Chapter Five
"No no no, not Jo and Tommy. Anyone but them."
Sam and Dean glanced at each other, twin expressions of horror overtaking their features. They'd known Jo since they were kids. She understood them better than anyone. She'd lost her father to the Games when she was five years old, not two months after Tommy was born. They had bonded over the shared grief of what might have been and as the years passed, they'd grown close.
Dean never told her, but she'd always reminded him of Mary. Jo-Jo had always been loving and witty, and she was a hell of a hunter. It had started out as Dean protecting her when he couldn't protect his mother, but over time he saw Jo as herself, and protected her all the more fiercely as the sister he never had. Of course, if Jo knew this, she'd tear him a new one. She'd always believed she could look after herself, that she was strong enough to handle the world on her own.
She was strong now as she walked forward with a stiff upper lip, the bow in her hair coming completely undone and fluttering to the ground. She lead her trembling little brother by the hand as they made their way through a silent crowd to the stage. It wasn't right. Jo was so brave, so full of life and hope. She wasn't the empty shell of a girl they saw now, her breath coming in short gasps and her hands shaking almost imperceptibly.
And Tommy, tiny, underweight, eleven-year old Tommy…he wouldn't last five minutes. He'd never been beyond the fence. Never touched a weapon in his life. And Jo loved her brother so much, as soon as he died, she'd just give up. They were as good as dead. They couldn't, they just couldn't.
"I volunteer!"
Sam and Dean to one another, surprise sparking in their eyes as they spoke in unison; before morphing into understanding.
"Of course. They were both self-sacrificial idiots who had a habit of jumping in feet first. Damn the consequences. They could work it out later. This was for Jo, and Tommy, and Ellen, who had lost too much to the Games already."
The crowd murmured in shock. No one ever volunteered. To be chosen was a death sentence, but volunteering was suicide. It was insanity.
Over the noise, two distinct voices could be heard, saying nothing and everything at once. Ellen Harvell let out a sob of simultaneous horror and relief. John Winchester choked out a cry of anger, grief, and pride as he watched what was left of his family mount the stage and glare defiantly, not only at Crowley, but at Death himself; daring him to claim them.
Crowley, for once in his long, long life, was speechless. The two boys before him were clearly related. Their eyes held the same gleam, their mouths the same quirk, and they stood as if trying to protect one another from the world. They fulfilled the requirements, but Crowley hadn't a clue as to why. Even he knew this was madness.
He let out a rather inhuman sound of confusion before collecting himself.
"A-and you would be?"
"Sam Winchester."
"Dean."
Neither held out a hand to shake his as was customary.
Crowley cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"Ahem, well, may I present this year's tributes, Samuel and Dean Whenchister."
No one clapped.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Sam and Dean dismounted the stage without being told, and let themselves be escorted away, hundreds of eyes following them.
Dean glanced sideways at his brother and frowned. He understood what they had done and why, but as the adrenaline faded away he decided he didn't have to like it. He and Sam had to talk.