A/N

So me and Olivia have been writing this for a while. It was supposed to be finished a month or two ago, but we were both busy and had some more plot points to cover. Add that to the fact that we're both lazy as hell and get distracted easily, it takes a while. But it's here!

We'll be writing our other fic Seventh Period is Band and incipient alongside each other and alternate chapter updates (SPiB, inicipient, Spib, incipient, etc.)

Sorry that the updates will be a bit spotty, but in addition to these two fics, we both have independent projects of our own, and sometimes life gets in the way, too.

Enjoy!

Dean opens his eyes, immediately wincing in the sunlight streaming through his window. He blinks a few times, sitting up slowly. Sam's not sleeping on his bed, so he's probably either eating breakfast or he's already gone off to do whatever he does all day. Shrugging, Dean stands, grimacing at the twinge in his muscles as he does.

Ever since he was 16, Dean has had to work full time instead of in shifts, which means hauling lumber around after it's been cut down. He's been handling axes his whole life, but when he turned 17, they switched him to carrying duty for some reason instead. He hates it, always coming home with sore muscles and splinters. At least he lives in the Victors' Village, so he doesn't have to sleep on cheap, hard beds like most people in District 7 do.

Dean catches a whiff of something that definitely smells like breakfast, and he heads into the kitchen, rolling his shoulders and scratching at his belly.

Sam looks up at the sound of Dean's feet padding on the ground, and nods at him, face grim. Dean pauses mid-step. For a few moments there's complete silence, save for the sound of the tines of Sam's fork pushing around an untouched strip of bacon.

Sam speaks first, with a dry laugh in the back of his throat, "At least you don't have to go to work today."

Dean sits down heavily across the table from his brother, "At least."

The tense quiet returns. Dad's not here, Dean notes. He probably left to who-knows-where a few hours ago, if he'd managed to drag himself out of bed by then.

A ready-made platter of breakfast sits on the table between them, with fruit and toast and bacon and more that smells absolutely mouth-watering. Too good for any of them to have cooked it, by far. Sam nods towards the food. "Ellen," he explains. He clears his throat, "She dropped by this morning. She, uh, she wished us good luck."

And, oddly, that's when it hits him. Today's the Reaping. His last Reaping.

Today is the Reaping for 50th Annual Hunger Games, the 2nd Quarter Quell, the great celebration of the Capitol's might.

Dean's shoulders sag and he wonders if he should say something, maybe an inspiring brother-to-brother talk about how 'everything will okay' and other crap. He doesn't get the chance to when Sam pushes his plate away, glancing up at the time as he does so. Dean woke up late, because it's already 10 o'clock. According to some quick calculations, that leaves them about 4 hours until they're required to be at the Town Square. He follows his little brother with his eyes as he stands up, "I'm going out," Sam announces.

Dean's eyes narrow. It's his brother's third year to be eligible for the Games, but this time seems much tenser than the last. He sighs, running a hand through his hair agitatedly, "Yeah, man. Sure. Be back … be back soon."

Sam nods stiffly without looking at him, the front door closing with a bang, letting in a gust of freezing air as it does.

Dean stares at his empty plate. The Victor's Tour had only been, what, 2 months ago? They'd announced the Quarter Quell event last week, plus the exciting new development that had followed, proudly announced by the probably immortal President Snow.

He should probably find Sam, or Dad, or Bobby, or anybody, really, but all he feels like doing is pulling a blanket over his head and sleeping for about a million years.

He pushes his plate away, resigned to the fact that he isn't eating anytime soon. He stands, shivering in the air that Sam had let in. Nothing will be achieved in just moping around, and what may or may not be his last hours in District 7 can be spent doing something… useful.

He goes back to his room to throw on a black short-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans, shoving his arms through his favorite leather jacket with probably a bit more force than necessary. He turns up the collar as he opens the front door, inhaling sharply at the cold. He deftly sidesteps the black ice just beyond the threshold, door swinging shut behind him. Snow crunches underneath his boots, marred by sets of footprints that lead in different directions. He begins to walk, kicking up slush with every step.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, he finds himself in front of a familiar door.

