A/N: Okay, I started this like months ago when I first read The Hunger Games and I was watching some Supernatural there and finally got the muse to keep going with it! It's an AU Supernatural/Hunger Games crossover - the same game as in the book, but with different tributes, ie ones from the Supernatural series! This chapter is, essentially, just providing the padding and giving you a bit of their background, especially Dean's - so it's really more like a prologue than anything else. R&R!

Dean's nervous.

He doesn't admit it. His walk, as they approach the area in which the tributes will be announced, is precise and strong. At eighteen, this is his last year, but the nerves aren't for himself. The nerves are for Sammy. His little brother trails along beside him, head bowed, hands visibly shaking. He's not the fighting type, and he never enjoyed a life of having to hunt for food. Dean knows full well that he wouldn't last a moment in the games, simply because he'd show weakness and the others would pounce on him like filthy scavengers. His heart sinks to his stomach with this knowledge but, as he reminds himself, the chances of Sam's name being chosen are unlikely.

He has to separate soon, go off with the other eighteen year olds and he does, with a quick ruffle of Sam's hair. His younger brother scowls but his face softens when he looks up at his big brother, whose face is hard - but Sam knows him better than that, and he knows that the fear will be crippling him inside.

It's crippling both of them.

"Good luck, Dean," Sam says solemnly.

"I don't need luck." Dean's jaw locks a little but he forces himself to relax and delivers a wink before he saunters off to join the other eighteen year olds in that falsely confident pose he adopts every year.

They begin to read the speech that they deliver annually - about revolution being a bad idea, about how this is a time for both repentance and celebration. Dean tries hard to hide the hatred that flickers in his green eyes, hands clenching into fists so tightly that his nails leave grooves in his palms. He hates the Capitol. He hates everything about them, despises the control that they have over the districts - but he can't say anything outwardly. Dean's reckless and often seems to have little regard for his own life, but he cares too much about his father and his little brother to get any of them into trouble.

"And now, time for the female tribute!"

Dean's eyes go to the stage, moving from their previous fixed position on the ground and he eyes up the son of a bitch who is taking far too much pleasure in this.

"I am pleased to announce, the District twelve female tribute is Joanna Beth Harvelle!"

There's a gasp from somewhere in the crowd, and a sixteen year old blonde girl emerges from the audience. She's shaking slightly, Dean can see - but he admires her for how hard she fights to hide it. She pushes her blonde hair back from her face and there's a fierceness in her eyes despite her obvious concern that makes her somewhat formidable. Dean doesn't know the Harvelles well, but he's seen them around. Her mother owns a shop and Jo works there too - they fight hard to bring in the money, and they're hard-working people. He bites down on his lip and silently wishes her luck.

"And now, the male tribute..."

Here it goes. Dean's stomach clenches and he prays hard. Not me, not Sammy, not me, not Sammy...

It's not him.

"I am pleased to announce, the District twelve male tribute is Samuel Winchester!"

No.

There's a silence in the crowd. Sam is only fourteen and Dean never let him put himself at risk of having his name added more times, ever - the odds were unliklely. He feels as if he's floating, watching this scene from above, and he's not the only tight-faced person in the crowd - people are irritated by this. Sam is one of the nicest kids in the District, and you can't help but like him - and they all know he won't last.

Something snaps in Dean as he sees a trembling Sam begin to move forward, eyes brimming with barely held back tears.

"I volunteer!" He propels himself forward through people, waving his hands like a lunatic, but he doesn't care. "I volunteer as tribute!" His rough, screaming voice carries over the crowd and Sam's shouting at him, no, no, Dean, I can do this, don't, please and suddenly he's next to Sam who is grabbing at him, openly crying now at the thought of his big brother entering this competition.

Dean swallows and pushes him aside.

"Well, well, well!" The woman on the stage claps her hands to create a pathway for Dean. "That's the spirit! Want all the glory for yourself, do you?"

Dean has never wanted to slap a woman more in his entire fucking life.

