Dean wakes up with a sour taste in his mouth and a headache. The sheets on his bed are tangled around his legs. He must have been tossing in the night. He doesn't do it often, he knows, because whenever he does Sam is always in John's bed when he wakes up. Plus, Sam will always complain for the rest of the day.
Dean has a faint inkling of what was making him so restless; the dream is already slipping away from him but he remembers the toss of blond curls, screaming, black masks, hands scrabbling at him, his own panting breaths as he carried his brother out of the fray, and most importantly, golden eyes.
Dean takes a deep breath to soothe his racing heart. He's here, in the Capitol, not by the dam, and his mother's been dead for years. She's not dying right now. Sam is okay, he's alive, and Dean's keeping him that way. Azazel isn't anywhere near Dean and he knows John won't let him near Sam.
Though dawn hasn't yet broken over the Capitol, he's not going to get back to sleep, he knows, so he hops into the shower. He messes with the controls for a little bit, trying to have a little fun with it. At one point the water is scalding, the next second it's freezing, and another time the water turns off and he's just drenched with lemony foam. It takes a while until Dean finally gets a hold of the shower's controls.
An outfit has been set out at the forefront of Dean's closet by the time he gets dried off. Black pants that are still too tight for his liking, a green flannel—Dean makes a mental note to thank Charlie for noticing what he'd picked out from the closet—and soft leather shoes. This is the first time since the reaping that Dean feels even a little bit like himself, a little more grounded. No more fancy suits, no more sparking headpieces or black unitards. Just pants, shoes, and a type of shirt that is comfortable but still expensive that he can hide his amulet with.
Nobody is at the table when he gets downstairs save for an Avox standing by the buffet table. He nods when Dean asks if he can start to eat so Dean starts to pile food onto his plate. He wants to get the sour taste out of his mouth, but the staring Avox makes him uncomfortable. He tries to take his mind off the mutilated servant, but then his mind wanders to his brother and father.
Are they all right? Surely Sam is awake by now; he has to get to school soon. And John must be getting ready to get to work. They're probably eating their breakfast of mush. Are they thinking about Dean? Did they feel reassured after his appearance during the ceremony, seeing him with Jo and flaming, determined, or did they see the rest of the tributes and feel terrified because they knew only one could survive?
After Dean's third plate of food—eat whenever you can because you never know when you'll get your next meal—Bobby and Jo come into the room, bid him good morning, and each fill up a plate before sitting down next to Dean. Jo is wearing the exact same outfit as Dean, he notices, and wonders with some trepidation what Kara and Charlie are trying to do. Make Dean and Jo indistinguishable from the other so they're more forgettable? Or present them as a unified team?
If it was anyone else, Dean might protest, but Charlie had obviously known what she was doing yesterday. She knows more about the Capitol than he ever will.
"So," Bobby says while putting a sausage in his mouth, "your choice. Do you want me to coach you both together or separate?"
Without hesitation, Jo and Dean say at the same time, "Together."
Bobby raises one surprised eyebrow and smirks. "All right," he drawls. He unclasps a flask he carries at his hip and takes a long drag out of the obviously alcoholic drink. He may be acting responsible right now, but there's a reason he's also thought of as the town drunk in District 5.
Dean puts down the roll he'd been picking apart, suddenly not hungry. He's nervous about training. There will be boys taller and stronger than him and girls that can use knives like extra appendages of themselves. Besides, it's a perfect opportunity to spot people's weaknesses and strengths.
The last day will be the most nerve-wracking, though. There will be a period for each tribute to perform privately in front of the Gamemakers.
"So I know you're good with a knife, missy," Bobby says. "And Dean here is good with a gun. What else can you do, boy?"
Dean shrugs, glancing at the Avoxs around them.
"Uh, Dean?" Jo faux-whispers. "They can't speak. I think we're fine."
A flush works its way up Dean's face. "Of course. Well, I'm good with… pretty much everything, I guess?" He winces. "Knives, definitely."
"He's really strong, too," Jo says suddenly.
Dean rushes, "And Jo's fast. But what can I do? It's not like anybody's gonna stand still long enough for me to punch 'em."
"And if someone lands a punch on me, I'll be done for!" Jo bursts out. "Plus, you're plenty fast enough to take someone down—get yourself a knife and you'll be able to stand a chance!"
