Okay, so I don't have any excuses. I am so, so sorry that it took this long to update, and the worst part is the story's not even done. Well, that was a lie. I do have an excuse, and that excuse is this story is going to be longer than the original by a LOT. Already at 16 chapters it's longer than the original by around 8k words, and the original was 22 chapters long, and the chapters are only getting more intense and longer from here.

I'm 16/24 chapters through, so at the moment updates will be Mondays, every two weeks (two updates per month) as I write the final 8 chapters. Please, I am begging you all, PLEASE review because it gives me SO MUCH encouragement and I will need it as I start my senior year of high school and a new job.

Everyone that has reviewed on the original recently (and when I was still publishing) please know that I am literally only publishing this for you. If it was up to me I'd still be curled up under my blankets, hiding from COVID-19 and adult responsibilities but you guys made that impossible and for that I love/hate you.

The ending for this story is pretty much decided, but I'd love to hear what you all think I'm going to do. Again, I implore you all, please review, leave kudos, anything. The review can be one letter and it will still motivate me to keep writing.

I love all my readers and will forever be grateful that they've supported me during this time. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and wearing their masks.

Full Summary: Three years after winning the 68th annual Hunger Games, Dean Winchester feels like he's drowning. President Naomi's hold on him solidifies more every day as she loses control of the rebellion he'd accidentally started, even though he does his best to appease her and would like nothing more than to rest. Dean can't help but worry that he's turning into his father, and lingering grief over old losses threaten his resolve. As he spends less and less time at home, Dean realizes that there are more powers at play in Haven than he'd realized. With the number of his allies dwindling by the day, he must put his faith in untrustworthy characters. He never wanted the national spotlight, but it's focused on him now more than ever. He's about to realize that the arena was nothing compared to what Naomi's got in store for him. Will he be able to save his brother without losing himself?

Slowburn Destiel. Lots of violence.
Information about updates in notes.

then

"DEAN!"

Dean flinches at the yelp. When someone comes flying at him, he braces and reaches to his chest for his gun, but then he remembers that he doesn't have the gun anymore. He woke up in the white room without it just two days ago and hasn't been allowed near anything that could be used as a weapon since.

The most logical step after that is to flee. Dean manages a half-step back, ready to barrel back onto the train where he can use plates and silverware to defend himself, but there's too many people behind him. He can't go left and he can't go right because of the massive crowd watching him. His only option is to stand and fight.

Sam throws himself into Dean's arms, still squealing. Dean lets out a quick breath when a dull pain starts to ache in his side. "I knew you could do it! I knew you would come back!" His little fingers twist into Dean's jacket like they'll never let go. Dean hopes he never does. The tension melts from his frame. With Sam he's safe.

A shadow falls over the embracing brothers and Dean looks up, reaching for his gun again as he looks into his father's face. Again, the gun isn't there, so Dean settles for squeezing Sam like his life depends on it.

"Knew you'd come back to us, boy," John says quietly. There's a faint tinge of pride and happiness in that tone.

Resentment surges up in Dean's throat. It's because of John that Jo died. That Sam was reaped.

He doesn't get to be happy. He should be suffering. He should be guilty. Jo's death is on his hands. Dean's continued life is on his hands.

The problem with living sacrifices is that they're supposed to be dead. What good is a sacrifice if he can't even do his job?

Dean looks just beyond John, right into Ellen's lined, scowling face. He stands up, still clutching Sam to his hip like he's a child—because he still is, baby Sam that Dean was supposed to die to save—and takes a hesitant step forward. The sun is shining directly into his eyes, making him squint, and though the day is clear and bright, a brisk wind whips through the square. Ellen's image goes fuzzy, blurred by his eyelashes, as goosebumps rise on his arms.

"I'm—" Dean clears his throat. "Ellen, I—"

She holds up a hand to stop him, eyes glittering and jaw set with undisguised anger. Revulsion. It stings. "I can't hear it right now, Dean."

"You know I never wanted—" Dean starts, setting Sam down, heedless of the public watching the drama unfold. He can't lose another person. Not Ellen. She's the closest thing he's ever had to a mother—apart from his hazy memories of Mary…

"Stop." The word is quiet but authoritative. "Just stop, Dean."

He wilts.

"You could have stayed with her. You could have prevented it."

"I didn't know—"

"But you suspected. Don't make excuses for yourself, boy."

Dean reels back, treading on Sam's toes as he does, but Sam is struck as dumb as he is. Ellen's never been this harsh with him before—he's heard her take this tone with Jo before, when Jo did something especially terrible, but maybe it had something to do with John's already harsh parenting and Dean's lack of a mother that Ellen never talked to him and Sam like that.