He lets out a huff of air, grateful that the lights are on inside the mansion. He doesn't bother knocking as he wipes his boots on the doormat, pulling the spare key from behind one of the flower pots. The metal is cold in his fingers, and he drops it hastily back into its hiding place after he finishes twisting it in the lock. Bobby has been paranoid since his games 30 something years ago, not that Dean can blame him.

The door gives a low creak as he opens it. "Bobby?" he calls out as he toes off his boots. The house is cluttered as usual, filled with countless objects collected over the years. Dean clears a small space on the island in the kitchen as he sits down, leaning on his elbows as he glances farther into the house. "Bobby? You here?"

Dean hears scuffling from down the hall, followed by a rough voice, "Dean?"

Dean lets out a dry laugh, "Yep. It's me."

The kitchen is almost bare, stocked with just enough to live on for only a few weeks. Unlike Dean's father, Bobby has never been one to hoard as much food as he could get, despite having far more than the average District 7 citizen.

Bobby joins him only a few minutes later, clad in his usual plaid button down and scuffed jeans, cap perched on his head. He eyes Dean as he rips open a pack of oatmeal, emptying it into a bowl. He cuts right to the point, "Last year, huh?"

Bobby's never been one for coddling and beating around the bush. Dean cracks a small smile and looks down, "Yeah."

Bobby tears open another package, and grabs another bowl, glancing over his shoulder at Dean, "How many times are you in?"

Dean shrugs, avoiding Bobby's eyes, "19, this year."

Bobby pours milk into the bowls and then shoves them into the microwave, setting the timer for one minute. "Idjit," he murmurs. He looks back at Dean, "Told anyone yet?"

Dean licks his lips, "Just you. Dad and Sam would flip."

Bobby sighs, "And you don't think they'll find out?"

"When they find out I'll either be done with the Games or in the Capitol, so I don't think it really matters anymore, does it?"

Bobby shrugs as the microwave dings. He plops a spoon in each and hands one bowl to Dean over the counter. The bowl is scalding and he sets it down quickly. Steam curls up from the slush as he swirls the spoon in it. He looks up as Bobby speaks, "They're gonna try and get you in this year. The Capitol's greedy like that."

Dean laughs bitterly, "It wouldn't be the first time they've rigged it, right?"

Bobby stares at him, "Getting three generations of Victors in one family isn't a chance they get often, is it?" Dean shakes his head, but Bobby speaks before he can, "You're giving them too many of those chances, boy."

"Too late now, anyway."

Bobby shakes his head, biting into his oatmeal. "Too late now," he agrees absently. "Eat."

Dean eats, wincing at the burn that comes along with it.

After a few minutes of companionable silence broken only by the faint clinking of spoons on ceramic, Bobby asks, "Where's your brother?"

Dean shrugs, "Don't know. Said he was going out this morning. Haven't seen him since."

"And John?"

"He was gone when I woke up."

Bobby sets down his empty bowl, beckoning for Dean to give him his. Dean does, slouching over the table. He glances up at the clock mounted on the wall. His heart sinks as he sees the time, "Should you be getting ready now, Bobby?"

Bobby follows his eyes. His eyebrows lift when he sees the time, "12 already?"

"Time sure flies when you're having fun."

Bobby glances at him sharply. "You'd best be gathering your brother now."

Dean runs a hand through his hair, "Yeah…I'll...I'll go get him."

He stands up shakily, squaring his shoulders. Bobby holds the door open for him after he tugs on his boots. "Good luck. Be seeing you soon."

Dean nods, "You too."

It's warmer than when he left the house this morning, but it's still chilly enough to earn a violent shiver. The snow has begun to melt, coating the ground with a sheen of slushy water. Dean glances at his house as he walks by, toying with the possibility that Sam has already returned. He shakes his head. If he knows his brother at all, he knows that Sam will keep off returning for as long as possible.

A rush of air leaves him as he walks under the gate that separates the Victor's Village from the rest of District 7. Even though he's lived there all his life, he's always felt caged in and stuffy at the Village. It's not that he's ungrateful for the luxuries that come with being the child of a Victor, but District 7 beyond the Village's gate had always felt more like a home to Dean than the mansion ever did. It's not like he deserved his huge house more than anyone else deserved their smaller ones.

