, freckled arm of his brother, hand fisted in the scratchy cotton of Dean's shirt.

Dean had thought Sam might think himself too old to climb into bed with his big brother; he was thirteen, after all. He was too old to be called 'Sammy,' too old to need help with just about anything, too old for the ratty remains of Mr. Snuggles the teddy bear.

Things were different today. Of course they were different today.

Dean propped himself up on one elbow to watch the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest. Up and down, in and out. Alive. It was so hard to remember these days.

Sam's face wrinkled in his sleep, a small whimper drawing from his lips. Instead of thirteen and half and gangly limbs, all Dean could see was a tiny bundle he could barely lift with his four year old hands, a wide, yawning mouth that always demanded more. And it didn't matter that there wasn't anything left but what was on Dean's plate, because Sammy came first. Always.

He blinked and the image was gone, though the wide hazel eyes remained the same. "How long have you been up?" Dean asked softly.

Sam shrugged, the movement sluggish. He would guess not long, then. "Is Dad awake yet?"

Dean shifted around, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. Their father was a sprawling lump of limbs beside his cot, chest heaving with his snores. A glass bottle lay forgotten in his hand, the last few drops of whiskey dripping steadily to the floor. Dean couldn't begin to guess where he'd gotten it, or how.

He should've helped him into bed. He should've cleaned him up, he should've…

Dean swallowed back his guilt, and tried to look at the bright side. At least Dad hadn't choked on his own vomit while he was busy being a horrible son?

He turned back to Sam and managed his megawatt smile. "No. Not yet."

Sam stared back, clearly not convinced that all was well. Damn kid knew him too well. "How much do you think he had last night?"

"Sam – "

"I'm just saying that – "

"Dad's got his own set of problems – "

"Why are you always defending him?"

"Because he's our dad!"

"But he's –"

John snorted next to them, rolling over and murmuring 'Mary' in his sleep. Dean closed his eyes tightly and lowered his voice to whisper, "Sammy, please. Not today."

Sam's face fell from anger to despair in the matter of a second. His arm clenched tighter around Dean, his fist practically tearing through his brother's shirt. "Dean, I'm sorry, I – "

Dean shushed him. He lowered himself onto his back again, allowing Sam to snuggle closer to him. As a general rule, the Winchesters did not cuddle or have long embraces. 'No chick flick moments,' Dean would say.

But things were different today. Of course they were different today.

Sam's stomach growled, reminding Dean that no matter how different today was, they still needed to eat. "Come on, squirt," he said. "Duty calls."

Sam refused to relinquish his hold on him. "Do you have to go?" he asked, sounding all of three years old.

"You like eating, don't you?"

"Yeah..." He paused; then, ever so hopefully, "Maybe I could come with you and we could –"

"No!" Dean protested with alarm.

Sam flinched in his arms, cowering in the cover of the blankets.

Dean swallowed and stroked Sam's hair away from his face. "No," he repeated, softer this time. "It won't be anything big today. Just some fish and maybe those berries. It's nothing I can't handle alone. Okay?" He smiled, knowing that his brother was the only who could catch the way his mouth trembled.

"But I could - "

"I know, I know you could. Just... Not today." He bit at his lip. "Okay?"

It took a moment, but the kid finally released him, his movements stiff and reluctant. Dean swung his legs off of the bed and fumbled around for his hunting boots. His fingers found the old, supple leather and set to sliding them home onto his feet.

Sam watched his brother prepare for the day solemnly, arms drawn tight around his sheet-covered knees. He said nothing as Dean bent to pry the bottle from their father's hands, not even a peep while Dean pulled the blanket off the cot and gently wrapped it around the older man.

Dean grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulders, doing his usual mental inventory. Satisfied, he made to exit the house.

"Come back soon?"

Dean stopped and turned to his brother. God, he looked so small, so helpless. Dean couldn't help himself. He strode back to the bed and wrapped his arms tightly around Sam, probably too tightly. That was all right because Sam was squeezing back for all he was worth, too.

"I'll be back before…" Dean licked his dry, cracked lips, the words caught in his throat. "Before you know it."

