Trying his hardest to keep his heart rate steady, Dean boarded the golden chariot. His bare chest was heaving, and he knew the crowd would notice if he didn't calm down. Ugh. He tried not to think about the crowd. It would be the largest one he had ever witnessed, and he would be at the center of it. He was their focus. His hands began to shake at the realization that this crowd - this meaningless crowd - and the one from the Reaping were just stepping stones. Sure, he wouldn't be able to see the hundreds of thousands of faces watching him once the Games actually started, but he knew they'd be there.

"You okay, Winchester? You look like you're going to throw up," Lilith snickered.

Waves of nausea rocked him. Was he going to throw up? No. Vomit was a body's way of releasing something, and he knew that was impossible right now – the pressure was too much. There was no way anything could escape him, not steady breaths, not even vomit.

When he was young, Dean used to sneak out of class and run off into the hills that surrounded the village just for the solitude they offered; just so that for a moment he could escape pressure's hands and breathe. His father always exploded at him when he returned home, but even just a few minutes in the hills was worth it. As his father yelled and screamed, he would fantasize a world where he could go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted. Closing his eyes, he forced himself there.

"No, I'm fine."

The music began with a single blaring note, startling him to the core. Gripping the front of the chariot, he watched District 1 roll away; their costumes' many rhinestones catching the light from every angle.

"Break a leg," Lilith smiled creepily, "See you on the other side."

The cart lurched forward as the horses broke into a steady trot. Within seconds, they were launched into a roaring sea of applause. Dean could feel the false smile on his face and the welcoming glimmer his father had taught him flooding into his eyes, but he had no control over them. His mind flying faster than ever before, he waved anxiously in every direction. It wasn't healthy – the speed of his thoughts and the strength of his concentration – but the sound of his father's voice echoing throughout the inside of his skull shouted otherwise. His life might as well rest on this very moment.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!" he could hear his name chanted through the havoc. It sounded volumes louder than every other noise, a beacon in the storm. People were rooting for him, their favorite. A surge of joy and acceptance unlike any he had ever felt surged throughout his body. He was caught up in the Game, and he knew it. The fame. The popularity. The sound of his name was almost enough to fully corrupt him.

Lilith punched him playfully in the shoulder as if she were his kid sister, reminding him of where he was. He allowed himself to laugh with her for a minute, making sure to act as if they were above the crowd. The people of the Capitol love a tribute whose attention had to be earned, his father had always said.

But don't act like a spoiled brat.

As the chariot came to a stop, Dean and Lilith simultaneously threw their arms into the air in triumph, sending a shockwave through the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a multitude of large rainbow dresses and bright suits leaping out of their chairs as if they were red hot.

For once, he felt as if his father would be proud of him. The nausea didn't settle.

.o0o.

The ceremony was exactly the same as it had always been, although this year Sam had a much different view. Every year, he and Gabriel would watch the Chariot rides together on the small beat-up television in the Distillery. It was a nice excuse to spend extended amounts of time there without feeling like he was imposing. Like everyone else in District 12, they would openly mock the Capitol's fashion and culture, but deep down in Sam's empty stomach he envied them. What was it like, spending so much time on lavish things like outrageous hair and makeup when he had to spend hours fighting for a meal?

His cart came to a stop before the president's home. How could one man live in a house like that? He had seen it on TV towering over the giant buildings of the Capitol, but it was different in person. It was the sort of building that triggered a sense of disassociation, that felt unreal even as it stood before him. Sam felt like an ant, ready to be crushed by plaster and stone. Even District 12's largest building, the Justice Building, would be swallowed whole by this beast of a building.

He could hear various names as they were chanted by the crowd. Judging by the dazed faces of the career tributes, he assumed it was for them. No matter how hard he focused, Sam couldn't hear his name. To them, he was just another miner from District 12; he might as well be the ghost of a previous tribute. Of course he would die a nameless face.

Just like his brother.

President Snow arrived and delivered a disgustingly loquacious speech about the games. There was something inherently frightening about Snow, but naturally there had to be. Sam picked at the cheap blue fabric that the stylists claimed was usual for a miner's uniform. When was this just going to end?

Suddenly, his chariot lurched forward once more, answering his question. The return journey was much less interesting, for the crowd completely worn by their intense applause for the careers. Releasing the air he had held captive in his petrified lungs, they finally pulled into the Remake Center.

This part of the journey was over.

The tributes leapt out of their chariots, cheeks flushed with joy and adrenalin.