Sam's footsteps have been mostly covered over by the snow, shallow indentations the only sign he'd ever been there. However, Dean doesn't need to follow them to know wherever Sam is going.

The Fence that surrounds District 7 is over twelve feet tall, topped with coils of barbed wire. The faint buzz of electricity that crackles around the Fence has only ever been silenced three times in Dean's lifetime, each time lasting for about two weeks, during which the fence was guarded heavily by Peacekeepers. The trees that stretch beyond District 7 are lush and tall, waiting to be cut down every 5 years when they expand District 7's borders.

Sam is leaning against a boulder when Dean finds him, tossing a stone from one hand to the other. He's shivering where he sits, shoulders hunched in a last ditch effort to keep himself smaller and protected against the cold.

Dean falls down beside him. "Damn, Sammy. You been out here this whole time?"

Sam glares at him out of the corner of his eye, "No. An hour, maybe."

"Well, you're obviously freezing to death anyway."

"Am not. I'm just a little … cold."

Dean laughs, shrugging off his jacket. He shivers at the barrage of cold air that hits his bare arms. He holds the jacket out to Sam, "You want this?"

"No," Sam eyes him. "Put that back on. You're going to get frostbite and lose a limb, then you won't be able to work anymore."

"Ditto," Dean says, and drapes it over Sam's shoulders, ignoring the dirty look his brother sends him.

Dean wraps his arms around himself, pulling his knees up to his chest. The wet snow clings stubbornly to his legs, turning into a cold, wet spot on his jeans. Silence falls between the two, save for the hum of the Fence and the soft thud as Sam tosses the stone from hand to hand. Dean tries, unsuccessfully, to stop his teeth from audibly chattering.

Without warning, Sam rears his arm back, chucking the stone through the air. It hits the Fence with a crack, blue fingers of electricity spreading across the smooth surface. It falls back onto the snow with a faint thump. Sam slumps against Dean, "God … it's just … it's just so unfair, isn't it? All of this Capitol BS." He pushes his bangs from his forehead irately, glaring at the ground.

Dean stares at him, "Sam-"

"No. Just…shut up, Dean. Shut up. All of this is so, so stupid and wrong. They shove a bunch of kids in an arena and make them fight to the death…I hate it." Sam sits up and turns towards Dean, his eyes bright with an idea. "I want to stop it, Dean. I wanna tear it all down, free everybody."

Dean clears his throat, looking away from his brother, "We should, uh, we need to start getting ready."

Sam sighs, slumping, before moving to sit on his knees. "Yeah…you're right. We need to leave." He stands, looking down at Dean. He holds out Dean's jacket. "Take it."

Dean does, using the boulder to help himself to his feet. He pushes his arms through the sleeves. He looks at Sam, "C'mon then. We don't have much time."

The silence between them is tense as they make their way back to their house. Ellen's feast has disappeared, and Dad isn't back by the time they arrive, not like Dean was really expecting him to be.

There's a new suit on his bed when he gets back into his room. It's freshly ironed, one of those classic black-and-white styles that are rare in the Districts and loved by the Capitol. He doesn't allow himself much time to wonder about how it came to be there as the sound of water hitting tile came across the house. Dean glances at the time. 12:43. Sam would have to hurry if Dean wants to get in the shower before they have to leave.

With nothing to do before a shower, Dean takes to just wandering around the house, his clothes drying quickly in the blessed heating. It's always a surreal feeling right before a Reaping, just knowing that this could, possibly, be the last time you walk around your own house surrounded by your own belongings.

The shower stops just before 1 o'clock, and Dean lets out a quick sigh of relief as he rushes into the bathroom. It's always been annoying that the mansion only has one bathroom, but seeing as it is always filled with warm water, it seems like a good compromise. He strips and showers quickly, not allowing himself more time than he needs. He towels himself down in the bathroom and rushes to his room, where the suit still lays.

The suit fits him well, better than he expected it to, honestly. The shirt feels starchy on his skin, which would probably be annoying later. The pants are an inch longer than they should be, but that's fixed quickly with a needle and some string. However, the dark jacket pinches everywhere, so he ditches that for his familiar leather one. He pushes his wet hair from one side to the other with a brush before just giving up and ruffling it through his fingers until it looks somewhat decent. He pulls on the same pair of shoes he wears for every Reaping, and goes out into the hallway.