"Promise?" Sam begged.

Dean pulled away enough to press a soft kiss to his brother's forehead. Sam didn't protest the action as he usually would have, just leaned into the touch. Dean smiled and moved Sam's mop of hair away from his forehead. "I promise, Sammy."

Sam smiled up at him. Dean pretended not to notice how bright his eyes were – his brother was doing him the same favor, after all. "It's Sam."

Dean smirked and gave him a light shove. "Bitch," he said fondly.

"Jerk."

Dean flipped his middle finger at Sam, shutting the door on his brother's laughter. He would keep the sound close to him while he hunted – hell, for the rest of the morning. It would probably be the only good thing to come out of this miserable day.

District 12 was oddly quiet as Dean made his way to the fence. People weren't so interested to greet the morning today. Not that they were usually. It's hard to put a smile on your face with a swollen empty belly and food like a needle in a haystack. Dean took the quiet in stride, taking the time to practice his silent footfalls while keeping an eye out for the peacekeepers. What an event that would be, getting caught hunting on the day of the reaping. Sammy would kill him.

Well, not Sammy.

Dean slid easily under the electric fence, the metal silent and cold in the morning air. He made his way into the hollow of the trees, trusting them to keep his cover. A moment of digging through the underbrush revealed his bow and arrow precisely where he left it. He was better with a gun, but the peacekeepers couldn't ignore the sounds of bullets firing into the air.

They could ignore a lot of other things, though, so long as Dean was willing to give them a portion of his game. So long as they didn't actually see Dean sneaking around the fence, they could justify it, he supposed. Dean didn't care so long as there was money in his pocket and food on the table for Sam and Dad.

He climbed through the brush, taking care with his footsteps. He didn't want to scare off the game, after all. His eyes watched the woods, flicking with every hint of movement. Not a sound escaped his lips as he moved through the forest. There was no telling who might be listening, even this far out from civilization. Heaven had a certain way of overhearing everything.

Sometimes he was scared to leave Sam alone too long just for that reason. The kid asked too many questions, spoke his mind. He was a good, good kid, don't get him wrong, but that was the problem. Sammy cared too much. He couldn't understand why everyone had to suffer, why there wasn't enough food to go around. What if he said something that got him in trouble and Dean wasn't around to fix it? He knew it was irrational, because Sammy was smart, too. He just worried. There was no one else to.

He bit his tongue as punishment for thinking ill of his father, even indirectly. That wasn't what good sons did. It didn't matter that the last time John Winchester had been sober was thirteen years ago, so far back Dean could only imagine it. It didn't matter that he'd had to raise Sam on his own, or that Dad couldn't tie his shoes without someone there to remind him. It didn't matter because that was what –

A branch cracked behind him. Dean stopped in his tracks, his hand tense around his bow. His fingers itched for the quiver of arrows on his back, but he kept completely still. There was no telling what – or who – it was. Dean just had to sit quiet and wait. It was their move.

After a long moment of nothing, Dean decided that whatever it was had moved on. Fine by him. Anything big enough to make a sound like that wasn't on his list of game today. Only a squirrel or two, maybe some fish if he felt like venturing out that far. He was always restless on the day of the reaping – moving as far away from the fence as he dared before running straight back to Sammy.

His name would only be in twice this year. Two 'Samuel Winchesters' in a jar. It would have been more, but Dean never let him think about entering for the tesserae. Dean, of course, was a different matter. Twenty five times, all told, and if entering thirty more times meant full meals for his family, Dean would have done that, too. Anything was worth keeping Sammy safe. Perhaps the only lesson his father ever really taught him.

Something rustled in the trees. Dean didn't think twice before loosing an arrow upward, his eyes fixed on the spot above. A squirrel fell from the branches and landed in a tangle of roots. Dean managed a smile. Sammy would have a proper lunch today.

Dean didn't spend more than a few more hours beyond the fence, fishing in the stream and picking some berries for his brother. The kid liked rabbit food above meat for some unknowable reason. Dean didn't pretend to understand it, just picked the berries off the vine and moved on.