"She went out of her way," Ellen continues, poking Dean in the chest as her voice rises in volume, "to save you. She went out of her way to stick by you. And you leave her with that backstabbing little snake, and now she's dead. Because of you."

"Ellen—" Dean tries one more time, his voice shaking, but she shakes her head. "Please?"

"I can't even look at you. You Winchesters are all the same, aren't you?" She hesitates and then turns. She walks away.

"It wasn't your fault, Dean," Sam whispers. "Dad says that she's just angry. He says she'll come 'round."

Dean shakes his head slightly. Jo got her stubbornness from her mother. If he knew Jo—and he did, well enough to fool a whole country—then Ellen won't be talking to Dean for a long, long time. Maybe never.

"It happened to me, too," Bobby says quietly behind Dean. "Small price to pay for your life."

Dean doesn't agree. Will he have to give up all his family in order to survive? He's already lost Mary, Jo, and now Ellen… will John or Sam be next? What about Cas? Is this Naomi's play—completely isolate him until he has nothing better in life to do than listen to her every command?

"Come on, boy," the mentor commands, putting a gentle paw on Dean's shoulder and steering him away from the curious eyes. "Let's take a look at your new home."

"New home?" Sam repeats. "Why can't Dean come back with us?"

Because I'd wake you up every night screaming, just like how I've been waking up these past two nights.

"Dean's getting older, Sam," Bobby says gently. "He's gotta move out soon, just like you will. You'll still see him every day. But won't it be nice for you two to sleep in different beds? Different rooms, even?"

Dean can see why he's a mentor, even if he is a hermited old drunk. He's got a silver tongue that glints in the harsh sunlight, and somehow Dean still trusts Bobby more than John, despite how easily he deceives Sam. A few lies never hurt anybody, not in the way a few fists can.

"No," Sam starts hotly, but John clears his throat. Sam bites his lip and scowls at the ground.

Dean looks up at the sky for a second to keep the tears from falling down his face. Just that simple exchange—Sam immediately falling quiet at John's prompting—is such a far cry different than how Dean had left them. Where is the boy that defies John at every opportunity? Dean became a canvas painted by fists because of how many times John wasn't satisfied with Sam. He's not ready for Sam to carry that same burden.

What could John have possibly done in the short time that Dean was gone? How is Dean supposed to protect Sam from John if he also has to protect him from his nightmares by staying away from him?

Dean can see the hurt on Sam's face when he doesn't choose a neighboring home in the Victor Village. He chooses one that keeps him and Sam separated by three houses.

He won't scream loud enough at night for his voice to carry that far, will he? Dean hopes not. Besides, this might make Naomi believe that he's not as attached to his family as she'd like to believe.

"I can bring some of your stuff over," John volunteers. "You and Sam explore inside the house. Pick out your room." He pulls Dean into a hug, clapping his back, and Dean shudders.

"Funky town," he whispers into his father's ear.

John pulls back, that measured happiness still on his face, and pulls at his ear before spinning on his heel and walking away. It doesn't give him much comfort. Pulling at one's ear has never been a signal in the Winchester family.

Dean likes this new house for multiple reasons: it's right in the middle of the Victor Village, so if he ever needs to run away, he'll have an equal distance to go in either direction. He makes a mental note to time how long it takes him to run out of the Victor Village.

The house has a lot more life than his old one. He's never seen anyone come to clean it up, but someone must; there's no dust anywhere. It's spotless.

By the time Sam's finished exploring the main floor, John's packed up all of Dean's clothes, assorted trinkets, and toiletries. It only takes one suitcase, and a suspiciously short amount of time. He might have already had the bag packed. The second bag he brings he tells Dean not to open until he's alone.

It's a crate filled with different kinds of alcohol—the kinds of alcohol that John reeks of late at night. He's turning into John more and more every passing day, and Dean can't seem to stop himself.

After the first few burning sips of whiskey that make his face pucker up, Dean musters up enough courage to examine his body in the mirror. Doctors told him that all his scrapes were healed before he left for home, but to still treat himself with care. He hasn't had enough courage to look at the physical scars left over from the Games, but that's the funny thing about alcohol. It gives people the freedom to do things they'd never do sober.