Sam's already done when Dean leaves his room, toeing at the thick carpet sullenly. He looks up at the sound of Dean's footsteps, "Dean. You ready?"

Unlike Dean, Sam looks impeccable. His own suit fits him better than Dean's does, better than it has in the years before, anyway. Unlike his brother, he's wearing the complete outfit, and if it makes him uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. His hair is swept just above his eyes instead of in them, which he must have achieved by some kind of miracle work.

Dean stuffs his hands into his pant pockets, "Yeah. Good to go."

"Good."

They don't talk as they leave the house. It's warmer, much warmer than before, the sun high in a cloudless sky. Despite the cool air, Dean's shirt begins to feel sticky and hot against his skin, and he shifts uncomfortably. Sam glances up at him curiously. Dean shakes his head, "Nothing. It's fine."

Sam shrugs as the sounds of voices get louder as they approach the Town Square. Citizens of District 7 are milling and rushing around while Peacekeepers look on, weapons secure in their grip. Sam and Dean manage to fall into a quick moving line of other teenagers that leads to a table draped in white cloth. Four people in Capitol-issued uniforms sit behind it, barely looking up as they take and categorize samples of blood. Dean sighs.

Sam reaches the table before him, shoulders stiffening as the blonde Capitol worker takes his hand and slices a shallow line into the pad of his thumb. Dean watches as the woman presses the wound against the reader, releasing him as soon as it beeps. Dean repeats the process and goes to join his brother.

The crowd pulls them along to the center of the Town Square, where it then begins to disperse as teenagers are shuffled into their designated areas. Dean pauses, looking over at his brother. Sam glances over his shoulder at him, "Dean-?"

Dean grabs him roughly by the shoulders and pulls him out of the crowd. Sam yelps in surprise, causing a few Peacekeepers to turn in their direction before Dean shoves them both out of sight.

Sam escapes from Dean's grip as soon as they enter the shadows. "What the hell was that?"

Dean's mouth goes dry as he looks Sam over. Sam raises an eyebrow, "Dean?"

Dean takes a raggedy breath. "Sammy, you gotta promise me something."

Sam's eyebrows furrow, "Dean? You okay?"

Dean shakes his head, "Sam, look, alright. You gotta listen to me."

"I'm listening, Dean."

"If my name gets drawn, you have to promise not to volunteer in my place."

"Dean!"

"No, Sammy, hear me out." He levels Sam with a glare, "If I get Reaped, you have to promise me that you won't volunteer in my place, alright?"

Sam shakes his head, "Dean, I can't-"

Dean groans in frustration, "Come on, Sammy! Promise me you won't volunteer in my place."

Two Peacekeepers round the corner before Sam can sputter out an answer. Dean tries to push Sam and himself deeper into the shadows, but the Peacekeepers spot them before he can. It's impossible to read their faces under the dark masks, but their anger is clearly evident by the sharp inclines of their heads and quickening steps.

Knowing they only have a few moments before the Peacekeepers reach them, Dean turns back to Sam. "Promise!"

White gloves clamp over Dean's upper arm, pulling him away from his brother with a grip like steel. The other Peacekeeper grabs Sam, almost lifting him off the ground as he tries to struggle. As the Peacekeepers drag them off to their separate sections, Sam calls out, "Damn it, Dean! I promise!"

Dean relaxes as he's dropped off into the 18-year-old male area, ignoring the weird looks he receives from the people around him. He's technically not 18 yet, but with the new Quarter Quell arrangement, everyone's been moved up a year. People continue to crowd into the section as two o'clock rolls closer. Dean's glad he's not claustrophobic, but the complete lack of space would be enough to make anyone uncomfortable. He cranes his neck to try and spot his little brother, but gives up when it proves impossible to see over the solid wall of people.

Dean holds back a wince as the Capitol's theme starts to blare over the speakers, forcing a hush to come over the crowd. On stage, a line of people begin to walk on stage, flanked by a group of Peacekeepers. Most of the line look grim, lips tight and shoulders set. The former District 7 Victors drop into their seats as the theme comes to a close. Dean tries but fails to meet his father's eyes as the Mayor stands to give the generic speech he gives every year, one that most of the audience could probably recite by heart.