He managed to sell his wares at the market, trading for good, fresh bread and some salt. Ellen even gave him flask of quality ale for two of his fish. "Aww, you're too kind," he said with a wide grin.

The older woman rolled her eyes. "Out with you, Winchester."

"Yeah, out with you, Winchester!"

Dean grinned down at Jo. "Hey there, midget."

She stamped her foot indignantly. "My name's not midget, doofus." She reached out and gave him a hard shove against the shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards in surprise.

Ellen chuckled, the action smoothing the lines on her face. "That's my girl. Don't shove the customers, sweetie."

"But Mom!"

Jo wasn't really that small. Back when Dean first met her, however, she was tiny, like, shorter than Sam tiny. Her sass more than made up for anything she lacked in height. Dean could still remember her blonde pigtails sticking out from the sides of her head at strange angles, a bit of coal dust dotting the tip of her nose. She was older, now, certainly taller, and her punches hurt way more than they used to. Still, it amazed Dean how alive she could be when they lived in the darkest, poorest District of them all. How she could still smile on the day of the reaping. Good, little Jo.

She was twelve this year.

It hit him with a sudden jolt, his smile stuttering off of his face. Dean looked up at Ellen, and she could see the realization in his eyes. All good humor fell away, her face going grim. "Out with you, Winchester," she murmured softly.

Dean hesitated, then gave Ellen a nod and left the shop. There wasn't anything to say after that.

He'd barely made it two steps into the Hob when he heard Jo calling out for him. He turned and found himself with a skinny blonde growth, arms flung around his middle. "Jo…?"

"I just wanted to," she murmured. "Just in case."

Dean felt his heart drop deep into his stomach. "Oh, Jo." He set his wares down so he could wind his arms around her, smoothing back the hair from her face to try and ease the way she shook. All the while, Ellen watched them for the doorway. Dean pretended not to see the way her lip trembled, nor the tears that collected in the corners of her eyes.

Dean wanted to tell her it would be all right. He wanted to say Jo's name would never be drawn, not in a million years. But Dean saved the promises he couldn't keep for only one person in the whole world, and so he said nothing. Just hugged the younger girl close for a few, brief moments.

At last, Jo pulled away, wiping at her eyes. Dean tilted her chin up and tried for a smile. Something told him he failed when she giggled instead, but Dean would take anything over the crying. He ruffled her bangs and she laughed further, ducking away from his fingers.

"You be good, Jo," he told her.

She stared up at him with a smile too old for her. "Good luck, Dean. And tell Sam good luck, too."

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and picked up his things. "Of course." Giving one last wave to Ellen, he finally headed home. When he entered the threshold, he discovered Dad was awake at last. He wasn't so much up as he was propped against the wall and staring at the ceiling, but at least there was semi-consciousness involved.

Sam, of course, was quite busy completely ignoring their father, solemnly sitting at the kitchen table. If you were to ask Sam, he'd tell you he was being pensive. Dean would have to agree - those were his pensive and brooding shoulders. He was already in his outfit for the reaping, too, one of Dean's old shirts that seemed to hang off of him and pants hitched up high to keep from trailing on the ground. He looked like a five year old playing dress up.

It took all of Dean's willpower not to scream.

When Sam saw his brother in the doorway, he leaped out of his chair and raced to him, as if Dean had been gone for months instead of only a few hours. He started for a hug, then caught himself at the last minute. Instead, Sam started with the twenty questions. "What did you get today? You weren't caught, were you? Is that fish? Oh my gosh, is that bread? Did you remember to get the berries I like?"

"Calm yourself, there, squirt," Dean told him with a chuckle. All the grimness of the day had done nothing to slow down his brother's endlessly running mouth, it seemed. Nor did it soften his punches, and right where Jo had gotten him earlier, too. Dean glowered and rubbed at his forearm. "Hey, you could've waited until I put things down, Sammy!"

