Dean doesn't like to think about when his dad gets mad. Like, really mad, like bellowing-in-Dean's-face-mad, or punching-his-lights-out-mad. He can always tell when it's coming; John is hardly a spontaneous person. Either it's after Sam buys enough food for Dean to eat a full meal too, or after John's been drinking a while, or whenever Sam sneaks out or gets in trouble or hurt in any way. John only gets angry at Dean when Sam does something wrong, really, because it's Dean's job to look after him.

Dean can always tell when it's coming, and it always makes his stomach churn when he thinks about the punishment he'll be facing. The trepidation of facing his angry father is almost as strong as facing the reaping. Dean had thought he had known this was coming, too; he'd known something bad was coming.

He hadn't expected it to be this.

This is worse than John slapping him. This is worse than the days spent hungry because it's good training. This is worse than the cuts from the broken alcohol bottles, or the angry fists, or the cutting words—

Sam whimpers, his hand falling out of Dean's as he stares up at his big brother. The terror in his multicolored eyes hurts worse than anything Dean's ever endured. This is exactly what Sam had feared.

People's muted glares sweep around the square. Twelve-year-olds aren't supposed to be reaped—well, no one is, really, but it's not fair for twelve-year-olds to be reaped. It's not fair.

Dean's head snaps around when the Peacekeepers come closer to escort his baby brother to the stage. His lip curls at their forms. He'll tear them limb from limb if they even think about touching Sammy, his Sammy—

John clears his throat behind Dean and nudges him with shoulder. He hadn't even bothered to wonder if Dean would do it. A bright flame of resentment flares up and dies just as quickly inside Dean; why does it have to be him? Why did it have to be Sam?

Because Dean would die for Sam in a heartbeat, and John knows it. Because Sam is Dean's responsibility. Because Sam is Dean's little brother, and it is his job to protect him, and more than that, Dean loves Sam more than anything else in the world.

Sam takes a hesitant step forward, still glancing back at his father and brother as if they'll be able to fix it, and the worst thing is that Dean can fix it. He can.

Dean lunges forward and yanks Sam back, sending him stumbling against John's sturdy, unmoving front. "I'll go," Dean utters through numb lips. "I volunteer." The announcement is a mere formality; the moment Sam's name came out of that bastard Castiel's mouth Dean had made up his mind. The last few seconds he'd tried to hold onto by standing small next to his father and standing tall next to his brother are gone, over, out of his hands like grains of dirt, and he'll never pick them up again.

"No!" Sam lunges at Dean and tries to wrap skinny limbs around Dean's torso. The Games had always seemed like just that—games—until Sam's name was the one called and his older brother is walking up to the stage instead of him, next to their friend that he'll have to kill.

It's never been this close to home for Sam.

Not even when he'd had nightmares about being called had he reacted this way. Not even when his mind had wandered down dark fantasies had he ever felt in his chest the sinking feeling that comes with watching your brother go off and get hurt.

John scoops Sam up into his arms, even though the screaming twelve-year-old is much too big to be held and has been for years.

Dean was never small enough to be held.

"Dean!" Sam screams, scratching at John's arms. "Dean, don't go!" He holds one pleading, desperate hand out to Dean, hoping against hope Dean will grab onto it and someone else will volunteer, but miracles don't happen. Little boys are chosen to die so their brothers die for them. That's just how the world works.

Shut up, Sammy, Dean tries to command with his eyes. The Capitol will go after you again next year, and I won't be able to protect you then. Please. He walks through the sea of parted children, not begrudging them the relieved looks in their eyes—he's sported the same look for the past four years whenever his name wasn't called.

The platform's stairs are too high up, or maybe his boots are too heavy, because each step feels more impossible than the next. Dean makes it up through sheer force alone and stands next to Jo. When he stares out at the crowd, the only thing he sees is Sam. John's hand is clamped over his brother's mouth so he can't scream, but his eyes are red and tears are streaking down his cheeks.

It's better than him being dead.

On the stage, Dean shakes Castiel's hand and stumbles a bit, brushing past the man and into his trenchcoat. "What is your name?" Castiel asks gravely, holding out his microphone to Dean. As if he doesn't know. Sam had been screaming it, and Dean's a Victor's child, just like Jo. People know him, even if he'll never live up to his father's reputation.