"Did you hear them? They were chanting my name!" Sam heard the little boy from District 4 say, a smile plastered on his stereotypically underage face.

A frustrated "yeah" was all the girl offered in response. She was clearly a career, her thick hair pulled back by a seashell pin, exposing her harsh, tortured face. She patted the boy on the back, leading him from the room. That's strange, Sam thought. Careers were typically nice to each other, but not to people outside of their circle. And this boy - this child - he was no career.

Suddenly, the boy's fish-like costume caught on his bare feet, dragging him to the floor with a clatter. Every face in the room turned to the boy, a few giggles echoing off the high walls. Sam jogged over to the boy, trying to momentarily suffocate his general distain for the lower districts.

"Are you alright?" he asked, squatting to help him.

"Uh, yeah," the boy answered, looking to the girl from his district for support. He clearly didn't understand why Sam was helping him. To be fair, Sam hardly did, either.

What a horrible place, the Capitol. Was it really so strange that he, a tribute from District 12, may help a young boy who had potentially hurt himself?

Yes.

"I'm Sam," he added, helping the boy to his feet. "Sam Wesson."

"What game are you playing?" the girl said aggressively, stepping between Sam and the boy.

"I was just helping him up," Sam stated defensively, throwing his hands up as he took a single step back.

The girl flared her nostrils as she watched Sam inquisitively. Eventually, her face relaxed a bit.

"I'm Maria Featherfin, and this is Rod. I'd enjoy it if you left us alone from now on."

And the two walked away, Maria leading Rod in perfect synchronization. Sam felt strange as the realization hit him. He had walked that way with Adam before he had been reaped. They were siblings.

.o0o.

The tall boy from District 12 watched the two tributes from District 4 walk away, completely unaware of Castiel's prying eyes.

"What's up with that?" Claire asked somewhat jokingly, her eyes wandering in the same direction as his.

Castiel shrugged. What was that boy doing, treating them like that? Was he strategizing, or was he merely the one truly selfless person here? Castiel knew the latter had to be false, even though the boy's large eyes were wide with apparent sorrow. No one was nice here, especially someone who volunteered. To do that he would have to be nuts – nuts or suicidal. It had to be nuts, looking at the boy's size. No one that thin would go to such lengths just to kill himself. All they had to do was go one more day without a meal.

Castiel's stomach growled at the thought of starvation. He yearned to return to his sweet smelling room and sink into the mountains of food that littered the shelves and tables.

"Let's go," Claire intervened, noticing his vacant expression. Claire patted his shoulder as she walked away, and he hesitantly followed. Within a few days of these informal interactions, he could sense that they'd be friends. Did he want that? He knew he'd die, but did he want to see another person he cared about go, too?

Of course not.

Claire passed by the careers quickly, brushing past the boy from District 1, Michael, as she went.

"Watch where you're going, fatty," he said, inches away from spitting in her face. Castiel could sense that under different circumstances, he probably would have slapped her, but fighting was forbidden among tributes. Instead, Michael just rolled his shoulder, flexed his hand, and turned to the other careers, a lax grin on his face. "People like her are why I started training in the first place."

"Hey!" Castiel shouted before he could stop himself.

A look of amused rage on his frightening face, Michael turned to face him. Castiel immediately regretted his interjection.

"Are you talking to me?" Michael yelled. Castiel couldn't tell if he was acting surprised or if he actually was.

"Yes," he responded as sturdily as he could, his hand shaking with every syllable.

Michael threw his head back and cackled loudly, the noise bouncing off of every surface.

"Kid, I can take you down in a second."

Castiel didn't doubt the boy's ability to do so, but Michael – being the bully he was – needed to demonstrate. He flew at Castiel, his beefy arm around his neck before he even had time to be afraid.

"And snap," Michael growled into his ear huskily, pretending to break Castiel's neck.

"Lay off him, Michael."

A new, deeper voice joined the mix. Castiel looked up from Michael's embrace to see the boy from District 2, Dean Winchester. Unlike the other careers, Dean's expression looked strangely inviting despite the anger that surged through his voice.

"Are you going to stop me, Winchester?" Michael challenged, tightening his grip on Castiel until it was almost painful.

"Yeah, I will," Dean answered, crossing his arms menacingly. "He isn't worth it."

Reluctantly returning to his group, Michael released Castiel with a grunt. Dean waited until he was gone before turning back to the glowing boy.

"I'd go," he continued in his rugged, enraged tone, "and I'd stay away."