For the first time in seven long years, Dean didn't have a nightmare the night before the reaping. He was nineteen and he was safe. He had joked to himself over the years that there was an angel watching out for him to keep him out of the Games. He didn't know exactly how many times his name had been put in that giant fishbowl, but he knew it was more than enough to put the odds out of his favor.
John Winchester was taking a long draught out of a jug that Dean only saw a few times a year: The day of the reaping, his mother's birthday, and the anniversary of her death. "Dad, isn't it a little early for that?" it didn't matter how many years he said it, his father always started reaping day with that jug. "Please put it away, Sam won't want to see that."
A thunking noise heralded his brother's arrival into the kitchen. At fifteen he was already a mammoth, and still growing. It was useful at work, but in their little home, his coming was often preceded by the sound of his skull accidentally banging against support beams. "Good morning," he said, the smile on his face a grimace.
"Morning," their father mumbled, discreetly shoving the bottle a little further under the counter with his leg. The day old bread on the table served as breakfast. Dean almost smirked at the feast they would enjoy when they got home; he'd stolen a few eggs from the neighbors five doors down. He had almost stolen a chicken, but thought better of it. Another boy at school caught stealing had been flogged. Sam wolfed through a piece of bread and hungrily reached for a second. "Slow down there son," John said with a ghost of a smile, "make yourself sick eating that fast."
"Don't be such a moose," Dean added, playfully punching his brother.
"I think you mean a pig," Sam said punching him back.
"Nah, you're too tall for that." After breakfast, Dean threw on his shirt with the least number of oil stains. Being a mechanic for the different machines in the fields and the town had its disadvantages; he'd always been a wiz with machines though. Sam straightened his crisp, clean, plaid shirt with a smile.
"I look more like a district seven lumberjack in this," he half complained.
"Sam," their father came back dressed in one of his serviceable work shirts, "I have something for you." He held out the silver chain to his younger son.
"Mom's locket." It was spotless, one of the last things the family had of hers. The frail chain wouldn't fit around his neck, he didn't even try. Sam slid it into his pocket.
"We might not be able to stand with you, but at least she can," his dad said gruffly. The walk to the square was short; Sam was quickly corralled with the other possible tributes.
"We'll see you after the reaping!" Dean called as he was shuffled off to the sidelines.
"Ladies first, our female tribute is…Andrea Fellman!" A fourteen year old girl was ushered up to the stage, her face blank with shock. Dean bet that wouldn't last long. The Fellman's had six or seven children, he couldn't remember which. "And now for the gentlemen. Our male tribute is…Samuel Winchester."
The world went silent. It was like he was four years old again, running out of the burning house with his brother in his arms. Like his was ten and he got a black eye beating up the bullies that made fun of Sam. Like he was fourteen and putting his name in the pot so that his family could have some extra food, his brother was always hungry. Like he was eighteen and laughing as Sam asked him for advice about a girl he liked at school.
Dean could feel something dragging on him. He could see the figures in white rushing over, but nothing mattered accept for his baby brother being marched to the stage by peace keepers. "SAMMY! SAMMY!" A gloved fist shut him up.
"Please, please!" he was pleading with the peace keeper as they half walked, half dragged him into the building. "Let me volunteer for my brother, please! My birthday was three days ago! Three days! PLEASE!" Another fist smashed his jaw, he didn't care. The peace keeper opened a door and shoved him in. This was his last chance to say goodbye to his brother.
"Dean?" Sam was trembling. He wrapped his arms around his brother, wishing there was something he could do.
"It's going to be okay Sammy. You're going to win."
"I can't kill—"
"Yes, you can, you can win. You've got it in you. You're coming back home." If he believed hard enough, the words would be true.
"Dad, you should take—" John closed his son's hand around the locket.
"Take it with you. She'll be where we can't be." He hugged his younger son tight, "Dean's right. You can win."
"Time to go," the peace keeper 'escorted' his brother away.
"You can do it Sammy!" The door slammed. Dean watched the high speed train melt into the horizon. One tear fell, then another. Three days had been the difference between his life and his brother's death, he was sure of it. "I'm sorry Sammy."