It's reaping day. Dean is awoken by Sam, who's clutching his arm under the blanket and crying in his sleep. Dean looks over to his father's bed, where his dad is sound asleep. He shakes Sam awake and brushes the hair out of his eyes.
"It's okay, Sammy, wake up. It's okay."
Sam wakes up slowly, shaking his way out of his nightmare. Tears roll down his cheeks as he looks up at Dean.
"They picked me, Dean," Sam chokes out between sobs. His fingers dig deeper into Dean's upper arm.
"Hey, Sammy, it's alright. They're not gonna pick you. I promise," Dean reassures him. "Go back to sleep."
Sam lays his head back down on the pillow and turns over onto his side. Dean pulls the blanket up to Sam's ears and tucks it in around him. Then he climbs out of the bed they share and walks over to the small fireplace. Stooping, he stokes the embers and adds another log. Then he slings his jacket over his shoulder and leaves through the back door of the little shack they call home.
When Dean comes back Sam is sitting at the small table, hand wrapped around a jar of water. Dean sets the loaf of bread from the bakery on the table with a dull thud.
"It's from yesterday so it's not too stale," Dean says, pulling his knife from his boot and cutting Sam a slice. Getting bread that was only a day old was a treat around District 12, and it had cost Dean nearly half of the honey he had collected from the beehive behind their home.
"Thanks Dean." Sam says, digging in to the chunk of bread with enthusiasm.
"You better get ready, Dean. We have to leave in a few minutes," John says, leaning over a bucket of water to shave his face with a knife. The boy's mother had died long ago, when Sam was just a baby. Their father, John, worked long hours in the mines, so Dean had practically raised Sam on his own.
"Sure." Dean cut himself a hunk of bread and stuffed it in his mouth before getting his change of clothes from the box under his bed.
They stand in the square in rows, by age. Boys on the left, girls on the right. Youngest to oldest from front to back. Dean can see Sam standing with other 12 year olds 4 rows ahead of him. He can tell just by looking at the back of Sam's head that the boy is frozen with nerves. He sends out a silent prayer for his brother to be alright, to be safe, not to be chosen. Any name but Sam Winchester to be called from the bowl.
The ridiculously dressed woman from the Capitol gives the same boring speech she gave last year, and the year before. Dean stopped listening to her years ago. The same video plays on the giant screens. Dean stopped watching that too. Although he would never say it out loud, he thinks the whole thing is bullshit. It's all just an act to cover up the murder of children every year.
However, Dean begins to listen intently as the Capitol woman shimmies across the stage in her horrible shoes to the girl's bowl. It's always "Ladies First" with this woman. Dean recognizes the name she calls out.
"Penelope Everitt." Penny is a year younger than Dean, and cute. Her soft blonde hair, which she usually wears loose and curly, is braided in a tight pleat down her back. She sobs openly as the guards come to escort her to the stage. The Capitol bimbo tries to hug the girl, but Penny just weeps with her face in her hands.
"Alright, now for the boys." She skitters across the stage to the second bowl. Dramatically sweeping her hand around the bottom for what seems like a lifetime to Dean, she finally extracts a little slip of white paper. Shuffling back to the microphone, she pauses for attention, and then unfolds the slip of paper.
"Samuel Winchester."
Dean isn't sure if he imagines the ringing in his ears. Over and over he hears the foul woman speak his brother's name. He doesn't notice anyone around him as he watches his brother start making his way toward the stage, flanked on either side by a Capitol guard. Dean doesn't think, doesn't hesitate for a second as he runs out to the center aisle. Guards are instantly on him, holding him back as he fights to get to his brother.
"Dean?" Sam turns at the commotion and stares at his brother. Dean can see the tracks the tears have left in the dirt on his cheeks. All Dean can think of is his baby brother, cradled in his arms when he was 6 months old, playing at his feet when he was two, holding his hand on the way to his first day at school.
"I volunteer!"