Castiel is the first one to congratulate Dean and Jo on their performance in the ceremony. He does it while escorting them to the Training Center by saying, "Holding hands was a nice touch."

Dean tries to ignore him by focusing on the Training Center while adjusting his necklace back on his neck; it'd felt bare without the jewelry. It's a building designed especially for the tributes and their teams. Each district has their own floor, and they get to said floor by using a crystal elevator. Dean's mouth goes dry when he steps onto the clear floor. It looks a little too much like there's nothing supporting him when he looks down, so he just stares up at the ceiling and tries not to wet his pants as the elevator zooms upwards.

He's ridden on the Justice Building elevator twice. Once, when he was accepting the award for his mother's death, and just yesterday when he'd gone to the room where he'd said goodbye to Sam, John, and Ellen. That elevator was small and slow and, while it might have smelled of mold, it was not at all as dangerous as a rocket elevator made of crystal.

When the elevator makes it to the fifth floor, Jo's eyes are sparkling and Dean can tell she's itching to ask Castiel if she can ride it again. If she does, Dean might vomit; nerves about the opening ceremony, plus the jealous glares the other tributes had sent them after the ceremony, plus this nerve-wracking experience in this elevator, equals a not happy stomach.

Dean is surprised that Castiel's duties did not end at the train station, and it's not a happy surprise to be certain. Apparently, Castiel and Bobby will be overseeing him and Jo right up until the moment they enter the arena. Lucky us, right? Dean thinks bitterly, glaring at the hem of Castiel's trenchcoat as the escort shows them around their floor. An entire floor dedicated to about four people.

According to Castiel, he and Jo definitely made an impression during the ceremony. It's not every day the insects see living wires shedding electricity, after all. Castiel implies that everyone who's anyone is interested in them. He rambles—well, rambles is a bad word for it, but really the only other word Dean can think of is lectures—them about the politics about chatting up two nobody-Victor's children from District 5, which isn't an underdog district or a Career district. Dean and Jo are entirely common—well, were entirely common; Dean can't imagine Charlie and Kara's stunt has kept them in the limelight.

At one point Jo leans over and whispers to Dean that the District 12 tributes hadn't escaped the good ol' 'naked with coal dust on their bodies' schtick and it's all he can do not to snort and cut Castiel off mid-sentence.

Jo drinks in all the information, but Dean's eyes are on the hem of that damn trenchcoat. He can't figure out what's hidden underneath the damn coat (and if Sam were here, he'd make a joke about how Dean must be fantasizing about Castiel naked, which isn't the case). Dean just can't figure out why Castiel performs his duties so diligently and yet leaves during conversations that could be used to incriminate people not loyal to the Capitol. He doesn't wear the frivolous clothes of the Capitol and his voice doesn't bear their accent; it's too deep and rough. Yes, some of the escorts wear business clothes, but some don't. All but Castiel have the Capitol accent, however, and all but Castiel wear at least some semblance of makeup to make themselves stand out.

Castiel's the only one that stands out, though, by not doing any of that stuff. Dean can't help but wonder if that's on purpose. Or maybe Castiel is just clueless. That would certainly explain everything else he's done.

"Here are your quarters, Dean," Castiel instructs. He beckons Dean through a door and into a chamber of rooms that are plush, like the train's car, but covered with electronic-looking buttons. The windows can zoom into different places in the city. If you ask for food, it'll appear before you. The closet has more outfits than Dean could wear in his entire life, even if he only wore them once each. Just in the shower there is a panel with over a hundred different options for your optimizable experience.

Dean almost feels more dirty when he gets out of the shower and onto the mat that turns on heaters that blow-dry his whole body. This sort of technology would seem like a god-send to anyone in his district—any district, really—and here the rooms are, being used for about a week each year.

