A ghostly silence flooded the cavern as the boy with the blue eyes collapsed onto the gravelly floor. Somewhere in the distance, the deafening squeaking of a thousand bats was slowly dying down to a low chatter. Soon, the careers would be free of their clutches. Free to find Dean and this unconscious boy waiting exposed in the caverns.

Dean's mind flashed to Yumi, to the screams she had made in her last moments as they had echoed in his eardrums, to the way her blood had pooled around her struggling body. When the careers came, they wouldn't kill this boy calmly. No, Dean knew much better than that. If anything, it'd be worse this time.

And he'd have to be the one to do it.

Alternative plans rushed into his mind like an unstoppable tsunami. He could kill the boy now while he was still unconscious. But how would the others react? They had told him directly that he had to kill the next tribute they encounteredand he knew they expected Lilith's tenacity. His career status had already been hanging by a thread, so he knew what another betrayal would result in: blood.

Another plan.

He could run. Sprint for miles through the caves until the careers were far behind him. Besides, he had enough water in his bag to last him for a couple of days. He could make it back to the cornucopia and find a different lake or stream, a different source of food and water. But then what? Then he'd be the careers' number one target, and he'd be all alone. His father would kill him if he had the sheer dumb luck to make it out alive. He'd be a disgrace.

Another plan.

He could hide and take on the careers. They had most likely been stunted by the bats' attack. It was essentially a fifty-fifty shot, but he'd still be left alone and injured. And he'd still have this blue eyed boy to deal with.

"Anna?"

Dean's eyes locked on the stirring boy. Shit, he was awake. There went killing him humanely.

Then something particularly strange happened. All of the plans seemed to fly out of the window as the boy's eyes slowly focused on him. It was stunning, watching the boy's eyes reflect the light he emanated as they gained full awareness. The way his eyes blew open at the sight of Dean, with his bloody knife in hand, was truly captivating.

The boy instantly threw himself against the wall, bracing himself for an attack. The motion, while completely natural, caught Dean off guard. In all his years of training, his opponents had never faltered. They actively fought back until a victor was called. But this boy, this boy didn't.

And killing him didn't seem right.

All of a sudden, Dean was overcome by the cameras' presence. The weight of the audience, of their opinions and feelings, pressed down on him with a terrifying force. He couldn't think. He couldn't fight. He couldn't move.

And immediately, his mind cleared. This boy was innocent. Innocent like Yumi had been when Lilith had torn her to shreds. Innocent like Lace had been as she had flown down that chasm. Innocent like every single tribute who had died so far in this arena.

Innocent like the child he was.

"So are you going to do it?"

The rough voice pulled him from his mind's clutches. The boy had spoken from his place up against the wall.

"What?" Dean could barely speak.

"Kill me. You know you are supposed to kill me now."

The boy spoke with such a certainty that he was almost condescending. Dean grabbed the back of his neck, stress welling in his palpitating bloodstream.

"I –" Dean stuttered, "I don't know if I can."

Dean could practically hear the gasps from his district, or the disappointed growl that had most likely bust from his father's downturned lips as the eyes of his friends and fellow victors turned to him. He had gone soft. He was mocking the game.

"So you aren't going to kill me now?" the boy asked, a burst of happiness bubbling to the surface of his strict voice.

"No," Dean said, hanging his head in shame. "Look, man, I need to get away from here. The others are going to be here soon, and I just can't."

Spinning on his foot, Dean prepared to run. He needed to run, to get away from here. Maybe he could wait it out until all the innocent tributes were dead. Maybe he'd play better then.

"Wait."

Again, the voice made him jump. It was far too deep for the boy's small size or soft appearance. He turned back to meet the boy, preparing himself for the worst.

"I saw you filling canteens down by the water, may I – uh – may I have one?"

The boy extended a trembling hand. Taking a step back, Dean swayed. The gesture was so gentle and mild that it was almost alien. It did not belong here in the Games.

"I don't think I have time to get one out of the bag," Dean said quietly, perplexed by the boy's motions. He looked over his shoulder - still no sign of the others.

Disappointment consumed the boy's blue eyes, spreading to his face and shoulders. Dean couldn't take it.

"If you, uh, come with me I'll give you one later."

The gasps generated by that proposal would surely be even more earth shattering than the last. Here he was, Dean Winchester, son of the famously bloodthirsty victor John Winchester, throwing away the game. At this point, he wasn't just defying his father and their family title, but he was unambiguously defying the Capitol. And he had known Peacekeepers, he knew what they did to people who defied the Capitol.

Suddenly his tongue went dry.

