A single canon fire. It barely meant anything to Dean and Castiel as they wandered aimlessly through the tunnels. Sure, Dean thought about it for a moment, the fact that somewhere in the tunnels a tribute had met their end. He probably would have said something out loud if Castiel hadn't immediately shot him a watery, blue, depressed look. The former-career frowned, not because of the now deceased tribute, but because of how much this District 5 boy had changed. These games had ruined him. The Capitol had ruined him. He just seemed hard and sad.

The feeling that filled Dean was a new sort of rage alien to his body, and it sent an eerie shudder down his spine. He wasn't a rebel. Hell, as a volunteer, he was exactly the opposite. He couldn't afford to hate the Capitol for something so small.

But it wasn't.

"Oh my –" Castiel exclaimed. Dean managed to pull himself from his inner monologue long enough to catch the back of Castiel's jacket billow as he broke out into a sprint.

"Cas?" Dean bellowed, his lone word sounding more like a question than he had intended.

Hurrying after the boy, Dean was nearly overwhelmed by the quality of air. For whatever reason, he could run again without feeling as if someone had his hands around his neck.

Eventually, Dean was confronted by the explanation. Castiel had stopped, dwarfed by the scene that stood before him. They had reached the mouth of the caves, and were consumed by the stunning wheat swayed back and forth in the fields. Dean muffled a gasp when he saw it, the outdoors. It was the most beautiful, intoxicating thing his unused eyes had ever seen. Both he and Castiel couldn't help but move toward it.

The beauty of the moment was cut short as Castiel flew to the ground with a disgruntled yelp. At first, Dean merely thought the boy had tripped, his malnourishment and exhaustion finally getting to him. The terrified scream the tore through the tight space soon proved him wrong, and without even processing what he would do when he got there, he ran to his friend.

As soon as he reached the boy's side, Dean was able to see what had tripped Castiel. Two boys were laying on the stone floor, one facedown and the other facing up. Both of the tributes were covered from head to toe with violent red burns, their skin barely resembling that of human beings. The chest of the larger boy, the one laying facedown, was heaving dramatically with each unconscious breath. The smaller boy wasn't moving at all.

Castiel had pressed himself as far into the wall as he could to avoid the bodies. His blue eyes were blown wide from the unexpected fear. Every other second, he would peel his eyes from the other tributes and glance outside into the beautiful field. Dean could tell that the boy was wondering what sort of monster they had encountered outside, what sort of demon was waiting for its next victims.

What sort of disaster had nearly claimed him and Cas.

Dean patted his friend's shoulder twice before turning to survey the scene. Neither of the burned boys had on the standard boots, or at least the shoes they now wore had been burned beyond recognition. Other than their shoes, their clothes remained utterly untouched. Dean held two fingers to each of their charred necks. Only one of them had a pulse.

"The smaller one's dead," Dean's voice took on an abnormally harsh tone, causing Castiel to press himself more firmly into the wall.

"What do you think we should do, Dean?" Castiel sputtered, his heartbeat out of control.

Dean shrugged stiffly. He knew what he was supposed to do, what he had been trained to do. A career would kill the larger boy while he was still unconscious, or he might even wait until he came to. That would be more interesting, more violent. And that sort of entertainment was what the Capitol wanted.

But for the first time in his life, Dean took the time to think about what he wanted. He didn't go with his gut or listen to his trainers or his father, he thought.

Killing the boy may be more humane. While the burns didn't look incredibly deep, they were incredibly numerous. Infection was close to inevitable, and pain was completely unavoidable. He wouldn't be able to fight in that much pain. But as Dean gazed down at the raggedy, oversized tribute, he couldn't bring himself to kill him. This boy had volunteered and the careers had painted him as generally unstable, but for whatever reason his burnt, limp face radiated innocence. He, like every other tribute in the games, was a child.

Dean couldn't kill him, not anymore.

"He's going to wake up, Dean," Castiel's strained and panicked voice muttered cautiously from behind him.

"Then we better go," Dean responded with an unintentional harshness. He rose to his feet and moved towards Castiel, who didn't seem to want to move from the wall.

"But, but when he wakes up –"

"We won't be around to see that," Dean concluded. Castiel hesitantly rose from the ground, never losing his tense demeanor.

Castiel moved to lead Dean back into the cave system, but a part of Dean didn't want to go just yet. In a flurry of unrecognizable emotions, Dean dug his hand into his pack and retrieved a small canteen, placing it on the ground next to the boy. It was one of many, so he doubted that losing it would affect them in the long run.

As Dean turned to follow Castiel he looked back to the boy once more, a single thought running through his mind.

May the odds be ever in his favor.

.o0o.

All Sam saw was the water. His eyes fluttered open and instantly flew to the canteen. He didn't take a moment to think where it had come from or what it might hold, he just drank. He didn't drink the whole bottle, he knew Rod would need some too. As he sat and downed the bottle, pain shot from every inch of his skin, originating from his charred feet. He couldn't decide if he was still happy to be alive or not.

After a few minutes of adjusting to the agonizing pain, Sam looked around. They had only made it a few feet into the caves, but that was enough. Whatever had affected them outside had lost its power. They were safe.

As safe as one could be.

Finally, he turned his eyes to the canteen that was now resting against a nearby rock. It wasn't accompanied by the typical small silver parachute, but would aid still being delivered that way in the caves? Anyways, who would sponsor a deranged, suicidal tribute who'd spent most of his time in the games almost dying? It didn't even occur to Sam that the sponsor could have been another tribute. In the back of his mind, he wondered if another tribute had come across his lifeless body, but he knew they would have killed him in a second.

Rolling over onto his back, he looked at Rod for the first time. The boy was still, his body unnaturally red. Sam moved toward him slowly, an uneasy feeling in his gut.

"Rod?" he asked quietly. The boy didn't move. Sam scooted closer, hissing as his hands made contact with loose stone.

"Rod?" This time, he was close enough to nudge the limp boy. He still didn't move. Sam's heart nearly froze as he placed two burnt fingers to the boy's raw neck. There wasn't a pulse.

The boy was dead.

An explosion of pain ripped through Sam's chest. He wanted to cry, but he knew he couldn't – not in front of the Capitol. He was supposed to play the maniac from District 12, so that was him now, especially with his only allies gone. Pulling his legs to his chest, Sam stared down at Rod. He had promised to watch this boy, and he had failed. He had promised to protect Maria, and he had failed. He had told Gabriel that he could win this.

And he would fail.