Dean looks down momentarily as their Mayor steps aside, mentally preparing himself for the headache-inducing Escort of District 7.

"Helloooo!" Gabe saunters up to the microphone, this year's gold outfit glinting in the sun. Dean blinks to get rid of the spots it causes in his vision as Gabe grins around his ever-present lollipop. For a Capitol citizen, Gabe's appearance is almost natural. Brown hair falls around his ears, almost reaching his shoulders. He has an easy smile, handsome in a childish kind of way.

In a way, Dean should be grateful that Gabe's color scheme never changes. It's a bit of a relief that he doesn't show up with green or red dyed skin every other year. Instead, every Reaping, Gabe continues to flaunt his obsession with gold.

This year he's sporting an all gold suit that glitters whenever he moves. A huge golden collar rises a foot over his head, fanning out behind him. Dean once heard a rumor that his eyes are implanted with thin disks of gold, which he can whole-heartedly believe in,

Gabe looks out onto the crowd, bright with excitement. He speaks around the lollipop, "Another year, another Games, ay folks?" He doesn't seem fazed when he receives no reaction. "Ooh, but no, not another game, is it? It's a Quarter Quell!"

Dead silence.

Gabe sucks at his lollipop before speaking again, "Which means that anyone Reaped today isn't just lucky, they're double lucky! Because you not only get to go to the Capitol, you get to stay there! For six glorious months! Woo hoo for that!"

No one woo hoos. Dean sighs.

Gabe winks at the nearest camera, "On that note, let's get this party started! As always, ladies first!"

Dean feels the tension rise in the air as Gabe reaches for the Reaping Bowl on his right, filled to the brim with slips of paper. The microphone picks up the faint sound of Gabe's hand ruffling through the paper. Everyone leans forward as he grabs a name, "Lucky tribute Número Uno is a gal by the name…Cassandra Robinson!"

Dean's stomach drops as the girls in Cassie's section begin to shuffle around. He and Cassie aren't close, not really, anyway. They'd had a thing a couple years back, but they'd broken it off since then. Still, it aches to see her shuffle up to the stage, curly hair tied back, light blue dress fluttering around her ankles. Gabe smiles at her, "Alrighty! Nice to meet ya, Cassie!"

Cassie nods at him, eyes wide. After a half-hearted smattering of applause, Gabe turns back to the bowl, "Okay, then. Moving on." He rifles the paper around the bowl. He grabs one, and everyone in the audience goes tense. Gabe raises his eyebrow as he reads the name, "Next lucky tribute is…Joanna Harvelle!"

On stage, Dean can see Ellen gasp. His hands clench into fists as the crowd applauses, slower and softer than before. He stares holes into the ground, gaze flitting up to watch Jo climb up the steps, small against the giant screens and the Peacekeepers. Dean may be looking too closely, but Gabe's smile seems to falter slightly as Jo takes her place next to Cassie, blonde hair falling in her face as she stares at the floorboards under her feet.

Anger rises in his chest. She's only twelve, for god's sake.

Gabe clears his throat, "Alrighty. On to the guys, then."

Dean's back straightens as he looks ahead, following Gabe with his eyes as he reaches to the other Reaping Bowl. He plunges his hand into the names, shuffling through them for a moment before pulling one out. Everyone around Dean stops moving as Gabe glances up at the crowd with an easy smile. "Huh. Our next Quarter Quell player is our dear ol'…Samuel Winchester!"

Dean's heart stops.

People start moving a few rows ahead of him, and it's only then that Dean can actually see his little brother. The people surrounding Sam lean away from him, while Sam himself seems frozen in place. After a moment he seems to regain his bearings. His shoulders straighten as people clear a path for him.

Dean's fists clench in his jacket as he stares at Sam's retreating form. The guy standing next to him, Tim or Tom or something equally as dumb, glances at him nervously as he begins to move, "Hey-"

Dean shoulders his way roughly past him, pushing his way into the center path. Sam is halfway to the stage when Dean calls out, "Wait!"

Sam pauses mid-step, looking back to see Dean. Dean swallows harshly, can feel rather than see the Peacekeepers coming up behind him. "I volunteer!"