He was supposed to be untouchable.

Dean has to blink a few times to get rid of the weakness of frustration glimmering in his eyes. He leans in, not breaking eye contact with the escort, and says, "Dean Winchester." Maybe Castiel will see the venom in his gaze and understand just how much Dean would like to throttle him and rip him limb from limb. His right hand is clenched into a tight fist, which is the only thing stopping him from rubbing the amulet hanging around his neck—a nervous habit. Dean would like nothing more than to smash it into Castiel's face.

"Then you volunteered for your brother?"

Dean would like nothing more than to kill him. He wishes Castiel had been a tribute in another district instead of District 5's escort so Dean could tear his throat out during the bloodbath. He would like to push away the microphone shoved in his face and lunge for the escort. Instead of killing the man, however, he just nods.

"District 5, applaud your victors!" the escort says (demands). Silence greets him, silence that makes Dean smile a little bit inside. Castiel lowers the microphone from his mouth and murmurs, "Courage. I applaud you," so quietly Dean barely hears it. He and Jo exchange confused glances.

Dean thinks he might just throw up. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, relaxing the fist his right hand had been clenched into, and meets Sam's eyes again as nobody applauds. John's hand is still over Sam's mouth, but that isn't stopping the younger brother from shaking his head as vehemently as he can.

This isn't the last time I see him, Dean reminds himself. I still get later.

Ellen puts three fingers of her left hand to her lips and raises them up into the air. It's an old symbol that was only used to say thank you, to show admiration, to say goodbye to someone you love. If anyone, Dean would have expected that from her, because neither District 5 or his father would be dumb enough to pull a stunt like that, no matter where the intentions come from. Like a wave, though, first Gordon puts up his fingers and then a man Dean barely knows named Garth. All too soon everyone's hands are in the air, saluting him and Jo.

Everyone's hands except Sam and John's.

The Capitol's anthem starts to play and hands fall limply out of the air like shot birds. It drags on but Dean doesn't hear it. His gaze is fixed on the ground.

Jo bumps against him, her jaw tense. "Let's go."

"Where…"

The Peacekeepers fall into step around the tributes and Dean remembers. All tributes are 'escorted' to the Justice Building. It's a gesture of respect; all it does is keep people from trying to run from the Games.

Jo and Dean separate at different doors and Dean steps inside a rich room. It's not entirely alien to him. The house he lives in—lived in—had looked a little bit like this, but while this room looks maintained, his house is sort of… dead. The curtains in this room are a deep red, while the curtains at his home are faded and torn. The carpet is clean and soft while the one in Dean's house is ragged from constant cleaning when alcohol is spilled or bottles broken on its surface. The only real difference is that the couch and chairs are covered with velvet and soft.

This room is a safe space. Dean's house is, most of the time, filled with what used to be energy, what used to be light, and what is now ghosts.

Much as Dean would love to enjoy his lavish surroundings, the reason why he's here isn't something he can very well forget. He's going to die in a few days, isn't he? He should be enjoying the special treatment, except for the fact that he has to stop himself from shuddering with revulsion at every brush against soft fabric against his skin. This lavishness is disgusting when compared to the deplorable conditions the districts have to live in.

The door opens so hard it slams against the wall, and Dean's barely turned around before a small form launches itself into his arms. It's Sam, and Dean sits down heavily on the couch as his lecherous little brother wraps his skinny limbs around him, as if he'll be able to stop Dean from being taken by the Peacekeepers.

Sam and John are Dean's first visitors, and, he suspects, his only visitors. An isolated childhood doesn't lead to very many friends.

Sam sniffs into Dean's neck, one finger hooked around the chain around Dean's neck, and Dean puts his hand on the younger boy's head. He'd love to stay in this moment forever, where things are about to go to shit but Sam's with him, and that's really all that matters. He's never really appreciated how great it feels to be alive and with Sam until he realized he was just a walking corpse.

When a shadow falls over the pair, Dean looks up into his father's face. John looks so old in the shadows created by the thick curtains. The light that gets through highlights the creases in his face, and the shadows make him look eyeless.

"You gave us quite a scare there," John finally says.

Dean frowns. What—

"I thought for a moment you wouldn't volunteer," he continues. Dean tries not to wilt visibly. He knows he's not the favorite son, but it would be nice if John could even pretend for a moment that he likes Dean. Just a little bit. That's all Dean wants.