Dean can't think of a comeback for that and so decides to sit back in his chair, fold his arms over his chest, and pout. It's true. He spars with his father often, and with Sam, too, but he takes it easy on his little brother. He knows how to kill; he's killed stray animals before at his father's insistence. Killing in the Games won't even be that hard as long as he pretends they're animals.
Or maybe he won't even need to pretend. Dean is going to get home. He just is. If that involves killing people… he pictures slitting the throat of that hobbled boy, Kubrick, if he was the only thing standing in Dean's way of getting back to Sam, and he does it. In his mind's eye, he feels the knife slide through the tender flesh and he just stands up, not wanting to watch the death happen, but he'd be able to do it.
"Well, Dean, I can't guarantee there'll be a gun in the arena," Bobby says after a long moment. "But show them that skill during the private session with the Gamemakers. Until then, keep it under wraps. Same goes for you, Jo. Go to the training and learn something new, like making traps or tying knots."
Bobby hears the small snort from Jo and his lips curl up. "Or if you already know how to do that, pretend you don't. Or just do something new!" He throws his hands up with faux-exasperation. "I'm trying to help you both here. Just… make sure they underestimate you."
Jo and Dean look at each other and shrug.
"One last thing," Bobby says, standing up, "make sure you two stay as close to each other as possible."
"Was already planning on it," Dean says instinctually, nodding. Jo's hand finds his and he squeezes her fingers. It's a friendly gesture, nothing more, but it fills him with more comfort than he could have thought possible.
"Castiel will escort you at ten," Bobby says, clearly dismissing them as he transfers his gaze to his food. "Make sure you're ready."
Dean checks his watch. It's nearly ten already, so he and Jo have just enough time to rush up to their rooms to brush their teeth before they meet Castiel at the elevator. He's still wearing the infuriating trenchcoat.
The actual training rooms are below ground level. In the crystal elevator, the ride is less than a minute, but Dean keeps his eyes clenched shut the whole time as he falls multiple stories down. He's never going to ride an elevator ever again in his life, if he can help it.
When the doors open, a few people are honest enough to not pretend they don't look at Dean and Jo. They're the last ones here. All the other tributes are gathered in a tense circle with a cloth square pinned to their shirts that displays their district numbers.
Dean ignores the questioning glances and notes two things: one, that he and Jo are the only two dressed alike; and two, that the room is an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. To Dean's surprise, everything in the training room… he can do it all. Maybe the courses he trained on in District 5 weren't as fancy as the one in this room, but the intent is similar. Obviously John was drawing inspiration from his memories of the Training Center.
Dean allows his eyes to wander as the head instructor, a buff man named Gadreel, steps up to instruct everyone about the training schedule. To his surprise, now that everyone's standing on even ground, in regular clothes, there's not a lot of tributes taller than Dean. Most of them are skinny, but not skinny like Jo—skinny skinny, the skinny you get when you don't eat well your whole life. Dean would look like that if not for John. The muscles Dean's gotten from training prevents him from looking like he doesn't eat regularly.
Of course, the exceptions are the Career tributes. They are bigger than Dean, more muscled, obviously healthier with more meals than Dean's ever been able to have. Of course, it's technically against the rules to train before getting to the Capitol, but everyone does it. The Careers are just privileged enough to be able to do it the most without getting in trouble, which means that every year it's a Career that's a winner.
All Dean can see in their eyes is contempt and jealousy as they look at him and Jo. They're not jealous of them, per se, but rather their stylists. Any confidence he'd had about their fantastic entrance yesterday trickles out of his bones.
Gadreel releases the tributes and the Careers flock to the deadliest weapons in the room. They handle them with ease.
Dean could handle them with ease as well. Nobody knows that, though, and nobody expects him to be able to. He can use that to his advantage—people underestimating him and the Career's arrogance. Bobby had said to make sure they underestimate him, after all.
Dean is just thinking it's a good thing Jo is a fast runner when she nudges his arm. "Where do you want to go first?"
Dean looks around the gymnasium, at all these weapons he knows how to use but shouldn't. At the Careers handling them, clearly trying to intimidate the competition, at the tributes from the poorer Districts who are learning how to use an axe or the like for the first time. "Traps?" he suggests.