Sam would love this tech, Dean realizes, and that's his biggest problem with the whole situation: Sam would love to be where Dean is, because he's been suffering his whole life. Stuffed into a small house when he could have a bigger one, sharing a bed with Dean even though he could have his own… Sam's never gotten what he deserves. He deserves all this and more, and Dean will be damned before he can't give it to him.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel calls, knocking on the door, and Dean jumps. "It's time for dinner."

Good. Dean's starving. Then again, Sam probably is too. Maybe John has already started to train the younger brother in the advent of losing Dean. Maybe John has already given up on Dean coming back.

Dean will.

He opens up the door to see Castiel's electric-blue eyes staring him down. God, Castiel is such a weird name, Dean thinks mentally. Dude's gotta get a nickname. Not that Dean will give him one. Giving nicknames is for friends.

Jo, Charlie, and Kara are standing on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when Dean enters the dining room with Cas. He's grateful they're there; it was their ingenious costumes that made him and Jo stand out amongst the tributes. Even when the sun started to set and the other costumes fell into shadow, their headpieces were still shedding sparks and drawing the eyes of everyone surveying the ceremony, including those in the district. Dean had been watching the screens and he and Jo had gotten far more than their fair share of airtime, mostly because they were the only things distinguishable after a while.

"Now no matter what happens," Kara says dreamily without prompt, "you'll be remembered. We wanted to make you memorable, and we did better. We made you unforgettable."

Dean doesn't ask what that's supposed to mean; Kara must be as crazy as Charlie. He just accepts the glass of wine offered to him and almost chokes on the dry liquid. Since when can liquid be dry? The Capitol keeps getting weirder.

Bobby enters the room, his head looking weirdly small without his hat on, but he's wearing a suit instead of the ratty clothes he normally sports. It looks just as uncomfortable on him as his suit had felt on Dean. He much prefers the button-up shirt Castiel had called a flannel to any suit or work shirt he's ever worn before.

The conversation throughout the dinner is frustratingly domestic. Jo doesn't seem to mind, but Dean can't stop fidgeting in his seat. One can only talk about the opening ceremony so much, and besides, surviving the Games is a bit more pressing at the moment.

Again, the food is indecently good: flavoured, too plentiful, and served by silent servants.

Dean can't help the feeling that floods through him as he thinks about Sam. He misses him so much whenever he thinks about how much Sam would like this, but the fact that Sam would enjoy this… Sam isn't really the person Dean wants him to be. Maybe he never was.

He distracts himself from that thought and shovels another piece of roast beef into his mouth. "Hey," he says suddenly to a silent servant with brown hair, "What's your favorite thing to eat here?"

To his confusion, the servant's eyes widen with fear and she backs away, shaking her head minutely.

Dean looks around when he realizes silence has fallen over the table. Castiel is staring at Dean, his head cocked again, and Bobby's lip is curled at the servant. "She can't respond, boy," he finally says, stabbing his meat with his fork. "That's an Avox. A traitor. They cut out her tongue."

Jo turns as green as Dean feels.

When another silent servant tries to give him a slice of cake, Dean waves her away. He ate too much roast beef, maybe, or maybe he can't bear the thought of enjoying this experience in any way when Sam's not here, when Dean's about to leave Sam like Sam thinks Mary left their family. Not when he knows the brutality behind the servant's closed mouth. He can't enjoy anything that has to do with this place.

"Dean?" Jo asks softly. Dean looks up to see Jo holding her hand out to him. "Come on. Let's watch the recap of the ceremony."

What's the point? Dean wants to ask. We lived through it. He can't say that, though; the effort of talking is suddenly too much for him to bear. So he just takes Jo's hand and lets her pretend she's the one pulling him up. The one supporting him.

Dean hasn't had anyone to lean on since he was four years old. Now, as he's staring the pale, gaunt figure of Death right in the face, how can he lean on Jo when she's staring down the same figure? How can he just let someone hook their arms around his shoulders and help carry Sam?

The thought terrifies him, but the intoxicating feeling that rushes through him when Jo wraps her arm around his shoulders isn't terrifying at all. He's helping her a bit too. Give-and-take is another thing he's never experienced.

