Jo doesn't look like she's been crying.
Dean finds that a bit surprising, considering how teary Ellen had been when she'd visited him, but Jo's always full of surprises. Like when she'd convinced Dean to sneak out of his house in the middle of the night and they'd ended up beyond the district's borders, something they've never spoken of again for fear of the hidden mikes they know are all around them.
Even if she doesn't look like she's been crying, though, she looks like she might start any second. When Dean catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror, he's gratified to learn he just looks bored. He doesn't want to give the Capitol lechers any more entertainment than necessary. He even manages to keep his hands from drifting up to touch the amulet nervously.
The cameras drink up their appearances for a few minutes before Castiel appears, his trademark trenchcoat flapping in the wind. "Once we're on the train, you are both entitled to whatever commodity is available. Don't hesitate to ask." As usual, his dumb, gravely, deep voice sets Dean on edge. He considers pushing Castiel onto the tracks just as the train arrives, but he can't. He could be arrested, or—more likely—the Gamemakers will make it that much harder for Dean to survive in the arena.
Dean's going to play by their rules. He will, in order to get back to Sam, and then he'll convince John to drop his stupid rebellion ideas and they'll all live out their lives in peace.
The train is even more luxurious than the room in the Justice building, and this is what has Dean marveling. It's so extravagant. There is enough food in his room to feed a whole family for a whole week, not just one tribute boy that's already dead. The water in the bathroom is warm, a commodity Dean knows is scarce, and there's more clothes in the closet than he knows what to do with.
Dean takes up most of the exploring time by taking a nice hot shower. He might as well enjoy the little luxuries of life while he's around to experience them, right?
After he gets out of the shower, he doesn't want to get back into his suit and tie. The majority of the clothes in his closet are either among the same lines as the outfit he came here in or extravagant and made for people in the Capitol. Finally Dean pulls out a blue button-up shirt with a nice pattern on it that he doesn't know the name for. It's obviously Capitol—nobody in the Districts, save for the mayors, wears clothes with patterns, and even then the patterns they wear aren't as detailed as this. Still, it's not as extravagant as most of the other things in the closet, so he'll settle. Plus, it has buttons on the cuffs to prevent the fabric from riding up his arms. It's easy to hide the amulet under the shirt.
A sharp knock startles Dean and he jumps. When he turns around, Castiel is standing in the doorway, still wearing his stupid trenchcoat. Does he ever change?
"It is time for dinner," the escort says seriously. Dean has to resist the urge to laugh. Has the dude ever cracked a smile in his life? It's not like dinner is the most serious thing in the entire world. "I like your flannel."
Dean blinks and looks down at the shirt. Is that what it's called? After a long moment, he swallows and manages, "Thanks."
"Follow me."
Dean trails after Castiel through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with shiny polished panel walls. Jo is already at the table, wearing a light blue shirt and dark pants. She manages a small smile at Dean when their eyes meet, but Dean can see the question in her eyes: When are we going to talk about this? Because Jo isn't dumb. She knows what her mom and John are up to. She's undoubtedly put it together just like Dean had.
A thick carrot soup comes in first—Castiel emphasizes it being first, as in, there will be more, because of course these Capitol scumbags have more than one thing for every meal. Dean doesn't like the taste of it, but the consistency is soothing and he's hungry—last night he hadn't been able to eat anything; Sam had been hungry—so he gulps it down as soon as he can. Jo takes her time and doesn't even finish the course; Ellen didn't train her the way John trained Dean.
Salad comes after the soup, which Dean turns his nose up at—leaves aren't going to help him gain as much strength as he can before the Games. Jo just moves the leaves around her plate.
After that is the main course of lamb chops and mashed potatoes, and after that is cheese and fruit, and finally servants bring out separate pies for everyone. Now that is something Dean can get behind. If there's anything his father's told him, it's to eat whenever you can because you never know when you'll get your next meal. Plus, pie.
"I shouldn't be surprised you two know basic table manners," Castiel says during the main course, breaking the stony silence that had fallen over the room. "You are both Victor children. The last tributes I escorted had not seen a fork before in their lives."
Dean scowls at the table. The tributes last year had both been from the Road and had never had enough to eat in their lives. The comment ticks him off so much he doesn't touch his fork for the rest of the meal. He catches Castiel's eyes flicking over to him as he eats the pie off his knife, and he hopes he's annoying the escort half as much as the escort annoys him.
