"You'll do fine," Haymitch sat on the floor across from Sam, his trembling hands folded together in his lap. Sam could tell he was struggling without his hourly drink, for before him sat an unraveled version of the boy he knew. For some reason, though, Haymitch's struggle made him feel just a little bit better.

On Sam's head was a knit beanie, and he was equipped with tall hiking boots and an apparently waterproof jacket, a small '12' pressed onto its left breast. All of the garments were rather thick, which, to say the least, was unsettling. As someone who had experienced what it was like to struggle to survive in the cold, an arctic arena was the worst he could imagine.

The small room was designed solely to hold the elevated pedestal on which Sam stood. The disk of shining metal was meant to raise him into the chosen arena; the arena where he'd fight the other tributes to the death. It made no point to try and guess where he'd end up in only a few short minutes. He'd be swallowed by panic and confusion regardless.

"I sure hope so," Sam responded, jamming his hands into the jacket's large pockets.

"No, I mean it," Haymitch insisted. Haymitch also dug his hands into one of the pockets that lined the inside of his suit, but unlike Sam he was clearly searching for something. Retrieving a small parcel, Haymitch stood.

"Take it," he said, extending the tiny paper bag to Sam. "I wore it for my games, so you should have it for yours. It's only natural we start a tradition for the victors of 12."

Tearing open the bag, Sam found a minuscule golden amulet. It was secured to a thin black string, one that could easily have been found on the ground at the Hob. Its size and simplicity stood for everything that represented District 12.

"I had it cleared, so you can bring it into the arena without a problem. I felt sort of bad that your family and friends didn't give you anything."

Haymitch continued to ramble on in his withdraw-induced explanation as Sam slid the necklace over his head. Tucking the amulet under his shirt, he smiled.

"I'll return it when the games are over, okay?" Sam said, not sure where he had interrupted Haymitch. He had never seen the boy, or anyone in the Capitol, look as genuinely hopeful as he did now.

"Naturally," Haymitch chuckled.

Two officials came to remove Haymitch, just as they had Gabriel. Sam waved goodbye offhandedly, but deep down he hoped it wouldn't be permanent. Returning his sentiment with a lopsided smile, Haymitch waved back wearily.

The doors to the room hissed shut, leaving Sam alone. The only other visible thing in the room was a large digital clock with no real purpose but to show him how long he had until the games would officially start, until he would end. One minute and 40 seconds. One minute and 30 seconds. The time seemed to fall away faster than ever before, betraying Sam as it crumbled into nothing.

At 80 seconds, he began to rise. Closing his eyes, he tried to will away what was about to happen. In seconds, multiple people would be gone forever, and he might be one of them. Hell, he could be the one to take them away.

The movement soon stopped as the pedestal fell into place.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 51st Annual Hunger Games begin!"

A loud voice began to count down the sixty seconds before they could leave their pedestals. An icy atmosphere hung around him. It wasn't quite arctic but still cool enough to chill. Sam figured he should open his eyes and use what little time he had to form some sort of plan, but his fear glued them shut.

"30! 29! 28! 27!"

Sam couldn't hear anything but the numbers. They were so loud that he could literally feel the sound bouncing off of his skin. It was strange, the sort of noise they made. It was almost as if the announcer was speaking through some sort of funnel. It almost reminded him of the way the guides spoke in the mines.

"10! 9! 8! 7!"

Finally able to force his eyes open, Sam looked around.

He was met by complete and total darkness.

.o0o.

"3! 2! 1!"

Out of the darkness burst the cornucopia, suddenly illuminated like a reactor at the plant. Shadows cascaded against the walls of what Castiel could only assume was a cavern. He had never seen a space so dark. Even with the cornucopia, he could barely see this one.

Leaping from the pedestal as if it were made of bees, he looked for an escape. From where he was standing, he could make out at least two exits. Backing towards one of them, a brief memory of his alliance flitted through his racing mind.

Claire.

Frantically, Castiel dove into the shadows, watching the bloodshed that surrounded him from a seemingly hidden place. The youngest boy, Pan from District 8, was sobbing on the ground. Castiel couldn't tell if the boy was actually wounded or if he had merely snapped. Either way, every part of him yearned to help the boy.

As he was about to reveal himself, the small blonde-haired girl from District 2 ran past and gutted the boy, ending the loud sobs that had echoed off of the walls with one last shudder. It was the first time Castiel had actually watched someone die. Sure, in the plants he would see injuries or diseases – some of which proved fatal, but he had never actually heard someone take their last breath.

Scream their last scream.

"Castiel!" he heard a voice shout. Albert materialized before him, his face and cap bloody, but his body seemingly unharmed.

Relief. He had found them. He had found his saviors.

"Albert?" he asked, mainly to make sure the bloody boy was really there. "Where's Claire?"

Albert shook his head violently, pulling the cap off of his nearly bald head.

"Listen, man, we have to get o –"

Again, Castiel heard the noise. The violent noise that emerged with someone's last breath. This time, however, it was accompanied by a small shower that sprinkled onto his jacket, reminding him of the bit of rain that fell before a storm. Castiel froze under the mixture of blood and spit, trying to process what had just happened.

Albert collapsed onto the group with a thump, his body suddenly a marionette released by his master. Castiel searched for the cause, his back remaining pressed firmly against the cool cave wall. A long throwing knife jetted out of the boy's breathless back. Unable to take his eyes off of the soiled weapon, his mind stopped. Time stopped. Nothing in the world mattered but that one boy with the knife in his back.

