Castiel dug through the boxes with more tenacity and strength than Dean had ever seen him exhibit. Throwing tins and plastics against the opposite wall, Castiel seemed to be relieving his frustration in a surprisingly healthy way. Sure, Dean occasionally had to avoid projectiles as they spun past his head, but it was still a relatively sane reaction.

Dean moved from his observation point at the mouth of the cornucopia to the box next to the boy. Silently, they dug through the never ending contents together. Soon, piles of knives, packs, jackets, and even the occasional green and yellow boot that neither Dean nor Castiel knew the function of grew beside them.

With time, Castiel even began to physically relax. Dean could see that his mind was running at full speed, and he knew for sure that the boy's thoughts weren't pleasant. Placing a hand on the boy's shoulder, Dean sighed.

"I know what it's like to lose someone you care about, but, dude, she's definitely in a better place." Dean tried to smile, but the image of his mother that flashed through his mind prevented it.

It wasn't until Castiel slunk back to lean against the opposite wall that Dean felt for the first time as if kindness was an obligation.

"I lost my mother when I was young," Dean interjected without thinking. The younger boy's only response was to pull his lanky legs in to rest against his chest.

"I was really young, but I still remember the day it happened," Dean turned to face Castiel, mirroring the boy's body language as best as he could. With a nervous gulp, he continued.

"It happened in the middle of the night. I went into my parents' room – I forget why – and found a man I didn't recognize. My father was shouting for me to leave, and I did as he said. I never saw her again after that. I only even saw her for a second or two that night, actually," Dean's voice trailed into the empty silence. He had never spoken to anyone about that night, and now, not even caring that it could be broadcast nationally, he was telling the story to some random boy.

His expression unreadable and unchanging, Castiel looked up at him. Dean decided to go on.

"My father signed me up for training a few days later," cracking at the end of this memory, Dean's voice was the softest he had ever heard it. In that moment, he knew he truly resembled a child for the first time in his entire life.

And this time, when Dean looked up at Castiel, he met the boy's eyes directly. They were soaked with tears.

"Thank you, Dean," he whispered so quietly that Dean wondered if he was even meant to hear it.

"It's not a problem, Cas," Dean breathed back.

The two tributes let the silence of the caves engulf them. Dean's mind, however, was nowhere near silent. He wondered what Castiel's life had been like – if he had a large family or close friends waiting anxiously for their boy's victorious return, waiting to embrace their broken, tortured boy. Most of all, Dean wondered if they still had hope. There was no doubt in Dean's mind that his father expected him to win, but did Castiel's?

Probably not.

If the two boys had the time, Dean would have asked Castiel about his life. But the sound of angry voices echoing throughout the cavern removed any chance of that.

Dean recognized Michael and Lilith almost immediately, their disgusting voices forever ingrained in his memory. Castiel, only slightly slower on the uptake, sat in shock for a few seconds before scrambling to collect his bag.

"We need to get out of here," Dean said obviously, jamming everything into his pack in a flurry of metal and cloth.

"Claire is still out there," Castiel realized, panic overly evident in his deep voice. He didn't stop packing.

"She's already dead, they shouldn't bother her," Dean responded, flinching at the bittersweet pain his words caused Castiel. Both of them knew that was an assumption at best.

The two managed to get behind the cornucopia before the careers entered the cavern. Castiel prepared to run, but Dean was able to grab his arm before he got away.

"No, they'll hear you," his voice was a growl, low and barely audible.

The careers' voices quickly suffocated the silence. Having had morphed her into a demonic killing machine in his mind, Dean had forgotten how childish Lilith actually sounded. Michael was the same as he always was, tall and menacing. He ordered Lilith toward the cornucopia, and she skipped across the room as if it was the best direction she had ever received.

"What's this?" Lilith laughed upon finding Claire lying neatly on the ground. Castiel shivered as the small girl stooped next to her. Dean shook his head. He couldn't lose Castiel to her.

"It's that girl you stabbed on the first day," Michael stated condescendingly, staring down at the girls, "She hasn't been collected yet. Whoever was with her must be close."

Lilith looked up from Claire, scanning the cavern with her beady black eyes. "How close?"

"Let's find out."

