Thank you for stopping by! I hope you enjoy my version of events that unfold in this AU. Read on:


Amicum et Inimicum ~ Friend and Foe

Chapter One

January 24th. He was born to John and Mary Winchester in the Industrial District of Six. Manufacturing trains, repairing cars, mechanics. Engines. Wheels and metal. Gas and mileage. Dean grew up knowing the ways around vehicles, but mainly cars. When he was four his father took him to his garage.

It was February, that awkward month between winter and spring. The snow on the streets turned to slush, but a flurry of white was still drifting past the open garage door. John set up one of those old, portable heaters to keep the both of them warm and Dean was sitting a few inches away, his heavily gloved hands touching all the cool tools that lined the wall. The metal handles of the wrenches were darkened in some spots from all the use they've seen. The screwdrivers were arrayed in size order—largest to smallest, left to right—just as the wrenches were. There were ratchets and sockets. Pliers, hammers, and mallets. Crow bar. Pry bar. Anything you would ever need to repair a car was lined up neatly on the wall or resting on shelves.

Dean had watched his father open the hood of a car. His car. It was sleek and black. To Dean, it was beautiful. The lining around the windows was silver and the seats were black leather, to fit with the theme. John beckoned Dean to come over and pointed out a few things. Despite how old the car was, the engine seemed to be in pretty good condition. It wasn't rusted, only thick with grime and blackened by age and use. The man showed his son how to do simple functions; his hands working as a machine. He seemed to know what he was doing… Well, he did know. This was the district of transportation after all. Almost everyone knew there way around a vehicle from an early age. And Dean was no exception.

Sam, 0. Dean, 4.
May 2nd. Sam was born to John and Mary Winchester. They left late at night as two and came late that next night as three—father, mother, and a bundle in her arms. Dean heard the door creak open and dropped everything, charging out of his room and around the corner. He was stopped by the sight of the two of them. His dad smiled. His mother smiled. Their eyes seemed to land on something in Mary's arms. Dean noticed it soon after. A baby.

"Dean, this is you're little brother," his mother explained softly as she crouched down and held the little thing out for the four-year-old to see. "His name's Sam."

Mary placed the baby in Dean's arms and he looked down at Sam's face for the first time. The baby squealed happily, his tiny mouth opening into a smile, his eyes wide and hazel. A tiny hand flailed out of the bundle of blankets, brushing by Dean's arm. Sam.

"Hi Sammy," whispered Dean weakly. His little brother.

Sam, 1. Dean, 5.
December 24th. The first christmas they could actually spend as a family. Dean lay huddled by the fire in a red wool blanket, a mug of steaming cocoa placed on the hearth. Sam waddled around, his arms held up over his head by his mother. She supported him, teaching him to walk one step at a time. It was warm. And wonderful.

The Games were something in the future. They weren't of age yet. They had no need to worry about a thing. It was the other kids of their district that had to worry. For the moment, the Winchesters were fine. Happy. Alive

Snow drifted past the frosted window pane. Dean loved so much to crawl onto the back of the worn-down couch and draw symbols in the condensation. His little fingers would first draw a line, then make another this time curving around the first, the ends connecting to the ends of the first line. Half the time, he'd add a dot, then a W, then another dot. Sometimes he followed with an E, then an A, and lastly an N. It didn't matter.

The fire was warm. His parents were here. He was safe.

Sam, 2. Dean, 6.
November 2nd. Then came the fire and every safety he knew shattered like glass.

Of all places, it started in Sam's room. Where mom was.

Dean just woke up to hear a roar and a crackle, and shouts of a man, and wails of a baby. Sam! Dad! Dean burst from his bed and down the hall at the same time as his father barrelled out of Sam's nursery, carrying a bundle. Fear and grief was all Dean saw in the man that moment. Fear and grief was all he heard in the man's voice as he gave a command,

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back!"

The bundle was shoved into Dean's arms. The room behind his dad glowed with a fiery gold. A horrid smell met Dean and forced itself into his nose. He felt nausea control his stomach. He didn't want to smell it anymore.

"Now, Dean! Go!"

Taking his baby brother, Dean ran. His small feet pounding on the stairs. His breath started to get heavier as he burst from the warm house into the freezing outdoors. His lungs became uncomfortably cold from the air he took in. His arms pulled Sam closer to his chest.