Sam's eyes widen. "Dean!"

Dean shakes his head as the Peacekeepers reach him, pressing in close at his sides. "I volunteer as tribute!"

"No!"

The Peacekeepers step away from Dean. He meets his little brother's eyes. "Sammy, get back in line," he says with as much force as he can muster.

Sam shakes his head hard, "Stop it, Dean. You can't volunteer. Not for me."

"Well, looks like I just did," Dean hisses. "Now get out of here."

"Dean-" Sam starts desperately, but is forcefully cut off by the Peacekeepers who had been surrounding Dean. They haul Sam away as Gabe wolf whistles at the microphone, "A volunteer! Isn't that fun! Get on up here, then!"

Dean tears his eyes away from Sam to glare at the Escort. He balls up his hands and takes a step forward.

He's in the Hunger Games.

He lifts his chin, steeling the set of his shoulders and hardening his gaze.

He's in the Quarter Quell.

The wooden steps creak under his shoes, and he's thankful he makes it to the top without tripping.

He's gotta act like it.

Gabe claps him amiably on the shoulder as Dean stops to stand next to Cassie. From this close up, he can indeed tell that Gabe's eyes glint an unnatural shade of gold. Dean wonders fleetingly if they hurt. Gabe speaks to Dean around the lollipop in his mouth, "Now, what's your name, kiddo?"

"Dean," Dean says, finding the nearest camera and speaking directly into it. "Dean Winchester."

"Ah," Gabe says. He points to Sam's section. "And I'm guessing that was baby bro?"

Dean nods stiffly, "Yes."

Gabe laughs, "Well, good seeing you up here. Can already tell you'll be bundles of fun!" He holds his hands out to the audience. "Can I get a round of applause from you lovely folks?"

No one in the audience moves, and silence is thick in the air. Dean jumps when one person begins clapping from behind him, slow and steady. He turns, breath catching in his throat when he meets his father's eyes for the first time that day. John nods once to him as other people catch on, beginning to applaud with vigor.

As the clapping begins to die down, Gabe exclaims, "Alright! Now that's what I'm talking about!" He points finger guns at Dean, "Thanks, buddy."

Dean stares at him blankly as Gabe turns back to the bowl. Cassie shifts next to him, her hand drifting close to his. Dean balls his fists as Gabe opens the last name.

"Our last tribute is…" he stops, staring at the paper. Dean subconsciously leans forward as the silence stretches out. Gabe switches the paper to his other hand, pulling out his lollipop from his mouth with an audible pop.

There's a murmur from the crowd, and Dean lifts his eyebrows. The last time he saw Gabe take out his lollipop was, well, never.

Gabe beckons to the nearest Peacekeeper, who starts in surprise before walking forward. Dean shifts from one foot to the other anxiously as Gabe steps away from the microphone to converse with the Peacekeeper in low tones. Gabe gestures a lot when he talks, but Dean's only able to pick out a hissed, "Am I reading this right?" and "Anything can happen in a Quell, I guess," before the Peacekeeper nods respectfully at the Escort and resumes his former spot. The crowd's whispering dies down as everyone waits with bated breath.

Gabe puts the lollipop back in his mouth and grabs the microphone, "Samuel Winchester."

The entire crowd begins to move at once, people talking and jostling each other as they try to catch a glimpse of Sam. Dean scans the crowd, breath hitching in his throat. "Somebody better fucking volunteer," he whispers.

Cassie and Jo gape at Dean, and even Gabe turns to look at him, gaze almost apologetic. Dean ignores them all as he tries to see Sam, who's found himself at the center of a heaving mass of people. Behind him, he hears his father say, "Now, wait a minute." When Dean turns back around to look, Dad is risen half-out of his chair, hand outstretched. Bobby is standing behind him, keeping him from moving with a firm grip on his shoulder. Dean turns to stare out desperately, willing someone to come forward in Sam's place, but no one does.

Peacekeepers begin to move, keeping the crowd contained as Sam finally makes his way onto the center path. They flank him closely, gloved hands wrapped around his arms as they all but drag him on stage. Sam doesn't meet Dean's eyes as he finally makes his way next to him. Below them, Peacekeepers work to stop people from full-out rioting, batons raised. Sam opens his mouth and steps forward, hands out as if to stop the fighting.