The end of the scar that Dean had gotten from the hellhound peeks out from his left sleeve. Dean rolls it up until the whole scar is exposed. 'Keloid', the doctors in the Capitol had described it. It's a pretty word for an ugly mark; the three lines are jagged, pink, and raised. They're impossible to miss. When Dean tilts his head and squints, the scar could almost look like a branded handprint. One of the doctors, the most normal-looking one, explained that it looked like that because of excess protein in his skin while they were working on it because of the IV drip he'd had in his arm that was supplying him lifesaving nutrients.

That's what Dean gets for being severely malnourished. He gets an ugly scar. Yay him.

Twisting around to see his shoulder provokes another ache to pulse through his side. Dean remembers grabbing Constance's wrist, absurdly confident that that was the turning point in their fight, and she had pulled a fast one on him. The benefits of lifelong formal training, he supposes. She'd driven it right through Dean. It had been a miracle she hadn't hit any vital organs.

'Contracture scars,' the same almost normal looking doctor had told him. Caused by burns. Dean had frowned; he'd been stabbed, not burnt, but she'd explained that they had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding; it was impossible to stitch his skin together through all the blood. The small almost-circle looks to be made of spindly little folds in his skin, causing a tightness that Dean feels with every step. He twists his body and, sure enough, another identical scar mars his back. He was instructed to apply lotion to the areas every day for months to reduce loss of movement.

He's not sure if he's pleased or angry that there are scars to remind him of his time in the arena. Dean's never been disillusioned about his looks; he's averagely attractive at best. These scars lower him quite a few pegs. Who'd want someone whose ankle clicks and aches with every step because 'a piece of the bone had flaked right off the joint' and the doctors had had to 'remove it from his bloodstream' as it was 'too small to reattach'? Who'd want someone whose left arm is halfway covered in puffy red lines that are impossible to ignore? Who'd want someone who'd had to be burnt until scarring so he could survive?

And that's not even mentioning the nightmares.

Dean drops his shirt and turns away from the mirror.

He puts the lid back on the crate and shoves it into an unoccupied room, closing the door with some relief. He's not his father. He's not going to drown his sorrows in alcohol. It's nasty-tasting, anyway.

now

Dean stays in the same building every time he visits the Capitol on the intersection between streets thirty and thirteen. Unlike literally every single other surrounding building, this one has a metal staircase on its sides that Dean hadn't wanted.

Or that's what Naomi thinks.

There was a skewed message hidden in the staircase Dean had seen, but on the outside he just made a face and complained that it would remind him of the arena.

That had, of course, been the whole point. Naomi had been disappointed her subtle message hadn't come across. She enjoys seeing the tributes squirm.

The building has two stories. It's large enough for the whole Winchester family to live in, but Dean's never invited them. Like he'd want Sammy that close to Naomi. He'd be delivering him on a silver platter.

Never mind that Sam resents him for that. Never mind that the brothers not only sleep in different beds now, but different rooms and houses as well. Never mind that Ellen hasn't spoken to Dean for almost three years. Never mind that every tribute Dean has mentored has died. Never mind that Dean hasn't slept through the night without the aid of alcohol for three years.

Never mind, never mind, never mind.

He should have let Constance kill him. This cage isn't one with an available key. Hell, it doesn't even have a lock.

There's a small crowd waiting outside of his vacation home. Beetles.

Dean takes a deep breath and opens the door. He's entirely too sober for this.

"Mr. Winchester will not be signing autographs at this time," someone says through a speaker hooked to the top of Dean's house. Peacekeepers stand in rows outside of the car, serving as bodyguards Dean doesn't want.

He doesn't trust people whose faces he can't see. He hardly trusts anyone whose face he can see, though, so it's more that he has trust issues.

Dean could get out of the car. Turn to the right, where a pair of stick-thin girls with outrageous hair are walking. A right on thirty-second street, a left on fifteenth, and run straight until it intersects with thirty-eighth. He'd be at the train station. He could take the fifth train to District 5 that leaves in 45 minutes and be there in 3 hours. He calls that the Right plan.

Dean could get out of the car. Turn to the left, where a group of identically rose-colored boys are mingling. He could lose himself in the crowd. Take a left. Turn right on eleventh street. Take one more left on thirty-sixth street until he gets to the garage where John keeps all his extra stuff. Turn on the car and drive away. He calls that the Left plan.

Dean could get out of the car. Not turn at all. Walk up to the front door of the house he'd paid for in blood. Drown himself in alcohol whilst not thinking about the people he's lost. Maybe this time they won't bother to pump his stomach. Maybe this time he'll be able to slip away peacefully. He calls that plan Reality.

Dean gets out of the car. He doesn't turn. The beetles clamor for his attention and Dean flashes them a charming smile.