When Sam comes to see him, for part of the one hour he has left as a free man, he hates himself for doing this to him.

Sam begs and sobs all over him, asking him to take it back, but he can't and they both know it. Not only would he not be allowed, but they both know that Dean would never allow his little brother to enter this competition and get himself killed - which he undoubtedly would. Sam clings to him like some sort of animal, half of his words incoherent as his father stands over and watches.

John Winchester is not a bad man by any means, but he's usually quite hard. That's why it's difficult for Dean to look up and see his eyes filled with tears, lips pressed together with the effort of not letting them spill. Dean has to look away again the moment that he sees that.

"I'm proud of you," John tells him quietly.

"Thanks." Dean's voice is flat and sounds far away even to himself. What does pride matter now?

"Fight, son," John adds, a little more strongly now. "Fight to come back to me and your brother. I know you can do it."

"I will," Dean says and it's honest, because he'll fight for Sam. "Just... make sure Sam's okay, alright?" At this, Sam cries harder. "Look after him and I'll - I'll try to be back."

"Promise," Sam says, looking up somewhat childishly.

"Don't be a ba -"

"Promise me, Dean!"

He relents. "I promise."

It doesn't seem likely that he'll come back. He hunts animals for the family but he has such little experience otherwise. There are people from other districts who have been training for this their whole lives, and what does he have? Some experience with throwing a knife and a mentor who - well, don't get Dean wrong, he likes Bobby Singer. The only surviving tribute of the Hunger Games from District Twelve, he gains some respect automatically. But he's an old drunk by now and Dean can't help but doubt his knowledge. He only likes him because he has such a fuck you attitude, and God only knows how he gets away with it in these times.

"You guys have to go." The time isn't up, but Dean's close to breaking down and he doesn't want anyone to see him crying. He gives Sam a firm nudge. "I'll try to be back and in the meantime - be careful, right?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice is choked. "I love you, Dean."

Dean forces a cracked grin. "Love you too, kid, now piss off."

He doesn't let the tears fall until the room is cleared and he's left in silence.

There are cameras and many, many bright flashing lights when he boards the train. He grits his teeth against them and attempts to smile and wave, because damn, he wants to go into this as Dean Winchester and not look like he's been fucking crying his eyes out for the past ten minutes in terror for what his little brother will have to watch on the screen. Because he will have to watch - it's required. He forces a wave and a smile that makes him look as if he has lockjaw as he boards the train with Joanna. Neither of them have said a word to each other - they're in absolute silence, stone-cold silence. They don't want to get to know each other - they're too scared to.

Effie Trinket - as Dean remembers her name is - shows him his own quarters on the train and... wow. He's not used to this. Hot showers, drawers filled with nicely tailored clothes and a big, soft bed. He stands and gapes for a good few minutes before he snaps his mouth shut, doesn't shower, picks the worst clothes he can find (and dirties them for good measure) before sitting stubbornly on the floor and waiting to be called for food.

He's relieved to find that Joanna seems to have taken the same attitude when they're called to supper.

He sits down and stares. There's a knife and fork, but he has no idea how to use them. Effie is busying herself on the other side of the room, about to sit down, and he raises a questiong eyebrow at Joanna.

"Do you know how to...?" He nods at the knife and fork and she grins grimly.

"No."

They set about eating with their hands, and Effie, when she sits down, purses her lips and says nothing.

It's time to watch the other volunteers.

Dean's been dreading this and from the look his fellow district tribute gives him, so has she. He's shocked when she grabs his arm and squeezes, which he takes to be a sign of reassurance - but he doesn't want to return the gesture. Doesn't want her to become his friend - it'll only make it harder when one of them has to kill the other. So he turns his attention to the screen instead.

Some tributes stand out, some don't.

One who stands out is a boy called Alastair. He's from District Eleven and he looks nasty. He's happy to be chosen - a bright grin on his face which is downright creepy, Dean thinks. There's another man called Gordon, who doesn't exactly look happy to be chosen but looks formidable anyway. There's a man called Nick who looks like a challenge. There's a District One tribute, a red-headed girl who looks like she's been trained for this - as Dean would expect from District One.