Clearly, this boy was experiencing a similar thought process. Hesitantly, he pulled himself off the wall and shuffled toward the career.

"Um, Dean?" the boy nearly gasped, "I need to find my friend before we can go."

The younger tribute's deep voice cracked with his request. Dean's instincts screamed no. He didn't need this kid, he wasn't even sure if he wanted him. All he knew was that he sure as hell didn't need another.

But the way his voice had sounded, shit. Whoever this friend was, they meant a lot. And hell, Dean had already thrown his entire life away, even if he made it out of the game alive. Might as well just fuck it up that much more.

And with the help of Dean's light, Castiel and the ex-career set out into the caves to find Claire.

.o0o.

At another lake, nearly 5 miles away, another tribute sat. It was much more secluded, so much so that the Gamemakers hadn't even begun to anticipate someone finding it accidentally, and yet one had. In fact, the tribute had stumbled upon it in such a fortuitous way that people simply could not believe it.

"It's all too scripted," many said as they gossiped about the Games, "There's no way that Sam boy would have made it through all that without the Gamemaker's help. Clearly, they want him to win, they want another underdog. And if they want it – it'll happen."

The rumors were only mounting. Soon, it'd become a full blown riot. People would grow bored with the show, and then they'd grow bored with the Capitol.

And it'd be all Chuck's fault.

Running his hands through his jelled hair, he sighed. The rest of the Gamemakers bustled around them as they closely monitored each and every aspect of the arena. They didn't have time to worry about the public's opinion. The only thought on their minds were his orders. That was how it worked in Panem.

And what challenging orders they had been. Driving his foot into a nearby trash shoot, Chuck cursed the day that he decided to set the arena in a cave system. Every feature had to be closely monitored by his staff. It was borderline chaos.

"That'll really be a showstopper," President Snow had said when he had pitched the idea.

A showstopper… It was definitely shaping up to be just that.

He had to stop this. He needed to make it harder, and he needed to make the change immediately. Even if he was defying the games, the Winchester boy, Dean, was already making good enough TV as it was. That one could be put off. But the boy from 12, he would need to be stopped.

"Flood it."

At first no one heard his nearly inaudible stutter. Not even pausing to observe their superior, everyone continued to hurry from place to place.

"Who is in charge of water levels?" Chuck announced again, this time in the largest, loudest voice he could muster. One man with shocking yellow eyes looked up, meeting his glance unswervingly.

"I am, Mr. Edlund," the man stated, speaking as if he was an extension of the computer in front of him.

"Flood the second lake. The one the boy from 12 is in," Chuck's voice stuck in his throat. It was against code to target a specific tribute directly, but for his sake and the sake of those under his command, it had to be done.

"How high, sir?" The man asked without any moral hesitance. He wasn't asking out of care for the tribute, but merely because he needed the information.

"To the top of the cavern, but raise it slowly enough that he'd have time to escape if he tried."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Chuck could feel his conscience beginning to scratch through the barriers he had built to conceal it. As quickly as possible, he washed it down with a swig from his flask.

And then he watched as his orders washed away the boy.

.o0o.

Sam awoke the same way he did every day. His first conscious thought was that he truly needed to return to sleep. It was still dark out, anyways.

But then he felt it.

Slowly but surely, an incredibly cold and unbelievably slick substance crept around his body and engulfed him like a sickly cocoon. The shock was enough to tear him from his position between sleep and awake.

Like quicksand, the water seemed to rise faster once he began to scramble away from it, and boy, did he scramble. Replacing any sort of intelligence, fear surged through his veins, and in one swift flick of the wrist, he sent his rodent-kills spiraling into the surging black water. His stomach screamed for him to follow, but even in this point of panic, he knew better.

He needed to get out.

Lunging into the water, Sam struggled to escape. Growing up in District 12, he had never actually had the opportunity to swim. Sure, there had been streams and ponds to wade in, but none of them had ever been deep enough for Sam's long limbs. He was beyond a novice.

What he felt now in the chilled water was exhilarating, and not in a good way. His clothing dragged him downwards, swallowing as much water as they could on their descent. His skin felt like it was on fire, burning against the water and his thick cold clothes. Kicking and thrashing, he managed to keep his head above the surface, but that wasn't enough. The water was still rising.

Leaning forward, Sam tried to remember past games. Arenas had been placed in open water before, so what had those tributes done? Thinking back to the years he had watched the games with Gabriel in the Distillery, he remembered a certain stroke that had seemed easy enough to repeat.

And so Sam Wesson attempted his unlikely escape.