Looking up, he saw the window still glowing. Flames licked the entirety of the room, covering the walls in death. Something black moved and disappeared, consumed by flame. Dean's six-year-old mind couldn't comprehend what it was. Was it a burnt pillow? Was it a toy of sorts?

A rattling boom startled Dean and he knew he must move. He could already feel the heat coming off the second story room. The baby began to wail quietly and Dean looked down.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered and sped away from the house.

But it wasn't going to be okay.

The door banged open and running footsteps were heard coming for Dean. Something grabbed him and lifted him up. Dean glanced over his shoulder the best he could in the arms of someone.

Dad.

Sam, 3. Dean, 7.
John began teaching Dean the basics of hunting. Taking him early in the morning into the woods. The first day, his dad showed him how to get past the fence keeping the grid-like industrial city of Six from the wild, untamed forest. After that, he learned to fight. With or without weapons it didn't matter. Fighting and hunting. What Dean soon began to excel at.

Sam, 6. Dean, 10.
August 5th. Back in the garage. This time with Sammy too.

The car was outside, parked off to the side of the broken paved road. Dean, being ten, was helping dad. Only the man's legs were visible. The rest of his body was underneath the raised automobile. Hammering echoed off the bottom. Occasionally there'd be a few words, orders for Sam or Dean to hand him something. It was mostly just Sam giving over the tools Dad needed. Dean's hands tinkered with metal and wires and gears and whatnot, making nothing in particular.

Sam, 7. Dean, 11.
September 9th. Each year the Games drew closer, and each year Dean's sense of uneasiness grew more. Dad seemed to get more distant as Dean turned a year older. He talked less, his eyes became sad, and Dean found him more and more often sitting on the front porch, alone. Sometimes Dean wished he could pull open the door to his head and take a look inside, hoping his trained mechanic hands could reach in their and fix whatever was not functioning right.

If only…

Sam, 8. Dean, 12.
May 1st. Dean's first reaping.

Dread slowed down his footsteps. Worry took hold of his mind. Fear enveloped him and controlled him.

He wasn't reaped.

Sam, 9. Dean, 12.
May 2nd. Sam's birthday! Dean brought Sam out to the woods with him that morning, teaching him everything their father taught Dean. Sam was a quick learner, picking up moves and techniques in one or two examples. Soon, they were play-fighting. But Dean always won.

Who cares? The time spent together was all that mattered.

REAPING DAY.
Sam, 13. Dean, 17.

May 1st. All his life he'd been watching out for Sammy. That's his job, looking after his little brother, keeping him out of harms way. He'd do anything for him. But what was he supposed to do now? What could he do to stop his baby brother from taking another step.

Dean caught a glimpse of Sam's mop of brown hair, surprisingly steady for the young boy to be called up. A surge of hate and a wave of love crashed down on him. They could take away anyone and anything, but no one takes away his family. 'Cause when they do, they will have to pay. Dean curled his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. Harder and harder.

Without realising it, he burst from the group of boys relieved they weren't chosen this year. He stood in the center aisle, watching in disbelief as his nightmare unfolded. He ran forward, his only goal was to get to Sammy. His mind ruled by only panic.

"SAM!" he screamed. "SAAM!"

Sam froze, looking over his shoulder at the commotion. Dean tried to race to him, keep him from the stage, but two peacekeepers intercepted his charge, grabbing his arms. He struggled forward, but their grip was strong. Too strong. His eyes widened as Sam turned away, shuffling to the steps. His foot lifted and Dean barrelled forward. The men holding him just barely contained him. They pulled Dean slowly backwards as the Winchester's mind raced.

"No, no, no, no, no!" he muttered, bringing his foot down on one of the peacekeeper's feet. No longer feeling the vise grip, Dean swung his free arm around, catching the peacekeeper in the neck. Not hard enough for a kill, but enough to stun. Dean ran forward a few yards. He could hear the men getting back up, more determined to subdue the wild teen this time. He yelled for the whole square to hear,

"I volunteer as tribute!"

He couldn't keep the panic and fear from his voice.

All he could think of was Sam.

At least he'll be safe...


A/N: Wow, feels so good to get this up! I've been working on his since the summer started but each attempt has been thrown out. They were either hard to continue or too much like other crossovers of this variety. Anyway, SO glad to have this out in the open and I will try my best to continue this story... (unlike the other fanfictions I left unfinished). This one I am DETERMINEDto finish no matter what.

Anyway, don't forget to leave a review! ;) ~ Laters!