"Of course," Dean says finally, heavily. He'd die for Sam. He's going to die for Sam.

When Sam shifts on his lap, paper crinkles in his pocket and Dean remembers. He reaches into his pocket and draws out the slips he'd stolen from Castiel's pocket. With visibly shaking fingers, he unfolds them and shows them to his father. He hasn't even looked at them yet, but he knows John should.

John takes the slips of paper after wiping his eyes. Is he just acting, Dean wonders, or is he really worried about me?

After only a second, he shows Dean them. On the slips of paper are two names that Dean doesn't recognize: Ezra Moore and Bucky Sims. There's no chance they're not the papers Castiel had drawn from the balls; that special type of paper is only used for that one purpose. Dean remembers the Peacekeeper that had whispered to Castiel just before he'd spoken.

Settling down on the couch, John admits, "I knew it." He keeps his voice low and Dean follows his lead; there's probably mikes in this room as well. "We got sloppy during our last meeting. Naomi's bugs must have picked us up and this is his way of telling me she knows—"

"It's a warning," Dean says quietly, rubbing Sam's back firmly. Sam needs to be strong now, more than ever.

"Either way…" John trails off, but Dean's pretty sure he knows what his father was going to say. He finishes for him.

"Either way, one of your children is going to pay the price."

Resentment curls up in his throat like a snake and bleeds into his tone, so sharp even John winces. Dean isn't the one that's rebelling. Dean would be perfectly content to stay under the radar at District 5, a Victor's child with privileges not many other people have. As long as Sam's with him. He's not the one so stupid he's putting his own children in the line of fire.

Well, that's not entirely true. Dean hates President Naomi. He wants Naomi to die. He wants to kill Naomi with his bare hands, wants to choke her to death and see the light leave those cold, dead eyes. He wants people to have enough food, not just him and Sam. Dean wants so much. He wants, he wants, he wants… but what he wants most of all is Mary back.

He knows, though, that he can't have those things. He can settle for him and Sam to be safe, even if Sam is getting warped every time he laughs as someone dies in the Games. Even if Dean doesn't even recognize him sometimes.

Dean can still save his brother. He just needs to get back to him.

Sam lifts his head up from the crook of Dean's neck and sniffs loudly, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he asks, "You're gonna come back, though, right?"

Dean smooths his brother's hair away from his face and stares into Sam's aged, multicolored eyes. Even if Sam doesn't know it yet, all that death he revels in takes a toll on someone. Dean would like nothing more than run off into the hills with Sam—John and everyone else be damned—but he can't.

The fact that Dean can't trust his brother not to come back to this hell of his own volition says a lot.

"Of course," Dean lies. He fakes a smile at his little brother. He's dying for him, isn't he? He might as well be sure that he's dying for someone he knows. "Of course I will be, bitch. I'll be back before you know it, okay? But while I'm gone, you have to be strong, all right?" Dean tries to laugh but it just croaks. "Don't pick any fights with Dad, all right?" Not when I'm not there to protect you. "And… tell him to pull his head out of his ass, all right? Look what his work's done now."

John bears the full brunt of Dean's glare unflinchingly, just staring blankly at the ground like he's in shock.

"Jerk. And good," Sam breathes, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Good you're not gonna leave us like Mom." A harshness twists his features that makes Dean reel back. "She left us on purpose, but you're not gonna leave us, right, Dean?"

"W-what—" Dean looks up at John. "'Left us'?" he repeats. "'Left us'?"

"We can talk about this later," John tries, but Dean shakes his head.

"I can't believe you. I just can't…" he looks down at Sam, who's watching the arguing with wide eyes. In them Dean can see his own reflection.

"I'm gonna miss you," Sam whimpers, little fingers twisting into Dean's shirt.

"Well, I'll…"

Dean can't say he'll be back. He can't lie to Sam any more than he already has. It'll already crush him when he sees Dean die. Speaking of…

Dean stands up, toppling Sam off his lap, and maybe he wouldn't have been so careless had he not known that the Peacekeepers are walking down the hallway as he hissed to his father, "Don't let him watch… me. Don't let him watch that."

John lifts one eyebrow. "What, don't let him see you kill people? Sure."

