Castiel returned to his room disheartened and exhausted. His heart, wild and frantic, felt as if it was about to burst from his worn, pale chest. His entire life had been spent around other workers and Anna, but now he was just as alone as he had always feared. He hated it. He hated not having someone to look to, someone to seek guidance from.

Throwing himself onto the large king-sized bed, he attempted to will away his loneliness and the hatred toward this place. Consumed by the mattress, his mind wandered home. When he was ten, Anna had taken him to a small bargain marketplace outside of town. There, they had managed to acquire their two heavily used mattresses. For months afterwards, sleeping actually felt like rest. Compared to this bed, however, they had been torturous rocks.

He still missed them.

"Castiel?" Claire's sweet voice rang out through the relatively thin door. Despite the fact that Claire seemed to enjoy his company, being near her was beginning to make him feel even worse. Claire reminded him of his fate, of exactly what death would mean.

"I'm coming!" Castiel called back, dragging himself from the bed. Opening the door, he found the young girl. She was as pale and terrified as he was, her hands clasped together in front of her most likely uneasy stomach. Deep down, he wondered if it showed as obviously on his face as well.

"They are announcing training scores," she mumbled. Her voice was careful, almost as if her words were potentially offensive.

Together, they walked to the main room. There, their escort and three of the four surviving victors from District 5 sat surrounding a large television screen. Zachariah was lounging on the middle of the long couch, the only two remaining seats at each side.

"Come on, kids!" he said, patting the cushions beside him. Castiel winced at the thought of sitting tucked under the outstretched arms of this man, but he had to. In the next few weeks, he'd have to do a lot of things that would make him wince.

On the screen a young Caesar Flickerman, with hair speckled a shining gray, silver, and brown, and a few other Capitol representatives were chatting about what the scores meant, what the average scores were, and other relevant things. The previous victor, Haymitch, had only gotten a 7 – a score that was actually quite rare from his district. Caesar joked about how that meant anyone could win no matter what the score. There was something almost friendly about the announcer, about the way he seemed to speak to the tributes. He seemed to see them as people rather than the dolls of the Capitol, or at least he had mastered the ability to make it seem like he did.

Before Castiel knew it, faces were flashing onto the screen. The boy who had attacked him, Michael, had managed a 10. Even for a career, that was actually quite good.

Suddenly, Castiel began to worry about his own score. From what Zachariah had insisted, every one of the tributes would tear these scores apart. 10? They must be a monster. 3? They're either a blubbering idiot or a conniving lunatic.

The boy who defended him dissolved onto the screen, a large glowing "11" next to him. For some reason, Castiel almost felt sorry for him. The careers always turned on the highest rankers first, despite how impressed they may seem now.

A few more scores came and went, almost always getting lower and lower. Finally, his glowing blue eyes – as menacing as he could make them – were staring back at him.

6.

He didn't know what to feel. A part of him was happy that he didn't totally fail, but he knew what people would think. To the other tributes he could be an easy kill or the type of tribute that would hide as long as he could. Anyways, he could probably escape the bloodbath on a six.

Claire won a 5, which was actually a surprise. Castiel could never imagine her lashing out at anyone.

From then, no one scored above an 8 (including the tall muscular boy from 12). That is, except for Meg, who had scored a 9 and tied with a few of the careers. A feeling of what he could only identify as pride swelled inside his heart. He would be working with her.

But then a creeping fear shoved that feeling deep into his gut. Would the careers go after her? Would they go after him?

Noticing his poorly hidden frantic expression, Zachariah leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

"Don't worry, boy. You can at least take the girl," he said motioning back at Claire.

It didn't help.

.o0o.

All of the tributes were lined up outside the stage, all in the nicest clothing their designers could create. Dean was suited in a light grey tuxedo, his sandy hair gelled back to expose his admittedly stunning face. Next to him, Lilith stood with a similar hairstyle and a muted version of a princess dress that managed to transform her into a much more serious looking version of herself all while maintaining her doll-like appearance. Silently, he wondered what sort of angle they hoped to work with the girl. Shockingly vicious, most likely. As his father had always said:

"Remember son, the Capitol loves a violent killer."

The words seemed so clear, so real. He shuddered at the impression his father had left on him. That one man had been able to engrave words into his mind to the point that they spoke louder than his own thoughts.

A hand fell onto Dean's shoulder, causing him to nearly leap out of his flesh. Spinning on his heel, he came face to face with none other than John Winchester.

"Dad?" Dean asked, his voice nothing but a young child's whimper. It hadn't been his memory of his father's voice, it had been the real thing.