Dean doesn't watch the ceremony. For some reason, he can't take his eyes off of Castiel's face. His stupid escort, who compliments them for what is essentially another act of rebellion, who doesn't look down on Dean and Jo for being nobody Victor's children. Castiel, the Capitol's escort, who leaves when people are talking about contraband, who reportedly is trying as hard as he can to talk up Jo and Dean to wealthy could-be sponsors. Castiel, who stands out from his peers in a way that he shouldn't.

Dean's suddenly struck with the thought that maybe, just maybe, Castiel is just as much a rebel as John is. Maybe he's doing it in a different way, but that would explain his odd behavior.

Does that mean… is there a way Dean could trust him?

Immediately he shakes that thought away. Dean isn't a rebel; John is, and Dean's going to make him stop when he survives the Games. Castiel makes his own choices and those choices have nothing to do with Dean.

With a degree of difficulty, Dean focuses on Jo's face instead.

Sam puts his sleeve over his mouth to muffle the sound of his heavy, fast breathing. He'd woken up in an empty bed and, though he'd gone to sleep knowing that Dean wasn't there, the hazy sleep-induced confusion had made him forget that, if only for just a moment. He's still not sure how he managed to fall asleep so quickly, but maybe seeing Dean on the screen in the opening ceremony had made him feel closer than he is.

At first Sam had just lain on the bed, eyes wide open and staring unseeingly at the ceiling swathed in shadows. Dean was on fire. Dean had been shedding sparks. He'd been holding Jo's hand while the other tributes had been standing stiffly apart from each other. Sam knows what that means; he's going to protect Jo just like he's protecting Sam.

He'd looked like an angel, even though the sparks were coming from a headpiece that was spiked like horns. Sam's guardian angel.

What Sam wouldn't have given to see it on purpose.

Tears had suddenly welled up in Sam's eyes and he blinked them away furiously, because why would he be crying? Dean's protecting him and Dean said he would be back. Dean doesn't lie, ergo Dean will be back.

Sam had sat up in his bed, ready to crawl into John's to conserve body heat. Sometimes he does it to hurt Dean's feelings on purpose, and other times he does it because John always gets more blankets on his bed than Dean does.

He'd managed to creep all the way to John's bed before realizing that John wasn't in his bed.

Immediately fear had flooded Sam. Is John gone? Is John drinking?

Is Sam going to find John hanging side-by-side with the memory of his long-dead wife? Is John going to be as selfish as Mary and leave him and Dean too?

The murmur of low voices had stopped Sam from panicking and he'd turned towards the door of the bedroom. Light flooded under the door's crack, something Sam berated himself for not noticing sooner, and with a rapidly increasing heart rate, he'd snuck to the door to listen to the voices.

This has happened before; not often, but not never either. Every time it did happen Dean would command Sam to come back to bed and sleep, a tinge of fear in his voice like he knew something Sam didn't. And Sam would always bug him about what John was doing, and Dean would always keep his lips tightly closed, much to the younger brother's frustration.

Now there's no Dean to scold him, though Sam can't help but glance over his shoulder every few seconds as if Dean will suddenly appear in the bed and sit up. Sam's breaking rules that have never even been said, but he'd love nothing more than for Dean to scold him.

Maybe, Sam thinks, knowing it's impossible but not really caring, maybe Dean will sense that I'm listening to what Dad does in the night and he'll come from the Capitol to yell at me.

John is speaking right now. Sam presses his ear to the door. He can barely make out the words, "Capitol… punishment… act quickly…"

Heavy boots clunk on the ground and a new voice chimes in, saying, "Your son… Games… wait…"

Sam leans heavier on the door, his hands coming up to grab the door handle for support. He can still barely hear what's going on.

Another unfamiliar voice says something about Dean dying. Sam gasps, shock at the callous statement of the impossible making his hands slip.