After the meal is over, Dean can feel a burp coming up and tries as hard as he can to hold it down. He's not used to so much rich food and fears that if he does burp, his meal will come up with the air.
Castiel leads him and Jo into another compartment so Dean can watch the rest of the reaping. The reapings are staggered throughout the day, so conceivably people could attend all of them, if people could use the train system and wanted to go to the reapings. Really, only the Capitol and Careers like anything to do with the Games. And Capitol citizens would rather eat one course for a meal than visit the districts.
One by one, the reapings are called. There are the usual volunteers in the Career districts, but Dean is the only volunteer for a non-Career district. Only a few people stand out in Dean's mind as he watches the faces, all pale with fear no matter their usual hue, blur on the screen. The first is a brunette named Ava Wilson from District 10 who starts to cry the second her name is called and doesn't stop. After that is a hobbled boy named Kubrick (Dean doesn't catch his last name) from the same district. The most haunting, though, is the reaping of a little twelve-year-old girl with a mole under her left eye, named Krissy Chambers. She walks to the stage unflinchingly and when her escort asks for volunteers, all that can be heard is the whistling of wind through the buildings.
Krissy, too, is a Victor's child. Dean wonders if this is just a stunt being pulled by the Capitol—showing that the rules, even if they're unspoken, don't matter to them. Or was it random? Or are her parents caught up in this rebellion business as well?
Without even thinking about it, Dean catches himself watching Castiel for his reaction when Krissy's name is called. The escort's face remains impassive and Dean's lip curls. What an emotionless son of a bitch. Correction—what a son of a bitch that revels in all this death and suffering just like the rest of the Capitol.
Just after the program ends, a hulking figure appears in the doorway and asks, "I miss dinner?"
"We set some aside for you," Castiel replies. Dean can't tell if his tone is respectful because there is no inflection. Maybe all escorts are this emotionless. Sure, being in the Capitol and appreciating the Games is one thing, but being an escort and having to deal with the itty-gritty details of breakdowns and panicked children? That would turn even the most psychotic spoiled Capitol citizen off, wouldn't it? Or would they just find it more amusing?
The figure steps further into the room, letting light spill over their face, and with some shock Dean recognizes Bobby Singer.
Internally he groans. Tributes' mentors are supposed to help them during the Games by finding sponsors. Bobby Singer has been holed up in his house for the past fifty years or so—what contacts could he possibly have?
He and Jo are really going to die, aren't they?
Also, didn't Ellen say that Bobby singer's in on the rebellion too? So either the Capitol doesn't know about that or he's walking right into the beehive with no idea.
Dean looks into Bobby's dark eyes, the deep lines on his face, and rethinks that notion. He's walking right into the beehive with the intention to poke it with a stick. Great, Dean thinks sarcastically, my mentor's just gonna piss people off instead of actually helping me.
"Tributes," Bobby says, glaring at him and Jo. "Eat with me. Escort, get out."
Castiel lowers his head just the slightest, but the light is reflecting off his eyes so Dean can't see if he's showing the respect genuinely or if it's mockingly. Either way, Castiel stands up and sweeps out of the room, the familiar swoosh of his trenchcoat accompanying his exit.
Bobby hasn't eaten more than a bite of the carrot soup before his face screws up and he swallows with obvious disgust. The Capitol servants don't even need him to speak before they're taking the course away, skipping the salad, and coming straight in with the lamb chops and mashed potatoes.
"All right," he finally says, putting his napkin in his lap. "So what's your game plan?"
Dean and Jo exchange confused glances. "We don't know what the arena will be," Jo ventures. "We can't plan—"
"Of course you can plan!" Bobby growls. "Did your daddy teach you nothin'? I thought I mentored him better than that."
Jo sits back in her chair, shocked, and Dean takes over the questioning.
"So there is a way to prepare?" He's going to get Jo out of that arena, no matter what.
Bobby snorts. "Will you blend into the crowd or stand out? Your strategy all stands on that decision. If you blend into the crowd, will you unleash your true colors once inside the arena or pull an Ennis Ross and wait until everyone's slaughtered each other to stop hiding? If you—"
"All right!" Dean interrupts. Then a terrible thought occurs to him and he shoots a side glance at Jo. "But should we really be discussing our strategy in front of each other? I mean, we will be—"
"Oh, shove it up your ass, Dean Winchester!" Jo exclaims, crossing her arms.
Dean's mouth snaps closed.