But the other tribute from District One doesn't look quite as sure of himself.

He has a forced hard look on his face, but he doesn't at all look happy, as if he wanted this - which most people from that area tend to, in Dean's experience. They're mostly volunteers who wanted the glory. But no, this boy gives away his fear. He might have a firm exterior, but Dean squints and sees that his bottom lip is trembling and he's chewing on it, and his hands are clenched by his sides, skin a ghostly white. His blue eyes are shining with emotion.

"I kinda feel sorry for that kid," he murmurs to Jo - she corrected him about her name just before they watched - and she looks at him.

"He's from a rich district and he looks like he can handle himself, Dean. Don't go getting all sympathetic."

"He looks terrified."

"No he doesn't." Jo leans forward a little. "Oh, maybe - yeah," she admits. "It'll be an act."

"Yeah, maybe."

Dean can't really explain his feeling that Castiel Novak is even less made for this game than he is.

"Right, you two idjits, let's get down to business."

Dean can't help but like Bobby Singer, old drunk or not. He's determined, fiesty and a tad rebellious - just the right amount. Enough to make a statement and not enough to get himself murdered - he's perfect. Jo seems to unwillingly like him to - he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes whenever Effie Trinket even speaks, which provides them both with great amusement.

"What're you good at?" He directs the question at Jo firstly and she pauses.

"Not much," she admits. "We didn't get much training for this in District -"

"Twelve, yeah, I'm from there too, you know. But I still won. So what are you good at?"

Bobby doesn't waste time, for all his intoxication.

"I'm good with my fists," she says and Dean snorts. She turns her eyes on him immediately, offended.

"What?"

"You're about five foot four," he points out but Bobby cuts him off.

"If she says she's good with her fists, we're goin' with that," he says firmly. "And you, son?" The question is directed at Dean.

"Aim," he says after a moment. "Like knife-throwing."

"Ever handled a gun?"

"No," he says, as if it's obvious. As if he'd get away with a gun where he lives.

"Hmmm," Bobby says, clearly thinking. "Then that's where we're gonna start. I'll see you two idjits at the training."

Dean's about to ask what exactly an idjit is and ask why Bobby keeps using the word when he stands up and staggers out of the room.

He really, really hates his stylist.

It was a case of being straight off the train and straight into the warm arms of the stylist. He's excited when he sees Dean - comments on his splash of freckles, and his beautiful green-hazel eyes and honestly, Dean can't tell if the man's being sarcastic or not. But he grits his teeth and accepts the poking and the prodding and the measurements before Balthazar - he even has a fucking eccentric name - steps back and eyes him critically.

"Well, love, I think you'd look just dapper in a tuxedo. You and young Jo should co-ordinate - you could be in a black tuxedo, and her in a black dress..." He claps his hands together.

"Like young prom dates!"

Dean pauses and his brow furrows. "What's a prom?"

Training doesn't go badly, but it doesn't go awfully either.

The other tributes unnerve the hell out of him. There's Alastair, who handles a knife like it's an extension of his hand, craving and tracing and cutting thin air as if he was born to do it. Then there's Nick, who seems absolutely confident about everything he does, despite demonstrating no particular skill in any area. Dean was right to consider Gordon formidable - he's amazing with a gun. Jo surprises Dean in the way that she picks up skills quickly. The red-headed girl - Anna Milton, Dean learns to be her name - is more skilled than he might have expected.

And then there's Castiel.

Dean can't help but keep an eye on him. He's clearly skilled, has obviously been trained for this, but he's shaking when he approaches certain areas of the station and although Dean's quite sure that if he tried, he could take down quite a few people, he doesn't seem to have the heart. That brings him down and he comes out with a completely average score.

But then again, so does Dean.

The interviews are what Dean has been dreading.