Sam crossed his arms over his chest with a huff. "I'm not a squirt. And it's Sam."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right. Sammy." He dodged another hit and maneuvered his way to the kitchen table. Dad at least hadn't opened any new bottles. He'd only left some of the old ones, unearthed them from the trash. He'd probably been looking for relief when he realized he'd drained all of his whiskey last night. At least he hadn't broken any of them after he discovered they were empty. Dean made a mental note to pick the bottles up after the reaping. Well. If there was an after the reaping.

He shook his head and started emptying his bag. Sam immediately snatched up one the strawberries, somehow managing to savor it in the span of ten seconds. He would make himself sick if he kept eating that fast, no matter how good he insisted those berries were for him. At least he hadn't gotten any juice on him in his haste. He managed to eat a slice of the bread more slowly, probably because Dean was at his side, circling him like one of Heaven's hovercrafts.

Satisfied that Sam had eaten, Dean looked to his father. John hadn't even acknowledged his presence, which meant he was either too sober to give a damn or too drunk to give a damn. Dean bit the inside of his cheek once again and moved over to the man. "Dad?" he tried. "Dad?"

John blinked, eyes caught on the cracks in the ceiling. Dean couldn't be sure if he was tracing the patterns or if he was looking for Mary. He'd put bets on the latter.

Another bite on the inside of his cheek, this time hard enough to draw blood. It was Sam's turn to be silent, counting the coins from Dean's stint in the Hob and pointedly ignoring what was happening right in front of him. It was sort of a Winchester tradition, after all.

"Dad, I need… I need you to go outside today. Just for a few hours. Okay?"

John said nothing, though Dean could see the tightening in his jaw.

"I know, Dad, I know, but it's just for today. You don't have to talk to anyone, you don't... you just have to come out." Dean would rather beg than see his father pulled from his home by the peacekeepers. There was no being gentle with a belligerent, depressed alcoholic, and there was no way anyone missed the reaping. "Dad, please?" he choked. "Please?"

John still said nothing.

Dean closed his eyes and blew out a shaky breath. He didn't want to, but if it was the only way… He reached at his hip for the flask from Ellen. "Look, you promise to go out, and you can have this."

Sam finally spoke up, loud and protesting, "Dean, you can't just – "

Dean ignored his brother. "All you have to do is go outside, and you can have this. It's the good stuff, Dad."

His father looked at him at last, and Dean tried not to cheer at that small response. He could not, however, hold back the broad, hopeful smile twisting on his lips.

"The good stuff?" John grunted. The first, real words he'd said to Dean in months.

"Yeah, Dad. The good stuff," Dean promised.

John looked to the flask and licked his lips hungrily. "Okay," he murmured. His hand was already itching forward.

Dean raised his arm up, pulling the flask out of his father's reach. "You have to go outside when I tell you, okay?"

John nodded quickly. No doubt he didn't have a clue to what he just agreed to, only that sweet, sweet salvation was involved. Dean sighed and lowered his arm. Within moments, John's fingers wound around the metal, snatching it out of Dean's hand. He hugged it close to his chest and began fumbling with the cap.

Dean swallowed back his bile, kept that smile plastered to his face. "Here, I can – "

His father glared up at him, a small growl escaping his lips. Dean held up his hands and backed away like he was dealing with skittish deer rather than a fully grown man.

A man who was supposed to have raised him and Sammy, who should've been sober and helping them prepare for what was coming, who should've been their father –

He squeezed his nails into his palms, deciding the inside of his cheek had had enough abuse. "Okay, Dad. Okay."

He held his tongue. Didn't argue, didn't fight, didn't ask stupid questions. That's what good sons did.

Sam was all but shouting his disapproval when Dean turned back to him. "Not now," Dean murmured hoarsely.

Sam pursed his lips, but gave a stiff nod. "Tub's all ready," he said. "I'll handle Dad."

Somehow Dean thought 'handle' was the wrong word for it, but he was too tired to argue. It was almost one o'clock, too. He had to hurry.

The water was still warm when Dean plunged into it. He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw, every last scrap of dirt scrubbed away. Couldn't show the truth to all those viewers at home, had to look pretty. Besides, what would that crazy Becky Rosen say if his name was called and he showed up looking like some hooligan?