"If you seriously think that I'm going to kill you, then I guess our friendship means nothing to you, hmm? Or if you think I'm going to let you kill me—" she lets out a derisive snort. "Yeah, try coming home and looking my mom in the eyes. No, we're going to work together."
"But if—"
Jo holds up a silencing hand. Bobby just watches the squabbling with amused eyes that gleam behind his facial hair. "Chances are that one of us won't even make it to the final two, right? So we don't need to worry about that."
Chances. Odds. The odds have hardly been in Dean or Jo's favor, though. He presses, "But what if—"
"I'm not killing you," Jo repeats. "And you're not killing me." She looks meaningfully at Bobby.
"We'll need an angle to sell it," Bobby says suddenly, laying down his fork almost silently. "It's never happened before and Naomi won't like it—"
"Won't like what?" Dean asks, frustrated with their riddles and half-sentences. "I don't know what you're talking about. Are you suggesting we just chill in the arena for the rest of our lives, refusing to kill the other? Because you know they'll just send more obstacles until one of us dies."
"The Capitol likes drama, don't they?" Jo asks rhetorically. "What about star-crossed lovers forced to fight together but vowing not to kill each other?"
Bobby nods and continues, "And the people won't be too happy if one of you is forced to kill the other—if there's anything they like more than death, it's fairytale happy endings, isn't it?"
Dean sits back in his chair and exhales, stunned. "You're suggesting we…"
"Pull off the biggest trick the Capitol's ever seen," Jo finishes, her eyes glinting dangerously. She smiles widely at Dean, apparently not affected by the same butterflies in his stomach. This is the closest he's been to vomiting in years—the last time had been when he was thirteen and John had punched him in the stomach. Other than that, he'd never eaten enough for his stomach to want to regurgitate.
But the very thought of pretending that with Jo… while it could save both their lives, they'll have to stay together. There will be uproar if they ever break up. And while Dean loves her, Jo is his little sister. Then again, there's not really a reason for him to fall in love with another woman. What would he do with her? Make kids to be reaped? No thanks. Maybe this really is the best option for him.
"You really think it will work?"
"I doubt we'll need it, but it's always nice to have a backup plan," is Jo's evasive answer.
Bobby settles back in his chair and laces his fingers over his full stomach, a suspicious smile gracing his features. This is the first time he's ever seen tributes from this District anything but resigned to their fate. Never hopeful for survival, and definitely never hopeful to break the rules of the Games irreversibly. "Now get to bed!" he barks suddenly, making both Dean and Jo jump. "You'll be up before you know it tomorrow, and we've got so much more to talk about."
Dean wakes up to the sound of footsteps in his room. When his eyes open, he's immediately met with Castiel standing over him. "Shit!"
"I apologize," the escort says. "But it is time to rise. Breakfast is served."
"What, are you some sort of freak?" Dean mutters, throwing the covers off his legs. "All right. I'm coming."
Castiel inclines his head at Dean as well and leaves, obviously intending for him to follow. Dean rolls his eyes but trails after the infuriating escort.
Bobby and Jo are already at the table. Jo is dipping some pieces of bread into a brown drink while Bobby waters down what looks to be orange juice with a spirit of some sort.
Dean knows what spirits look like. He sees his dad buying them all the time.
He settles down at the table and looks at his selections. Just the bowl of bread in front of him could feed a Road family for a whole week, and he bets that once the bread gets a little bit stale these Capitol folk just throw it away.
Dean tears his eyes away from that sight and over to the pies.
"All right," Bobby says without preamble. "Since it's my job to take care of your asses, I need to know what your strengths are." He looks at Jo first, since her mouth isn't stuffed to the brim with apple pie. "You look like you're fast, little miss. And that knife in your boot says you're good with them."
Jo flushes and crosses her legs to hide the hilt of the knife that had ridden up. Dean flashes a worried look at Castiel—surely the escort would be alarmed about that—but he's just staring out the window. The light creates shadows that accentuate his sharp jawline and the stubble on his chin. For the first time Dean realizes that Castiel isn't a robot—he's a human, and he doesn't know any better just like Sam.
"And what about you?" Bobby turns to Dean, rubbing his chin, and Dean looks hastily away from Castiel. "You're a legacy. So what has your daddy taught you?"
"'Legacy'?"
"Victor's child," Bobby says impatiently. "You're their legacy. It's the term—" He cuts himself off abruptly. "Dean. Is that short for anything? Dean, what's your strength?"