"Are you ready?" he bellows. The crowd screams back, though no one (including Dean) is exactly sure what they should be ready for. He's glad that only that small interaction is required of him.

The silent wall protects Dean as he walks up to the door. The wood has been painted a blood red and the handle is a dull black that doesn't gleam. Dean grabs the handle. It registers his fingerprints and allows him into the building.

It shouldn't be a safe haven. Dean shouldn't tense any less when he steps into the darkness. He's still surrounded on all sides by beetles and Naomi's henchmen.

But if he thinks about that too hard, Dean ends up in the hospital with tubes down his throat.

So he tries not to.

Though the inside of the house is dark, Dean knows that there are five ways out of the foyer: he could smash through any of the windows to his right (and commence with the Right plan) or run to the bathroom on his left and crawl out the window just above his toilet (which would be the starting point of the Left plan). He could also run to the right into the dining room (which would take him 4.3 seconds on average) or the left to the kitchen (4.7 seconds on average) or up to the second story of the house (12 seconds).

In the dining room, there are two windows that he could break with a running start, which would kickstart UpRight plan (which is just Right Plan but starting from the dining room), as well as an opening into the kitchen. There are no windows to smash in the kitchen, but there is a refrigerator that Dean could push in front of the opening from the dining room (in just 7 seconds) as well as an alcohol shelf that he could use to block off the entrance to the foyer (and that would only take him 9 seconds, with a few broken bottles). That would, of course, block him in the house, so that would be mostly a last resort—just a stalling tactic so he has enough time to kill himself if Naomi decides she wants him captured.

There is also the option of running up the stairs. There are four identical bedrooms on the second story, two on each side of the staircase. It takes Dean 14 seconds to run up the staircase and lock himself in either of the two closer bedrooms, and 17 seconds to lock himself in either of the two further bedrooms. In each bedroom is a bookshelf that he could push in front of the doors (which would take 2.5 seconds). Then Dean would lock himself in one of the walk-in closets that are provided and kill himself.

But only in case of emergency.

He takes his sweet time to turn on the lights. The foyer has been cleaned up. Last time he was here, he'd left shards of porcelain strewn about. Water, blood, and trampled white roses had been everywhere.

Now everything is immaculate. Dean's fingers twitch with the urge to wreck everything again, but he only grants himself that pleasure when he knows Naomi will write it off as passion, not long-simmering resentment: whenever one of his tributes dies and whenever he's at least four beers in, blood roaring through his ears but skin hard as iron. Dean doesn't hurt when he's drunk.

He allows himself to pretend for a few moments that he has privacy.

Then he walks into the kitchen (refrigerator 7, alcohol 9), where a phone hangs on the wall. The very moment he stops in front of the receiver, it rings.

Dean answers. One hand drifts up to the amulet hanging around his neck, worn dull from all the anxious rubbing he's treated it to in the past years.

"Even more citizens are excitedly awaiting this year's celebration," the person on the other end of the call says without preamble.

Dean presses his blunt tongue to his cheek, almost cringing at the alien feel. He's never really adjusted to the feel of the muscle missing its tip, and says nothing.

"Do try to restrain yourself tonight," Naomi continues. "I'd hate for you to be in anything but perfect shape for the reaping and Opening Ceremony."

"This is my last year," Dean blurts out. 'This' comes out as 'Thith', but only because of how rushed he was talking. He's been practicing talking for years. He sounds very nearly the same as before the Victory Tour. "Being a mentor is too much work." He can't stand to be responsible for two more deaths.

Of course, he hadn't wanted to be a mentor in the first place, but Naomi had insisted. He's been asking to quit ever since he'd started.

"No," Naomi says simply, and that's the end of that.

"Is there anything else you need?" Dean asks, so politely it chills him to his core. He doesn't even slur 'is'.

"That's all!" Naomi chirps. "See you bright and early tomorrow, Dean!" She hangs up and Dean leans his forehead against the wall. He lets out a long, measured breath.

Naomi sure likes to flaunt her omnipresence.

The bag he'd brought sags to the floor. It's the only weakness he'll admit to.

The Avoxes have restocked the bar since the last time Dean was here. Maybe this time surveillance will be thin enough not to catch him drinking until it's too late. Of course, he'd have to be sure about that—if he survives, Sam will get hurt because he disobeyed Naomi. If he dies, Sam won't be hurt, because what's the use in punishing a dead man?