"May the Lord smile down upon you," Dean muttered darkly.

Sam had laid out one of his father's old suits on the bed while he coaxed John into a nice button up. Dean could see his brother biting his tongue, could imagine the shouts he was holding back. He was grateful. Those two fighting wasn't something he particularly needed ever, and especially not today.

Dean felt like one of Heaven's performing monkeys in the suit, but whatever they wanted, they got. That's what happens when you kill out anyone else who could run the country, he supposed. You say what goes.

Sam crouched on the floor between Dean's knees, allowing his big brother to comb back his hair. Dean would've just taken scissors to it, but the kid insisted on that ridiculous mop. Whatever, it wasn't Dean's head. He only thought it might be easier for Sam to see without his bangs constantly flopping in his eyes.

"What if it's me?" Sam said suddenly.

Dean's hands tightened fiercely on his brother's head. "It won't be."

"But what if – "

"It won't be," Dean snapped. "It wasn't you last year, so – "

Sam just wouldn't drop the subject. "But that doesn't affect the chances that it could be – "

"It. Won't. Be."

They gave up on the pretense of working on Sam's hair. The boy turned around and blinked solemnly up at his big brother. "But what if – "

Dean grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "It's not gonna be you, Sammy! It's just – it's not!"

Sam trembled in his brother's hands. "Dean – "

"My name's in there way more than yours, so if it's gonna be anyone, it's gonna be me! Not you! Me!"

"Dean, please, you're hurting me – "

He pulled away from Sam like the touch burned him, nearly falling out of his chair in his scrambling backwards. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry, I – "

It was Sam's turn to shush him as he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his big brother. He still quivered, but it was hard to notice when Dean shook just as fiercely. "I'm the one who's sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I forgot. I forgot you were - I'm sorry."

Dean shuddered and clutched Sammy closer, burying his nose in his impossible hair as the boy continued to whisper apologies. If either one of them was crying, no one said a word about it. They simply knelt on the hardwood floor, rocking slightly in each other's arms until the bells sounded.

It was time.

Dean's eyes squeezed shut and he took shaky breaths. "They won't call your name," he whispered desperately.

"I know," Sam soothed. "And they won't call yours."

Dean managed a soft snort. "I know," he lied.

They pulled away from each other, gathering themselves. Dean quickly combed his hair to the side while Sam pulled Dad to his feet, taking the already empty flask away from him and promising to give it back after he went outside. "Just a few hours, Dad. Remember you promised. Come on. Come on, Dad."

They fell into line with everyone else as they enter the square. All the shops were closed today, even Ellen's Roadhouse. Everyone wanted a drink, but they would simply have to wait until the 'celebration' this evening. Dean almost wished he'd thought to take a sip from the flask before he handed it off to his father. Then again, he might've thrown it right back up. He's never in his right mind during the reaping for obvious reasons.

His eyes searched out his brother at his side. Sam was pale, but he had his head held high and his eyes betrayed nothing. Good boy. Before they were separated into their different age groups, Dean reached out and grabbed his brother's hand. He could feel how sweaty the palm was. He gave it a firm squeeze, Sam gripping back just as fiercely. The peacekeepers glared at him, and their hands fell apart.

There would be time later.

Please let there be time later.

The cameras panned across the crowd, catching every single solemn face. The older kids up front, the young ones in the back. Even Dad managed to look grim, despite that he couldn't stand without Ellen holding up at his side. Dean was grateful for the barkeep, able to take care of his father even when Jo stood short in the back, braided pigtails and too young, far too young to die.

Dean had to look away, turning his attention to the front. It's two o'clock. The ceremony would start.

The mayor read the same story he did every year, telling how lost and destroyed their country was until Heaven and its angels descended. They weren't really angels, of course, but the advanced technology could make them look it. Mechanized wings attached to the spine, a permanent glow injected to the skin. You could have anything and everything in Heaven. It was a true Paradise.

The rest of the country, of course, really wasn't. How could it be, when they all had to pay for the sins of their forefathers, the rebels that resisted Heaven's 'helping hands'? All thirteen Districts became overrun by rebels, demons, or so Heaven insisted on calling them. It was a fierce battle, order versus chaos. Order won, here they were.