Caesar Flickerman is a nice guy, and he genuinely seems to care, so Dean can't imagine for the world what he's doing in this job - interviewing twelve people a year, eleven of whom die. Bobby tells him to be honest about his brother to generate sympathy but make it quite obvious that he's not going to go down easily.

He plans to do just that, but he's grudging about using Sammy.

Caesar interviews the District One tributes first and Dean sits up, interested to hear Castiel's story. There's something so damn intruiging about the boy, who fidgets nervously when he sits down. Caesar smiles encouragingly.

They talk about nothing for a bit - Castiel's skills, which seem to be brilliant, and Dean still can't understand his lack of confidence and his fear. So Caesar pokes and prods and questions it, as Dean would expect him to do, and after a few hesitant answers, Castiel finally admits,

"I don't relish the thought of killing."

His gravelly voice - more formal than Dean had expected, although that might just be for the interview - sounds sincere, but Jo is watching him sceptically, from what Dean can see. She's still convinced it's an act, but Dean's not so sure. He just knows that, if it's true, Castiel was stupid to admit that. People will jump on that hesitancy.

"Don't you?" Caesar asks, reaching out to pat the man sympathetically. Castiel stiffens at the touch, like it makes him uncomfortable. "Why not?"

"Killing fellow humans is..." He pauses. "It's not me." Castiel's blue eyes flicker to the crowd. "But I've been trained in it," he adds, as if he's just realised the danger he's putting himself in by admitting all of this, "And I can do it. I can." His voice is almost earnest and Dean sighs to himself.

Nice, Cassy, real smooth.

It's not long before Dean's interview. Jo is right before him and she does well, talking about her mother and how losing her father just made her tougher. Dean applauds her loudly, hands clapping together before he stands to go up there himself.

Caesar is nice enough at first. He makes Dean's average score seem better than it actually was, compliments him on his strength of character and jokes around with him, putting him at ease. Then he asks the difficult question - "I understand you volunteered?"

"Yeah," Dean replies edgily.

"Why was that?"

He shrugs. "I love my brother. Anyone with a younger brother would understand that, I'm sure. I couldn't let him get himself into it." And for show, to frighten the other tributes, intimidate them, he grins. "Plus I think I'm gonna be good at this." He doesn't admit that he currently feels sick to his stomach.

"I'm sure your brother is proud of you," Caesar says kindly.

"Yeah," Dean says and his smile falters. Sam will be watching. This is his chance to get a message across. "Well, no, he was pretty pissed off with me. But I'm gonna win and I'll get back to him - and I know my brother, he's stronger than people think. He's gonna be fine without me." He glances directly into the camera for that one and the smile drops completely. He swallows.

The rest of the interview passes quickly and when Dean leaves, he's passes Castiel, who's watching him with big, mournful eyes.

"What?" he snaps. It's the first time he's spoken to Castiel and he doesn't need to make more friends - he already quite likes Jo.

"Nothing," Castiel says, turning away.

"No, what? You were staring at me like I've got a friggin' terminal illness. What's up?" Dean demands, curious.

"I just -" Castiel shrugs and cuts himself off. "Sam's lucky to have you."

He's not looking at Dean.

Softening against his will, Dean leans against the wall beside them as they stand backstage, knowing he'll be ushered away in a second. "You got a little brother?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Six big brothers. Only one of them would even be eligible, though." Castiel is seventeen, a year younger than Dean, so that makes sense.

Dean pauses. "Big family." It dawns on him. "He didn't volunteer for you?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Not that I'd have wanted him to," he adds hastily. "But -"

Dean can't question this further as they're both pushed away from each other, but he can't fathom siblings that wouldn't care about their fate of their brother. Asshole family, he decides.

The cylinder is rising and Dean is sweating. Profusely.

He catches sight of Balthazar as it rises, armed with barely anything. He's posed, ready to run, a determined glint in his green eyes, knowing that Sam will be watching.

It rises into a clearing with a lake.

Three...

Come on, Dean.

Two...

You can do this.

One...

Get going!

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-second annual Hunger Games begin!"