Dean catches him hurriedly by the elbow as Gabe shouts, "Uh, that's it, folks. Let's have it for this year's tributes! Or not, you know," he adds as the Peacekeepers hastily usher everyone off the stage.

The sounds of outside disappear as heavy wooden doors shut, effectively cutting them off from the rest of District 7. "No!" Sam cries before everyone's being pulled in different directions and Dean finds himself alone in an empty room.

He stands in disbelief, staring at the doors that slammed in his face. He stumbles backward, collapsing on the plush green couch, much better than anything he had at home. He puts his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair agitatedly. "No, no, no," he mutters.

His fists curl against his forehead, and he stares at the carpet, anger and despair brewing in his chest. He gets to his feet shakily, swaying where he stands. He growls at nothing in particular, and is almost surprised to feel a sharp burst of pain in his knuckles. The side table next to him is destroyed, pieces of wood flying in all directions as Dean slams his fist through it.

He swallows heavily, forcibly attempting to bring himself down from the fit of anger, the need to hurt something. "Fuck," he breathes.

He looks up as the doors open, closing with a bang after someone slips inside them. Dean feels drained. "Dad."

His father looks unimpressed at the shattered table, concern visible when he sees the blood on Dean's hand. Dean holds it close to him, wiping the blood on his leather sleeve and refusing to wince as the splinters dig themselves deeper into his skin. John starts, "Dean-"

"I'm sorry, Dad," all of a sudden Dean is babbling, "I don't regret volunteering for Sam but I guess it's for nothing, right? Because Sam got called anyway and I couldn't do anything to stop that and I'm so, so sorry Dad, I'm-"

"Dean," John stops him, and Dean immediately shuts up. John sits down on the couch, and after a moment, Dean joins him. "You did well, volunteering for your brother."

Dean slumps in relief, "Yeah, Dad, but-"

"That golden son of a bitch called him anyway."

"Yeah."

John looks over at him, eyes hard. "You've gotta get Sam out of that arena alive. I don't care what you have to do, but you get him home."

Dean clenches his jaw to keep from trembling, and nods jerkily. "I will," he mumbles, and knows what it means for him.

John nods his approval, and claps Dean on the back, standing as he does so. "I know you will," he says as he leaves.

A few moments later, someone else comes in, and Dean knows it's Bobby just from the uneven gait across the floor. "Hey, Bobby," he greets without looking up.

"I don't know what fool notions you have in your head, boy," Bobby starts without preamble, "but no matter what your dad says, you need to try to make it home. I know you'll be looking out for your brother in that arena, but if something happens that you can't stop, you've gotta try to get home."

Dean looks up at him, then. "Nothing's gonna happen to Sam. I won't let anything happen to him."

Bobby frowns at him. "You can't promise that. Anything can happen in the arena."

Dean shakes his head vigorously. "I can protect my little brother," he insists.

The grizzled old Victor sighs, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I don't doubt you can, boy, but you shouldn't have to give your life away so that you can finally think your old man's proud of you."

Dean turns to glare at Bobby, and receives a pitying look in return. With a scowl, he shrugs off Bobby's hand and gets to his feet. "I should prepare to get on the train," he mutters.

Bobby sighs again, and shifts awkwardly on his bad leg. "I'll be right there with you every step of the way, Dean. Well, probably not every step, because you walk a bit faster than me, but most steps, sure. You just know that, however this turns out, that I'm proud of you." With that, Bobby exits the room, and his words leave a new determination in Dean.

He'll get them out of this no matter what. Both of them. He'll find a way. A plan begins to formulate in his mind, and then all that's left to do is wait.

After what feels like an eternity, some Peacekeepers come to collect Dean. With a sound much like a roar, he throws himself at them, trying to aim for their arms to grab their weapons. He's doing pretty well, he thinks, fending off one of them with a weapon taken from the other, but then he makes the mistake of turning his back towards the one who he'd taken the weapon from. He feels an electric shock shoot through his body, lighting up his nerves. It must only last a few seconds, but Dean feels it as if in slow motion, especially as the Peacekeeper's baton slips from his slack fingers and he starts tipping over.

He's out before he hits the ground.