John stopped next to him for only a moment, wearing a similar suit. Dean knew his father had the option to come and coach him, but if Dean had truly made the effort to voice anything in his life, it had been the fact that he didn't want him there. In fact, Dean had blatantly told him multiple times that he would rather have any other victor to coach him.

"I want to be able to concentrate on winning, not worried about how you might feel about my safety," he had lied one day during the walk home from training.

"As long as you have a good coach, I won't worry about your safety, son," his father had responded harshly. Dean had reasserted the point a few other times, so he had assumed his father had gotten the real message. These last few days away from his father, even if they had been spent training just as he had spent every other day, had been unimaginable. He had been free of him.

The screams of the thousand-some Capitol citizens bombarded Dean's eardrums as the large doors were open and Lace was led out onto the stage in her sparkling blue dress. The tributes were able to watch the interviews on a rather large screen, but at the moment Dean was completely unable to pull his eyes away from his father's.

"You can't be surprised to see me here, Dean," John finally responded with a chuckle, "You honestly couldn't expect me to watch my son go through this back in the district, could you?"

His father's nonchalance was unsettling. How could he stand there and watch his son go through the same traumatic experience he had, and how could he do it with such a overly sweet smile on his face?

Snapping Dean out of his shock, someone farther down the hall called back to John.

"I have to go, boy," John said, patting his shoulder once more and sending shivers down his spine, "See you after your interview."

And John was gone, leaving Dean a complete and total emotional wreak. One of the tributes behind him quietly muttered something about how he missed his father, but it only made Dean feel worse.

"You okay, Winchester?" Lilith said next to him. She sounded sincere, but at this point he had no idea what to think. His mind was shattered. Turning to face the girl, he met nothing but a closing door.

It was almost time for his interview.

Frantically, Dean attempted to collect himself. This was the last time he'd be able to make an impression before the games, and he didn't want to come off as a whining, anxious, panicky child. He wanted to be a strong addition to the Winchester legacy.

Or at least he wanted the people of the Capitol to think he was.

The doors opened and a rather large man swept him onto the stage. It was a weird sensation, walking out into the heavily lit theatre. It was similar to the Chariot Ride in the sense that every sound he could hear was his own name echoing out of the darkness, and yet it was also completely alien. When he turned to face the crowd, a winning smile on his face, he could see nothing but a thousand spotlights.

He had never felt so alone.

Taking his seat next to the famous Caesar Flickerman, Dean made sure to follow all of his father's etiquette tips. But then in a fit of organized rebellion, he spread his legs and leaned back, making sure to seem utterly relaxed.

"This must be a walk in the park for you, huh? Even managed to swing an 11!" Caesar beamed, noticing his posture. There was something about Caesar's unrepeatable elation that amazed Dean. How could one person be so charismatic?

"Yeah, I had expected a 10," Dean tried to match the man's captivating appearance.

"Modest too!" Caesar allowed the audience to laugh for a moment before turning back to him, "So Dean, I heard a rumor that your father is coaching you, what is that like?"

"Honestly," Dean started, not knowing how to finish in a positive way, "I just found out that he was here a few seconds ago."

Caesar leaned back in surprise.

"You mean he's backstage?"

Dean's heart sank as he realized what Caesar was about to do. A loud murmur rose throughout the room, sending shivers down Dean's spine. Would he publicly be able to contain himself around John?

He didn't have the opportunity to figure it out for himself, for his father was already on the stage. The crowd went wild, their screams piercing the heavily fortified shield Dean had trained so hard to build. A few men pushed a third chair next to him, which his father graciously fell into. Dean hoped that the overwhelmed look on his face would be read as the love of a young son.

"John Winchester!" Caesar exclaimed, leaning over to shake the man's hand. Bile rose in Dean's throat as they began to chat about John's life after the Games. Naturally, the Capitol would eat it up. The people of the districts typically looked down on the Games, so they were bound to play up John's love for them. Plus, the story of a legacy was too good to pass up. Every once in a while, Dean would hear his name come into play, but he had left the interview when his father arrived.

"I believe we have a small clip of your final minutes in the arena, do you mind if we play it for old time's sake?" Caesar pulled Dean back in. Were they really that into his father's story?

"It would be my honor," John said genuinely.

Suddenly the entire wall behind Dean melted away into a huge television screen. There was complete silence as the cameras panned over a much younger John Winchester, his rigid jaw and deep black hair reminding Dean more of Michael than of himself. Blood was dried on his shirt and neck, mixing with a brown layer of sweat and grime. Dean had seen his father's video hundreds of time. By this point, all of the other careers had died, two of them taken by his hand after a rift within the alliance had formed. John had managed a kill total of five tributes and was inching towards his sixth.