Castiel felt someone grab his shoulder and pull him further into the darkness. Still, his eyes stayed glued on the dead boy. The way his body laid on the rocky ground in an uncouth sleep was hypnotic.

"Castiel!" someone called in the distance, their voice near a whisper. No, Castiel realized. They were not far away. Meg stood a few inches from his face, screaming for him to follow. Her wavy brown hair was tied back to expose her surprisingly angry face. Next to her stood Ardor, eyes glassy and scared.

"We have to get out!" Meg yelled, her voice suddenly much louder. Castiel pulled his glance from Albert, attempting to remember how to move and speak.

"Where's Claire?" his voice was different, more rugged than he remembered. Something inside of him had changed.

The Games had started.

"She's somewhere over there," Meg answered, motioning carelessly with her hand, "Castiel, she's probably dead. You have to save yourself."

Castiel clenched his jaw and turned in the direction Meg had motioned. Barely able to see anything outside the cornucopia's range, he made out a vicious war scene at its mouth. About twenty feet from it laid a small crumpled form with one long, blonde ponytail.

Claire.

Turning swiftly from Meg's grasp, he ran to her, careful to remain as silent as possible. Her body was curled where she lay on the ground. Castiel felt a twinge of happiness as he approached her, she looked nothing like Albert had – limp and twisted. No, she was tense; she was frigid even. She was still alive.

"Claire?" he whispered as he stooped beside the girl. Why did he care so much? Why didn't he just leave her there and have one less person to worry about? As much as he wanted to leave, he still shook her awake.

"Castiel?" the small coo was barely audible. The girl peered up at him with a startlingly pained expression.

Castiel's eyes fell to her hands. Both of them clutched desperately at her stomach, glistening blood drenching their shaking form. On the ground beside her rested yet another knife, this one much less bloody than Albert's.

"It's going to be okay," he lied. It might not have been a deep enough wound to kill her immediately, but she'd never make it like this for the remainder of the games.

The girl was small, so with little effort he was able to lift her from the ground. Instantly, he was thankful for the waterproof feature of his jacket, as he could feel a warm patch developing where the girl was bleeding. She was breathing heavily and her heartbeat was rapid, but other than that she seemed fine.

Fine, Castiel scoffed to himself.

Meg and Ardor were almost gone by the time that he caught up to them. At the sign of Claire's torn body, Ardor leapt behind Meg.

"No, we're not taking her," Meg said to the boy.

"Then you can give me a knife and let me pass," Castiel growled, attempting to stand his ground despite the girl in his arms. With a groan, she tossed a pack at his feet.

"Come on, we're going."

.o0o.

The first person Dean took was a boy. He remembered seeing the boy, Liam Chang – the male tribute from District 9, during training. He was only a year younger than Dean, yet he stood almost a foot shorter. Regardless of his height, the boy was terribly average with average hair, average eyes, average build, and even an average score of 7. Michael had insisted on tagging him as dangerous due to his obvious aversion to the lifting station, but Dean didn't believe it for a second. Past tributes from 9 had suffered chronic back problems, so he supposed that that was the most likely culprit.

Dean had counted down with the announcer, trying desperately trying to make out their location. The announcer's echo suggested that they were indoors – something that he had never seen before. The air was cold and thick, but it was unlike anything he had experienced in training. There was something familiar, however; he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Once the canon fired and the cornucopia became visible, Dean had immediately reverted to his training. Jumping from the pedestal, he reviewed the basic rules of the bloodbath that his father had taught him. Get a weapon, take out the target, avoid becoming one, spoke the emotionless voice in his mind. The steps were easy to follow.

Get a weapon.

Dean was the first tribute at the glowing cornucopia, and his hands were the first on a pack of throwing knives and a beautiful sword. Lilith arrived shortly after, but she was gone in a second. Dean didn't stick around to see what the other careers took. He needed to get to the next step.

Take out the target.

Fleeing the scene rather than sticking around to find supplies, a few tributes had made their way into the shadows. Liam was unlucky enough to be the first individual to catch his eye. Standing over a pile of supplies, the boy seemed about to flee. Like a machine, Dean sent two of the knives spiraling into the boy as he had over a thousand dummies. Liam fell – just as the dummies had, and he crumpled – just as the dummies had.

Nevertheless, there was something strange about the passing. When Liam fell, it was like he dragged a part of Dean with him. His chest was a bit emptier in a gross and horrifying way.

But he had to keep going.

Avoid becoming the target.

Ducking as an axe was poorly launched past his head, he turned to meet his next victim. Readying his knife, he watched as Albert Nutt from District 7 ran towards the shadows. Albert had managed a higher score than Liam, ranking at an 8.

The knife left his hand before his heart could beat. Albert fell exactly the way Liam had, tearing away another piece of Dean as he went. Apprehensively, he looked around. Many of the tributes had either run off, died, or joined the brawl by the cornucopia. The gaping hole now growing inside him ached to run into the shadows, but he resisted it. He had to stay with the careers.

A part of him, the part his father had etched into his mind, still needed to win.

At that moment, a reflection in the shadows caught his eye. Two small orbs of blue hovered over Albert, wide and unblinking. It was the boy from 5, the one he had stopped Michael from attacking.

"If you have the chance to kill, take it," his father's voice barked in the back of his mind as he flexed his fingers on the hilt of his knife.

"No," he responded aloud, "Not anymore."

And so Dean turned from the boy and ran toward the cornucopia.