A/N: Okay so I apologize if I seem a little scatterbrained in this one. I got about two hours of sleep last night because it was just one of those nights where my brain refused to fall asleep, and sleep deprivation combined with overwork doesn't mix well, considering I just crammed all the studying and homework I had to get done over spring break into today. My English teacher said I have a tendency to change tone when I start to rush, so if I do, just inform me in a PM or review and I'll edit it, because let's be honest here: who actually proofreads? Though I've decided that for chapter titles instead of using song lyrics, I'll take a song that fits the situation/ character mentalities and use that title instead. If I do both Dean and Cas's POV, it'll be a little more difficult and I'll probably just give up and use two. This one's Iron by Woodkid.

Dean was terrified. Terrified about the concept of dying at sixteen; terrified about it possibly being at the hands of someone younger; terrified about having to do the same himself. In the Hunger Games, it was kill or be killed, and the last thing he wanted to do was drive an arrow into some poor kid's throat for the sake of some bogus tradition. He hadn't uttered a word since the moment he woke up on that train, the only person he made eye contact with being that boy from District 12. He was the only other his age, and he felt overwhelming sympathy for him. What was his name again? Something weird, like Casey or something. Nonetheless, he hated seeing such a smart looking guy in a place like this. If it was one thing the Capitol didn't have remorse for, it was tributes. Doesn't matter if you're a genius; doesn't matter if you're the best damn athlete in the Districts; doesn't matter if you're the one to lead them to great things. If your name is drawn, you're going to the arena. The worst part would be the screams, the helpless looks on peoples' faces. It made him sick.

Meanwhile, a certain Castiel Novak was twice as terrified, and when Castiel Novak was terrified, he acted out.

"What the fuck?!" Cas squeaked as a splash of ice water matted up his hair. "Meg!" He complained when he shot his line of sight up to snarl at the accused.

"You were staring off into space again," Meg countered, waving it off casually as she strutted away.

"Can I just kill her off early?" Cas asked wearily, turning to Darca. "It's not like it'd be doing much harm to the 'sophistication' of the Games anyway."

"I hope you were kidding," Darca said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. "Look, I'll be the first to tell you that you two got dealt a bad hand, but try to keep the sarcasm to a minimal here, alright? Those from where you're from have a bad habit of getting shot on sight for insulting the Capitol.

"Besides, you gained a bit of a reputation out there earlier. People are calling you a Fallen Angel." She said with a smile, to which Cas simply sighed and nodded.

During the introduction of the Tributes the day before, Darca had tossed around the idea of making him an angel somehow, only instead of the stereotypical biblical type, more of the hardcore fallen type. "Make him passive and disdainful, but could snap and level the place right down to the foundations if you proke and prod too much," she'd say whilst adjusting every little detail of his stance, correcting his posture and even facial expression. "That grainy voice of his is perfect for that character, too!"

He ended up getting a white tux, only it was all torn-up and his tie was backwards. It was the wings that sold everyone; massive and black as midnight, the feathers scraggly and clipped up, some of them even falling off. Meg was the opposite; made into a demon-type Lolita. It was no doubt that she was beautiful in it, and Cas would've complimented her on it if they weren't forever at odds with each other.

"Reputation won't help me," Castiel said plainly, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm from 12, and therefore I'm the one who gets sought out early on."

"Don't talk like that. Don't forget that we're from the same place, and I won, didn't I? I'm your mentor for the next week."

"It's gonna be one pointless week for you, then."

"You say that like you're already dead."

If Dean was good at one thing, that was marksmanship. He'd been hunting since he was a little kid, and could nail a deer in the eye from twenty yards away. It was no surprise when the first thing he went for in training was a bow, stepping back a few meters from the target. Drawing back the bowstring, a steady concentration in his sharp green eyes, he let go and sent the arrow flying, piercing it in a perfect bull's-eye. Smirking to himself as he relaxed, he stepped back a bit more, one of the others gazing at him with such an arrogance that would indicate a challenge. His eyes made Dean take a double-take. They were yellow… How was that humanly possible?

"Bet you couldn't do it from the back there," he nodded towards the other side of the room.

"You're on, Yellow Eyes," Dean accepted, walking towards the wall with a specific determination in his stride.

"The name's Azazel. Only my friends call me Yellow Eyes. Or was it my enemies? Always get those two mixed up."

"Just shut your mouth and let me shoot," Dean muttered, bringing the bow up again, the side of one foot against the wall. He had the target in focus, just about to let go when Azazel decided to make him jump by suddenly shouting something. A muffled "watch it!" came from one of the others, the arrow very nearly missing her ear.

"Nervous, Winchester?" Azazel said with a twisted grin that sent shudders down Dean's spine. Perhaps it was the eyes, but this guy was seriously creeping him out. With a steely glare, Dean turned to face him, but instead of talking, he simply raised the weapon again and sent off another shot without looking. A second later, the arrowhead pierced wood, having had hit his previous practice shot dead-centre, though he didn't even break eye contact to see it being driven right through the target and to the other side with a loud crack that echoed through the whole room, Tributes turning to look at the source and back at Dean with a newfound respect. The action made Azazel jump himself, upon which Dean flashed him a cocky smile, tilting his head to one side through the beam of his white teeth.

"Nervous, Yellow Eyes?" And with that, he walked off, not waiting for a response. His mentor, Bobby, had been watching this whole time, a criticizing look on his face.

"Don't associate with him. He messes with your head; sometimes I swear that kid's psychic or something just from watching him."

"Oh, don't worry. I'll make sure the alliances I form won't be with that," Dean gestured to Azazel with his bow, though saw behind him that same guy from District 12, gaping at him with something between curiosity and fear glinting in his eyes, a dagger hanging loosely from his fingers.

"Don't form alliances at all, you idjit! That's what gets you killed. How many tributes do I gotta say that to? And do any of them follow my advice? No, because they can't see passed the here and now."

"Yeah, yeah, hang on," Dean nodded in acknowledgment, though wasn't really paying attention. That kid kept catching his eye, and he had a weird urge to talk to him right now. So, pushing passed Bobby, he made his way over, smiling in greeting to him.

"Dean Winchester," he greeted, holding out a hand for him to take.

"C-Castiel Novak," the other boy replied quickly, taking his hand and shaking it. He clearly wasn't so great in the social skills department, but Dean didn't mind so much.

"What District?" He asked, though he already knew the answer. Now that he thought about it, specifically remembering his details seemed a little creepy. "I'm from 1 myself."

"12," Cas piped up, biting down on his bottom lip as he started getting flustered.

"You know, Cas?" At the mention of his name, Castiel looked back up. "I don't know why, but I like you. What say you and I become friends?"

Despite the dangers he knew would arise from this union, Cas nodded hesitantly, awkwardly smiling. "Y-yeah… Friends."