There was only one more tribute left, a stocky girl from 6. She had hidden in the woods for the first few weeks, attempting to wait out the worst. John had found her, though.

Like Dean, John could track anyone.

He normally looked away once the screaming started, but the audience's eyes bore into the back of his head. The girl put up a fight, slicing a large gash in John's stomach, leaving a scar that was still there to this day. John fell to the ground, clutching his stomach as he fought the pain. Within seconds, he was still – the forest floor coated with his blood. A relieved look washed over the girl's face as she watched John die.

But a canon never sounded.

John leapt from the ground, startling even Dean. The girl fell on her back in fear, knocking her head on a tree stump. John didn't take the chance she did, though, throwing himself onto of her and stabbing her repeatedly.

Nausea washed over Dean. That was the Games, not the fluff pouring out of some grey dummy. He would have to kill, just as his father had.

However, it was when John looked up and made eye contact with the cameras and that horror flooded Dean's veins. He expected the people of the Capitol to miss it, for only someone who had seen that look staring back at them in the mirror would notice it. It was regret and self loathing.

Dean watched his father force away the need to die as the final canon sounded. All of his life, Dean had seen John as an unmovable force, a mindless soldier trained to kill without sympathy. The Games hadn't affected him, so why would the effect Dean? But that look, that second's glimmer of total emptiness, it said it all. He knew exactly what he was putting his son through. He had felt it himself.

And a new sort of anger arose within Dean.

.o0o.

Castiel felt as if he was in a different place, like he wasn't standing in the stuffy hallway watching the other tributes' interviews. He had only gone to school for a month or two, but lined up with the others he couldn't help but reminisce. In a minute, the teacher with her borderline sweet-smelling hair would burst from the classroom door and take them in for a few hours of organized study. No one would have to die or kill, just sit and think.

And yet the doors weren't opened by the foggy woman from Castiel's memories, they were opened by a towering man with empty yellow eyes. The man grabbed his shoulder and carelessly threw him on stage.

Finding his way to the large interview chair, he felt his words cling to his throat in a thick, suffocating way. Would he even be able to answer any of the questions posed to him? Would he even be able to breathe?

"So Castiel," he heard Caesar's soft voice, disjointed by his nervous haze, "What is life like back in District 5?"

"Bleak," Castiel yelped without any forethought, his words like a bubble rapidly launched to the surface, "Tiresome."

The crowd that sat behind the millions of spotlights laughed, completely unaware of Castiel's bitter honesty. The dark happiness churned his stomach.

Could they see his panic?

"What's your family like? We've had a lot of those today!" Caesar boomed, reviewing previous interviews as Castiel's sank.

Castiel leaned further into his chair as grief overwhelmed his fear. Somewhere Anna was watching him, a terrible disease growing stronger and more deadly with every second it existed within her body. What would she think when she saw her baby brother on the screen utterly terrified?

"I only have an older sister," he blurted from the cocoon of the chair, "Sh-she's dying of cancer."

A spark of sadness ignited in Caesar's eyes, momentarily reminding Castiel that this colorful man was indeed human.

"Are you two seeking treatment? Cancer is an easily curable disease."

Castiel instantly sat up, the stunned and sympathetic silence of the audience creepily inviting. He had managed to get them interested in the interview, a feat he had never imagined possible.

"We can't afford it," he mumbled, hardly loud enough for his microphone to pick up. A few kind "aw"s echoed back right on cue, but he tried to ignore them.

"Well once you've won, you can pay for her treatment twice! Three times even!" The crowd roared in a blissful approval as the dark realization hit Castiel like a speeding train. Couldn't Caesar tell he could never reign victor? He would never beat Meg or Michael or Dean.

To him, the Games were life's sick way of flaunting Anna's only outrageous chance at survival. Sure, if he did win he could revive her, but that was equivalent to finding a random box full of billions and billions of dollars on the side of the road. It could happen, but it never would. No matter how wonderful the screaming audience seemed to think this possibility was, it was a lie. Castiel was just as powerless now as he had been the moment Anna had revealed her fate.

.o0o.

Dean stood wearily backstage, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his scratchy grey dress pants. It was much easier to watch the other tribute's interviews now that he had already gone.

Now that his father had already stolen his.

Of all of the interviews, he knew that his would stand out the most. Nothing like it had ever happened before, and honestly Dean wasn't even sure if it was allowed. The only other interview that even sort of measured up to his was that of the helpless boy he had stopped Michael from demolishing. The boy, Castiel, had mentioned a dying sister that only he could save. At first, Dean didn't buy it. Every year some kid forged a tear-jerking sob story, and every year he could tell they were faking it. This kid, however, looked about to cry before he had even had the chance to say anything. That sort of love, that sort of devotion, couldn't be faked. If his years of training next to soulless people had taught him anything, it would be that.