"It's just Dean," he replies shortly. "And I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not a Career. I haven't been training for the Games." It's the lie his father has drilled into him just in case.
A flurry of movement stops Bobby from saying anything else as the tributes and Victor watch Castiel leave the room, making Dean frown. What's the escort playing at? If they're talking about bringing weapons into the Capitol and training despite not being Careers, Castiel should be listening to every word so he can report them.
Then again, maybe Castiel doesn't feel like playing spy because Jo and Dean will be dead soon anyway.
Dean looks back at Bobby. His eyes, which are keen and young despite the wrinkles that surround them, seem to pierce right through Dean's persona like an X-ray, revealing the terror he's so good at hiding.
Dean is just so scared. He wants to go home. He wants to see Sam. He wants to go to his boring work and watch the Games from his safe living room and he wants to not be able to eat as much as he would like but enough.
Not this, where he's with Jo in an alien train and the only thing that awaits him is a bloody, gruesome death.
He's glad he's here to protect Jo, though. He can't help but wonder—if Sam's name wasn't the one picked, would he have volunteered still? Or would he have let a stranger get onto the train with Jo? Would he have let Jo get brutally murdered? Would he have voluntarily signed up for certain death and killing to save her?
Dean knows what it's going to feel like. He's going to feel blood run over his hands. He's probably going to taste the spray of it in his mouth. Some of it might get in his eyes. He's going to kill, but it's much different than killing animals like John had forced him to. And then he's going to be the prey. He's going to feel a knife or an arrow or just a pair of strong fists take him down, and the worst thing? The worst thing isn't that he's sixteen. The worst thing isn't that Jo will die too. The worst thing isn't even that his death isn't going to faze anyone in the Capitol.
The very worst thing that Dean can think of about this experience is that John isn't going to protect Sam from the violence. Dean knows it. He'd known it even while he was asking John to protect Sam. Sam's going to have to watch his big brother die. John's going to raise Dean onto the same pedestal as Mary and turn Sam into another Dean.
Dean's entire life has been in vain. All he's done—every punch, hit, fight, everything he's ever done for Sam—it's not going to matter.
And the worst part is that it's going to be because of him.
"I'm good with a gun," Dean whispers finally. It's a half-truth; he's really good with everything, but Dean likes guns the most. They require more skill to handle them but are so much easier to use than other weapons.
Unfortunately, guns are contraband and everyone knows it. Besides, guns are rarely used in the Games because they're seen to give tributes a death that's not bloody enough. Because of that, almost nobody practices with guns. Why bother your time with weapons that most likely won't be in the Games?
So that won't help him. But maybe it'll get Bobby off his case—it's a specialized tool, isn't it, and Bobby never asked for more than one weapon to be good at.
"And you're strong," Bobby says, appraising him. "You two will be a formidable pair. Just remember, Joanna," he says, turning back to her, "never leave a knife in a corpse. It gives anyone that comes across it an easy weapon. And, if someone stumbles across their friend that you killed, the knife might be the clue that leads them to you. Nobody's stronger than when they're trying to avenge someone."
Dean's surprised Bobby's still talking so coherently and offering such useful insight. He must have a crazy high tolerance for alcohol.
"Any other advice?" Dean asks.
Bobby barks out a laugh. "Don't die."
Jo looks at Dean, her eyes hard and jaw set. It's a sure sign that she's getting annoyed, which is never good for anyone.
"Very funny," Dean says sarcastically.
"Reputations matter," Bobby says suddenly. "Don't make yourselves unlikeable. Nobody sponsors the unlikeable ones unless they're pretty, and you two are too grubby and plain for the Capitol to ever think you're pretty."
Jo snorts softly. Dean almost wants to agree with her. In the Districts, they would actually be considered very attractive. The Capitol is just so bright and flashy nobody there can appreciate the beauty that Jo emits with her quiet confidence and natural, soft curls instead of harsh multicolored wigs.
Just like how the Capitol is desensitized, they're also blind.
"Don't resist your stylists," Bobby advises. "No matter how pretty you think you are, they know what they're doing. You have to be attractive for the Capitol, not yourselves or the districts."
Earlier Dean had been thinking that he would go along with this whole 'cooperate with the Capitol' business in an attempt to save Sam. But as the old saying goes, easier said than done. The thought of letting someone like Castiel dress him, another judge him, and many decide whether he lives or dies depending on whether or not they find him interesting enough makes his blood boil.