Dean's fingers have just brushed the top of a crystal bottle when his doorbell rings. With a groan, Dean turns around to answer the caller. There's a fair number of people it could be—no beetles, obviously, but perhaps Charlie, any of the other Victors, Kara, another pretty Avox girl sent over by Naomi to entice him, or a Gamemaker—but Dean already knows who it is. It's the same person that found him unconscious the last time he'd tried to drink himself to death.

He flings the door open. His visitor blinks. "Castiel," Dean says flatly, shoving a hip into the door frame.

"Glad to see you back," the escort replies, very obviously scanning his hands for bottles.

"I'm not drunk," Dean grunts. "But I'm about to be. You showed up just in time for 'e party." He takes a step back to allow the man into his home. Dean knows perfectly well that Castiel is working for Naomi, sent to make sure he doesn't kill himself. But there's also real concern in Cas's eyes and Dean can't seem to force himself to snap at him.

"It's a party now?"

"A party of you and me," Dean replies. "Obviously 'e best kind of party." He glances at the escort, wanting to ask the question that's been burning on his tongue for years—what does she have over you? He wants to know if Castiel's allegiance to Naomi is forced or true. Can Dean trust him like he trusts Bobby Singer or Charlie?

John says no. For some reason Dean wants to say yes.

"I'd think you'd prefer your more… raucous parties," Castiel says hesitantly. He walks gingerly through the foyer as if remembering the second-to-last time he'd been here, when there had been beetles passed out on the floor and hanging off of every surface.

Dean scoffs. "Not in a million years. You're worth twenty beetles, Cas."

He despises those parties. He's surrounded by people without inhibitions while his own are lowered. It's a wonder he hasn't started to hit anyone yet. Or if he has, Naomi's done a good job of keeping it quiet.

The parties were her idea, after all, and who is Dean to deny her anything? She wants to keep him popular, always at the forefront of the public's minds, and what better way to do that than make him exclusive and desirable?

At least Dean can get away with only drinking and not participating in the more wild activities. He has no desire to try recreational drugs. The thought of being out of his mind is terrifying.

The one time he'd voiced those concerns to Cas, the escort had asked if Dean really doesn't trust himself. Of course Dean doesn't. He's like John, he knows it, he just hasn't had the chance to present those tendencies.

Dean is scared out of his mind of drinking in the Victor Village and Sam coming to visit him. He's had nightmares of hitting Sam while drunk.

But with Cas, Dean never gets too drunk. Castiel makes sure he drinks water and never angers the Victor too much. He's about 50% of Dean's impulse control at this point. So, yes, Dean really does prefer more private parties with Castiel, even if he is being spied upon, rather than the raucous ones that invariably result in messes that take Avoxes hours upon hours to clean.

"That is extremely kind of you to say," Cas says graciously, using his 'escort' voice. The difference between that voice and his relaxed voice is hardly noticeable, especially because of how deep his voice is, but after three years of interacting with him, Dean would be no better than Naomi if he couldn't tell the voices apart. Hell, Cas is basically Dean's best friend. He doesn't have Jo anymore, and she was pretty much the only person Dean's age that he talked to in District 5 and didn't sleep with.

"No chick flick moments," Dean grunts. "I'm sure there's one scheduled sometime now that I'm back, anyway. If you'd like to come…" He looks hopefully at the escort, who has so far managed to avoid nearly all of the parties.

Cas takes the offered glass of whiskey with a murmured 'thank you'. It's his favorite kind, not that Dean's noticed or anything. "I'm not really a 'people person', Dean. Or a 'party person'."

Dean can't help it. Despite how crummy he feels, Cas's incorrect use of finger quotations brings a reluctant smile to his face. "Me neither, buddy, but I still have to do it."

"Perhaps," Castiel replies vaguely. "I can't help but feel that you make rather irresponsible choices when intoxicated. Perhaps it would be best if I was there. To supervise you, of course."

"You don't just have to be a stick in the mud," Dean complains. He stands up to refill his glass, having drunk the whole thing without even realizing it, and Cas offers his half-full glass up for a refill wordlessly. "Have a little fun, bud."

"I think you rather know the feeling of not trusting yourself whilst intoxicated," Cas whispers to Dean's turned back, just quietly enough it's a question about whether he intended for Dean to hear. Dean's hand jerks, spilling some of the whiskey onto the table. He wipes it up with the hem of his shirt and lifts the bottle up to the light, examining how much of it is left. Barely enough for another glass.

Dean sets the nearly empty bottle as well as the glass in front of Cas and lifts his cup in a toast. "Cheers to that, Asstiel."

They slam their drinks back at the same time.