Castiel tore his arm from Dean's grip. "We're leaving now."

The two backed into a tunnel without another word. Once they were out of sight, they broke into a sprint that never seemed to slow.

.o0o.

At first, Sam thought he was hallucinating. He had experienced this sensation so many times – too many times – he thought it was impossible for him to actually be feeling it now. The air had changed, morphing the entire tunnel into a much less stale and artificial place. Sam suspected that the air's purification was merely a change made by the Gamemakers at his expense. At this point in the games, everything seemed far too kind. It wasn't until he noticed the all too familiar shift in lighting that began to blame his overall mental state.

"Rod, turn off the light," Sam ordered.

Flipping the switch and watching as the tiny bulb dulled, Rod scurried to do as he was told. Sam's heart nearly skipped a beat when he noticed it –

The tunnel hadn't gone black.

"Is that –" Rod mumbled, securing Sam's hope. Rod could see it too; the natural light was real.

Sam opened his mouth, but closed it and cut himself off before he could continue. He couldn't let himself get his hopes up, this was the Hunger Games after all.

The two boys continued down the dim hall. Every so often, they'd stop to marvel at the way the natural light caught the dust and dirt that hung suspended in the air, or at how it shone a low white rather than the flashlight's obnoxious yellow, the cornucopia's bizarre green, or the announcement's brilliant colors. The light only grew more and more beautiful as they walked. For a moment, Sam almost allowed himself to feel as if he was walking out of the games.

And when they reached the cave's mouth, Sam nearly forgot about his thirst. He forgot about everything but the beautiful, alien image that was displayed before him. Smacking away a small bug as it landed on the nape of his neck, he couldn't help but wander toward it.

It must have been about noon, as the magnificent sun was placed in the center of the clear blue sky. A slight breeze drifted across the seemingly never-ending field of golden wheat, dancing in perfect time.

Sam walked into the grain, losing any sense of logic or reason. He stopped and turned to motion for Rod to follow him, but the boy was already drifting toward him with a similar look of dazed happiness on his pale face. Sam's eyes fell instead on the massive mound of slate and graphite that stood behind him, foreign to the calm, serene wheat field. He thought back for a second to the times he had spent in that cave – the challenges and the death. Now he just felt free.

Overwhelmed by the beauty of the scenery, he and Rod walked aimlessly for a few minutes. But when Sam finally looked back at the mountain, he released a small and incredibly surprised yelp. The mass had nearly disappeared, shrunken to resemble a children's toy on the horizon.

"That can't be," Sam mumbled, his heart suddenly racing and his lips dead dry, "We can't have been walking for more than 20 minutes. There's no way we wandered that far."

Rod turned to locate what had shocked the taller boy. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam watched as complete confusion consumed the boy's face. Also, something else strange caught his eye. Rod was red – his skin resembling the skin of a perfect untouched apple. Could the boy really be that burnt from only several minutes in the sun?

Instinctively, Sam reached up and ran the back of his hand against his own skin, releasing a hiss of pain. Tearing it open, his calloused hand had collided with burnt, blistered skin.

"Something's wrong." Sam exclaimed, fear bleeding into his voice.

Grabbing the sleeve of Rod's jacket, Sam began to make his way back to the caves. As he moved he became increasingly aware of his thirst, exhaustion, and especially of his burns. The sun had moved from its position in the center of the sky to a position along the opposite horizon, casting long and unavoidable shadows across the now still wheat field.

Sam's determined walk became a frightened jog, and his jog evolved into a panicked sprint. Soon, Rod's body began to relax and lull in his grasp. The boy's eyes were rolling lazily and blood was beginning to escape from his dry, burnt lips. Sam tried to push away the image as he trudged on.

Time was wrong. What had taken two minutes of walking before was taking hours of running now. The caves were slowly growing on the horizon, but Sam was starting to think they'd never reach them in time. If time was even applicable.

Sam knew he could run faster alone, but he didn't let Rod go.

Eventually, they reached the mouth and embraced the shade with open arms. Rod collapsed almost immediately, managing to fall onto a patch of cool rock. Sam laid down next to him exhausted. His skin welcomed contact with the icy rock, and unconsciousness simply welcomed him.