The mere thought of his training sent a shockwave of rage through his body, boiling his blood and blurring his eyesight. He had always hated seeing parents live vicariously through their children – making them take up special hobbies or practices, but what his father was doing was unfathomably worse. Dean had finally realized that his father was allowing himself to die through his son. No matter how large the part of John that thought Dean could make it was, the part that didn't still remained.

"Son, I need to talk to you about the interview," his father's booming voice appeared behind him, igniting an even more powerful anger. Unlike earlier, however, he didn't jump. This confrontation was to be expected.

"Since we're clearly playing off of this 'Winchester legacy' thing I need you to remember my tech—" John started, his permanently disappointed glare cutting into Dean.

"Stop!" Dean shouted, effectively silencing his father for the first time in his life. John stood stunned, but allowed his son to continue.

"Stop talking! Stop coaching me! Stop treating me like some goddamn attack dog!" Dean knew he could have kept going, but his better judgment put a dam on his angry river of words. The other tributes were beginning to stare.

"Son, I—" his father looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger. Dean shook his head violently, the dam bursting at his father's expression.

"No, no! Get away from me! Let me go die as you planned, okay? Let me go face the fate you planned for me! The fate you knew about! And if by any chance in hell I do win, I don't want to see your face ever again!"

He didn't wait for his father to react, but rather turned and stormed away. As he did, a thin smile graced his face. He was free. Finally, he had managed to say everything he had ever wanted to say. The sensation of weightlessness flooded his every core as he went. He was walking on a cloud. It may have been a stormy one, but it was a cloud just the same. For the first time, he didn't have to fake his confidence.

.o0o.

Alone in the hallway, Sam waited. He would be the last interview, and it tore at his mind. He knew Caesar would have a lot of questions for the volunteer from District 12.

Finally, a man came to get him. Remembering the brutish persona he was supposed to be portraying, Sam made sure to lean towards Caesar as he sat down, a strikingly aggressive stance when compared to the other tributes.

"How are you, Mr. Flickerman?" he inquired, suddenly feeling as if he was channeling Haymitch. He couldn't remember anyone else ever starting their own interview, so he decided to change the pace.

"Well, I am just fine," Caesar said, not allowing himself to be outwardly phased by Sam's change of pace, "But this interview is about you, not me."

A few people in the audience giggled in response.

"Well, I assure you, you are much more interesting than me," Sam smirked, his nerves suddenly subdued. For some reason, the power he had over the audience was nearly intoxicating. For these few minutes, he was in charge of the entire country.

"I'd doubt that!" Caesar laughed back, "You volunteered for this position, an incredibly rare accomplishment for your district! What was that like?"

Sam didn't know how to answer, but he refused to lose this control.

"Exhilarating and terrifying," he said to the audience, making sure to hide the fact that he spent every waking moment trying to suppress the memory. The memory of Gabriel's depressed face –

"Why did you do it, may I ask?" the interviewer pried, just in time to pull Sam from his thoughts.

"My crippled friend was the first boy to be Reaped, so I took his place," he grinned casually at the audience's supportive cheers, his face transforming into a mix of Haymitch and Gabriel's.

"That's very noble of you," Caesar said, clearing his throat to show that he wasn't finished, "Following today's theme, though, may I ask you relation to Adam Wesson?"

Sam froze, his face flushing with every feeling he should have felt since his Reaping. The audience was silent, perhaps due to the liquid fire that pooled under his cheeks, or more likely due to the mention of an unrecognizable name. Sam didn't expect any of them to remember Adam.

He didn't expect them to remember him after he died, either.

"Brother," he blurted disjointedly, "he was my older brother."

Another sympathetic sigh.

"Wow!" Caesar exclaimed, placing a supportive hand on the boy's shoulder, "We have a lot of returning families! For those of you who don't know, Adam was an unfortunate tribute in the 45th Hunger Games. He did quite well, if I'm remembering him correctly. A part of me thought you were avenging him."

Sam, flinching at the use of the word "unfortunate," tried to continue.

"Perhaps," he answered far too quietly. He could remember watching Adam's death – watching his older brother slain by some grunt. Perhaps a part of him had subconsciously volunteered out of vengeance.

"Well, that's it, folks!" Caesar boomed, rising from his chair, "In a year of families and vengeance, it sure is stacking up to be a great year! Let's have a round of applause for our final tribute!"

And everything Sam had known seemed to crumble away at the sound of his applause.