There were only twelve Districts, now, the thirteenth declared a barren wasteland. "And he called out with a mighty voice," the mayor tremulously read from his card, "'Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great! She has become a dwelling place for demons, a haunt for every unclean spirit, a haunt for every unclean bird, a haunt for every unclean and detestable beast.'" (Revelation 18:2)

That was why they had to reap the children, one boy and girl per District, and send them off to slaughter each other in the wilderness. It was reminder of the war that brought their country together, and the victor a symbol of the strength of order.

A reminder that they were only animals compared to Heaven's might, and the victor a broken shell of a human being from the horrors he'd witnessed and brought unto others.

The mayor quietly sat back down in his seat, head hung in his hands. His daughter was in the reaping, Dean remembered. Her fifth year.

Dean angrily thought that at least she didn't have to draw for any tesserae, but he banished the thought as quickly as it came. It wasn't her fault, after all, that the system was so corrupt. There wasn't anyone you could blame, unless you wanted a beating for your trouble.

They tried to make Rufus Turner take the stand, but as usual, he refused. In all seventy four years of the Hunger Games, he was the only member from District 12 to have come out a victor. A sour-faced old coot, he never said a word unless he had to. Not even Heaven could get him to speak. He had no family to threaten and he clearly would've welcomed death should they offer it. His punishment for his silence, it seemed, was his continued existence.

Without Rufus' speech, it was Becky Rosen's cue. Perky as ever, she practically skipped her way to the microphone. Pink must have been all the rage in Heaven if her outfit was anything to go by, a garish, neon color that did not go well with her skin tone. Her cotton candy poof was an obvious wig, a few strands of straight, blonde hair peeking out at the sides of her head. She wasn't one of the higher ups in Heaven, just one of their disposable dolls all too happy to send children off to their death for entertainment. She didn't have to look absolutely perfect.

"Hello, everybody!" She waved excitedly at the crowd, as if they would wave back. No one moved. No one even smiled. Becky, however, was determined to make this the best Hunger Games ever. She always was. "Happy Hunger Games! May the Lord smile down upon you!" She giggled like a schoolgirl and pressed her palms together. "Let us pray!"

The crowd bowed their head and began murmuring in Latin. No one really understood what it meant, but still they had to say it. It was what was expected of them, what they'd done since the very first Hunger Games all those years ago.

It wasn't their real prayers, of course. Everyone simply wished, "Not my son. Not my daughter. Not my sister. Not my brother. Not me. Please, not me."

When they were finished, Becky applauded them. "Now! Let's see what we have here, shall we? Ladies first!"

Her hand dove into the bowl on the left. Dean wasn't quite done with his prayer, closing his eyes and hoping desperately it wouldn't be Jo. None of the twelve year olds, not while they could still live another year…

"Lisa Braeden!" Becky shouted. "Lisa Braeden, please come to the stage!"

The mayor gave a choked cry on the stage, clapping his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Dean felt guilt and relief twisting like a snake in his stomach.

The crowd turned to the seventeen year old girls and waited. They watched as Lisa stepped away from the rest of them, her olive skin pale and her hands visibly shaking at her sides. She did not stop to fiddle with the thick black braids atop her head, nor did she try to run for it. Maybe she knew it was pointless, but from the way she jutted her chin forward, Dean would bet it was a matter of pride. Girl was stronger than she looked. Dean had seen her at school, the way she smiled at everyone, no matter if their mother was the baker or their father another coalminer. She was sweet, nice, genuine.

Dean couldn't decide if he hoped she'd last or die quickly.

"Now it's time for the boys!" Becky sang. She was never quiet, never said anything without an exclamation point at the end.

Dean's mouth went dry as she went to the second bowl. One hand dove into the glass, searching through a sea of names carefully handwritten on a hundred slips of paper.

Not him, please, please, not him…

And for the first time in his whole life, his prayer was answered. It just happened to be the wrong prayer.

"Samuel Winchester!"