The handle turns, the door opens, and Sam falls onto the ground on hands and knees. All conversation ends abruptly, and Sam looks up slowly through the curtain of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Everyone's staring at him.

He flushes.

"Sam, what are you doing up?" John asks, surprise evident in his voice. He has to know that Sam wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, right? He has to know about Sam's nightmares… he has to, right? Dean does.

"Dean's not gonna die," Sam says furiously, standing up. He surveys the odd assortment of people in his dining room: there's John, with a two day's old beard, and Ellen, with her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. Apart from that, there are maybe seven other adults, both Victor and lucky enough to not have been reaped. Surprisingly, though, there's at least five Peacekeepers, all with their masks off. With a bit of shock Sam recognizes the stars on the sleeves of two of the Keepers. He knows what they mean, and he knows what the Peacekeeper's names are.

The Head Peacekeeper, Azazel, and his second-in-command, Crowley, are in Sam's dining room in the middle of the night.

Azazel turns a sickening grin on Sam and Sam almost shudders. He knows Dean hates Azazel. Maybe it has something to do with his weirdly golden eyes. The one time Sam had pestered Dean enough to say anything, Dean had just muttered shortly that Azazel was a sick bastard and 'the nerve of him to even look at them, considering what he did'.

Sam doesn't know what it is Dean means, but it had to be bad. Dean doesn't hate people easily.

And then Crowley. He's a far cry different from Azazel, that's for certain, and even though Dean seems to hate most Peacekeepers he seems to appreciate Crowley. He's the only Peacekeeper Sam's only seen without his mask on before. He sometimes brings their food deliveries and, on good days, slips Sam extra food to give to Dean. He calls Dean 'Squirrel' and Sam 'Moose' because he's got gangly limbs, apparently.

"Well, we all certainly hope so," a blonde girl says sharply. She might be trying to comfort Sam, but he doesn't get the feeling she cares about Dean one way or the other. "John—"

"It's all right," John interrupts, waving a hand. "Sam, come here."

Sam obeys and trods over to his imperious father, who pats his lap and hoists Sam up to sit on it. Sam hasn't sat in John's lap in a long, long time.

"Sam, you know Ellen," John says. Sam nods at her and Ellen manages a smile back. "The two girl Peacekeepers over there are Ruby and Meg." He points at them. It's the sharp blonde girl with bangs and a girl with wavy dark hair and they both look to be in their mid-twenties. Sam waves a bit shyly and the sharp blonde girl merely raises an eyebrow but the dark-haired Meg waves back limply. Her lip is curled and she's obviously not pleased about the interruption.

"That's our Head Peacekeeper, Azazel, and his second, Crowley," John continues. When Sam makes eye contact with Azazel, he shivers. The golden-eyed man looks hungry. "The other Peacekeeper is named Lucifer."

The last Peacekeeper looks to be about John's age. He's blonde and has scruff all over his face. He reminds Sam sort of a pitbull, both by the shape of his face and the look in his eyes.

John points at each adult as he introduces, "Over there is Jody Mills, Dorothy Baum, Marcus Wallace—"

"Mr. Wallace!" Sam cries out. He can't believe he hadn't recognized Mr. Wallace sooner. He's Sam's maths teacher.

Mr. Wallace inclines his head at Sam, his expression grave and completely unlike the jovial one he wears at school. "Hello, Sam."

"And Lillian O'Grady, Harry Spangler, and Ed Zeddmore." John says the last two names with a hint of disgust, and Sam doesn't blame him; he can tell the look of someone who's never handled a gun in their life.

"Nice to meet you, Sam," Harry Spangler says in a curiously high voice. Ed, who sports a thick beard not unlike Bobby Singer's, echoes the sentiment.

Sam nods at them.

"Sammy," John starts, not seeing Sam's wince—the nickname only sounds good when Dean says it— "This here is a group of people you can trust. We're going to overthrow the Capitol. We're going to stop the Games."