Dean knows John knows what he means, but Dean doesn't know what John means. Nobody ever really knows with John. Sometimes, though, Ellen will tell Dean that Mary always knew what John meant. "I guess this is goodbye, sir."

John pulls him into a hug that squeezes the air out of his lungs. "You'll be back, Dean."

Dean tries not to scoff, but the sound escapes his lungs without his permission.

"You hear me, boy?" John commands. "You'll be back. I trained you well."

Dean's laugh is hysterical. "Yeah, and I'll be going up against girls that can kill me six ways to Sunday and boys two times my size—"

"Trust me," John says, pulling him into one last hug. "You'll come back."

The door opens but much softer than when Sam had slammed it open. Two Peacekeepers stand in the doorway, surveying Sam, who's got tears streaking down his face again and is clinging to Dean's leg; John, who's hulking behind his sons like their demonic shadow; and Dean, who's trying not to hyperventilate.

"No," Sam says softly.

"Time's up," the Peacekeepers insist.

Dean bends down and tries to pry Sam's fingers from around him. Sam shakes his head resolutely. "No, Dean, please, don't go!"

Dean's not entirely sure what Sam's trying to do—is this just him acting in the heat of the moment, or is he trying to help Dean? At this point all he's doing is hurting him. Dean has to blink away the wetness in his eyes and screw them up. He's in serious danger of crying.

John has to help Dean get Sam off of him by prying each finger away from Dean's pants individually. He scoops the younger boy up, disregarding Sam's screams, and starts towards the Peacekeepers, who are tapping their wrists impatiently.

"No!" Sam howls, beating at John's hands. "No! Dean! No!"

"I love you, Sammy," Dean tries, a watery smile accompanying the first time he's ever said those words to the only person he's really loved, apart from his mother and father. Now that he's never going to see Sam again, he realizes he should have said it so much more. "Now stop being such a bitch."

Sam doesn't say it back.

He has another visitor after John and Sam, who leave a ringing sound in everyone's ears following the absence of Sam's screams. It's Ellen. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she still manages a smile when she sees him. "Come here, boy."

Dean falls into her gratefully. When he pulls away, he's already asking, "You'll look after Sam?" Immediately he winces. He can't ask that of Ellen, not after she's going to watch Jo die just like how John and Sam are going to watch Dean die.

"'Course, boy," she croaks out. "Me and Bobby Singer've got 'em covered."

"B—Bobby Singer?" Dean stutters. Bobby's a bit of a legend in the District 5 community, but he's such a hermit he's only ever seen out when his special food packages are delivered and during the reaping. "Don't tell me you've got Bobby dragged up in all of this—"

Ellen puts a hand over his mouth, but Dean pulls it away. "'S not like it's much of a secret!" He brandishes the slips of paper he'd stolen from Castiel. "Sam and Jo were chosen on purpose. They know."

Ellen barely glances at them as she sinks down onto the couch and covers her face with shaking hands. "I knew it. John was too cocky—"

"They're onto you," Dean hisses, kneeling in front of her. "So you have to stop. I won't be able to protect Sam next year, but I'll protect Jo as much as I can this year—"

Ellen lets out a muffled sob and stands up. "May the odds be in your favor, Dean."

"I'm so sorry, Ellen," Dean says helplessly as she walks away. "Please, I'm begging you, stop what you're doing."

She doesn't look back.

No one else visits Dean. He'd already had one more visitor than he'd expected, so he's not disappointed. It is pretty lonely to wait for the Peacekeepers to escort him to the train station, though, and he wishes that John and Sam had been able to stay for a little longer.

Even if Sam apparently believes the propaganda about their mother that she'd hung herself.

John has never said anything about it to Dean or Sam explicitly. Maybe the memories were too painful for him, or he just didn't want to bear the questions that always come up when discussing Mary. Either way, he didn't need to for Dean, and Dean had just always assumed that Sam knew the truth about Mary. Stupidly assumed, by the looks of it.

Well, obviously it was stupid. There's no way Sam would remember her death; he was six months old, for crying out loud! Dean was four and, though he doesn't remember a lot of things about being four, he does remember what happened. You can't just forget something like that.

The Peacekeepers knock on the door to summon him and Dean sits up abruptly. Time to go.

He already misses his family.