Author's Note: Hello! If you're somehow returning to this story after years of it not being updated, sorry. But it's back, and I intend to finally finish it. If you're new, thanks for making it this far (and moment of silence for those who read that last chapter and then waited seven years for this one.) I have already fully updated the earlier chapters (not many big changes, just going over some typos and changing an OC to Lilith because as I was edited I didn't understand why the character wasn't Lilith to begin with). I hope you enjoy it!

Dean felt as if he were floating in some terrifying, otherworldly abyss. Even with the light emanating from the helmet he now held in his hands, he couldn't even see the body of the boy that laid only a few feet in front of him. But even in his suspended hellscape, he could feel as the boy grew still, as he grew cold. And he certainly could hear as the sound of a girl's scream tore through the tunnels, shaking what was left of the overturned walls loose. Even the cascade of rubble that fell against his plastic mask seemed to disappear the moment it made contact. As the sound of the scream abruptly disappeared and the sound of a canon took its place, Dean could only think one thing.

This would be the end.

Dean tried to clear his mind. Had he heard a canon fire when he left Michael surrounded by his own blood, lying on the ground? Or in his desperation to return to help his friend, had Dean forgotten to wait for the confirmation that the career had in fact been killed? And beyond Michael, who was even left? He dug deep into his fading memory, trying to think. There was a boy from one of the later districts, ten maybe? Hadn't he scored a three? Dean couldn't remember, as his mind seemed to unravel more and more with every passing second that he stood over Castiel's lifeless body.

Thinking of Castiel, Dean remembered that there was the boy from twelve, the one Castiel had pushed him to save. Dean had never encountered the boy in the tunnels, so he had no way of knowing what his behavior had been throughout the Game, other than that it hadn't seemed like he'd intentionally taken the life of the younger boy that had been by his side. But Dean didn't even know who the earlier canon fires had belonged to. Who had survived, Michael, the boy from ten, or the boy from twelve.

All that he knew was that the most recent canon fire had to have accompanied the sound of that girl's scream. And given that she had been able to scream through the haze, that she had been able to take in enough fresh air to let out any sound at all, she had to have died from something else.

This would be the end. The finale had begun. Something else lurked with in this gas, something bigger and grander than anything else they would have encountered before. Something that would leave only one of them alive.

Dean didn't want to stand. He didn't want to leave Castiel. A part of him hoped he could will his friend back to life. It was a part of him he couldn't have known existed just days before. With Benny and Ruby, he felt supported, like he had someone there to keep him going through the monotony of his father's training. But with Castiel, he felt like his life could have been better. The world had been better with Castiel in it. And now, all he could feel were Castiel's words. Choose right. Castiel couldn't have known the power of those words. Dean had never been able to chose anything in his life before the game. And now, one primary choice was on his mind. Would he live? Or would he die?

"Castiel," Dean spoke aloud, his words fogging the inside of his mask. "Castiel, what's the right choice?"

He gripped the boy's cold arm, knowing he'd never answer. This was Dean's choice. It was his time to define what was right.

And so Dean finally stood. Shaking off the dust from his legs and peering down where his friend's body laid, he knew his choice.

.o0o.

Despite the near miraculous end to the feast, Chuck was still stressed. Sure, he'd managed to show that despite his uncharacteristic actions, Dean still had the pure violence of a career tribute. And sure, the fact that Michael had survived to seek some revenge added more suspense to the game than he ever could have hoped. But this was it. Every moment of the Hunger Games pales in comparison to the final moments. These are the moments that would be played back for years to come, the moments that would be used in victory tours and previews to tantalize and excite the Capitol citizens. If these moments failed, Chuck failed.

He was already under so much pressure over the gas. While his fellow Gamemakers had no problems managing filming in the tunnels, with their state-of-the-art cameras managing to capture all the action in almost perfect color, the fog was harder to cut through. The end of the game couldn't play out in hazy shapes, especially not after the beautiful cinematography of Dean and Michael's red-lit battle. That was the stuff people would want to replay for years. Not this.

"Can we cut the gas back a bit? I didn't realize you could see gasses... Or is this technically condensation? It- It doesn't matter. This isn't my responsibility, guys," Chuck knew the other Gamemakers could hear and see his anxiety. His hair had lost it's sleek look, relaxing into what could only be described as "a mess."

"Mr. Edlund, we could cut the gas early. We'd obviously risk losing the effect you wanted with the masks, but..."

Chuck held up his hands, stopping the woman who had spoken up in her tracks.

"Cut the gas. I want everyone to see what's next."

But was what was next good enough? Would it be powerful enough to end the game with a bang? Or would he be one of those Gamemakers that left the audience wanting more in the worst possible way?

Chuck could feel himself biting his nails. He wished he could drink in front of the others, but he did have a reputation to maintain.

"This is it, guys. Get ready."

.o0o.

Sam watched as the gas that had once engulfed him began to sink back into the floor. So much for a natural leak.

But as the gas dissipated, Sam was hit with yet another wave of guilt. He needed to leave the place where he had loss any assemblance of righteousness or innocence. Even though he knew something potentially worse was loose in the tunnels, he couldn't imagine anything worse than the lifeless body of that boy. Even knowing that the boy expected his actions, Sam knew he could never forgive himself for sinking to those depths. In that moment, he was the only monster that mattered in the cave.

Somehow, the film left by the gas left his burnt skin feeling better than it had since the moment he returned from the wheat field. He wondered if that was intentional, if the gas was somehow medicinal or if the pain it had added had merely raised his adrenaline high enough that he could no longer feel his wounds. But, attempting to make the most of his momentary comfort, Sam began to move back toward the cornucopia. If he had given his soul to return home, if he had taken away an innocent boy's life to do it, shouldn't that mean he needed to do whatever it took to get there? If he was a monster, wasn't he locked into whatever motivation had driven him to that state?

And, after all, he knew which way the only other surviving tributes had gone. And most of them were careers, far from the innocent boy he left in the tunnel behind him.

Maybe his last act as a monster would be to end the life of another.