The expert for that station seems pleased to see them and Dean gets the feeling it's not the most popular station for tributes to visit. He teaches Dean and Jo a simple trap that will leave a competitor dangling by a leg from a tree (Dean tries not to think about slitting the throat of someone hanging upside down from a tree, but he can't stop himself). Once they've mastered that, they move on to camouflage. Jo seems to be childishly amused by this station and, though she doesn't manage to produce an accurate camouflage, she has fun mixing the mud, clay, and berry juices around her pale skin.
"Mom wanted me to paint," she says after a while.
"Mmm," Dean hums, his eyes on the male District 2 tribute throw a spear at a dummy from fifteen feet away and hit it dead in the chest.
"She didn't want me to get caught up in your training, but I insisted," Jo continues. "I guess it's a good thing I did, right?"
Dean wishes she'd never needed the skills she'd gained on the few days she'd spent with Dean and John.
Jo finally realizes he's not listening, too preoccupied with watching the competition. "Do you want to move on?" She lays a hand on Dean's arm and he blinks, coming back to himself.
"Sure," he croaks.
They alternate through the training for the rest of the day. Jo learns everything from starting fires to making shelter. Dean doesn't throw any knives for fear of drawing attention to his good aim, but he still twirls them around his fingers. Maybe even that is too dangerous an act, considering the eyes that sometimes still his hand mid-spin, but he can't help himself.
Despite Bobby's instructions not to excel at anything, though, Jo decides she's going to learn about all the edible plants. Her memory must be fantastic because it only takes her three tries to get a perfect score. While Dean watches her, all he can focus on is the picture of nightlock in the corner of the screen.
"Go fight someone," Jo murmurs, kicking at him gently without taking her eyes off the screen. "Get some practice at hand-to-hand combat."
Dean's tempted, but he knows he'll stand out if he does. The wrestling he's participated in at his school, as well as his training with John… well, Dean doesn't like to brag or make claims he can't back up, but he would win.
"Come on up, tribute," a training assistant invites cheerily, obviously having been eavesdropping on them. Dean eyes the man. He looks about ten years older than Dean but still fit. Dean's glad the training people at least look normal. He doesn't know what he'd do if he punched someone and his hand came back green, or if he ripped off someone's wig.
"Go on," Jo goads. Dean rolls his eyes but relents and hops onto the sparring platform. He looks up and right into the eyes of a male Gamemaker with blonde hair and a smirk permanently etched onto his face. The Gamemakers had arrived just a little while ago, all in deep purple robes, but Dean was sure he was flying under the radar. Why is the Gamemaker looking at him, then? Especially like… that?
Still maintaining eye contact with Dean, the Gamemaker pops a grape into his mouth and winks. Dean looks away from him, flushing at forgetting himself and why he's here. He can't catch the attention of any Gamemakers.
As the training assistant settles into a fighting stance, Dean glances over his shoulder. The blonde Gamemaker is talking to a short Gamemaker with scruffy black hair, olive skin, and slanted eyes. Relieved to not have an audience anymore, Dean settles more into his groove as he turns around.
"Have you ever fought before?" the trainer asks.
Dean shrugs. "I wrestled in school a little bit."
"Do you want me to take it easy on you, then?"
Dean shakes his head and crouches a little bit to get ready. The trainer lashes out with his fist and Dean ducks.
"Not bad," he compliments, inclining his head. He lunges out and Dean grabs his arm and twists it up. The trainer relaxes so he doesn't get injured and hooks one leg around Dean's, sweeping it up so he falls down. Dean hits the mat with an exhale of air but brings the man down with him. After a brief moment of tussling, they break apart, both panting, both with angry smiles on their faces.
"Oh, bring it on," Dean whispers. And he goes to work.
On the second day, when Jo is jokingly working on throwing a spear, Dean notices a little shadow behind the two of them. "I think we've got a shadow," he whispers, nudging Jo's shoulder with his own.
Jo hands him the spear and Dean throws it as well. He's not bad with it, as long as it's not long-distance throwing. The angle allows him to see the twelve-year-old from District 11, Krissy Chambers, watching them. Her eyes are a little red-rimmed but her hair is pulled into a ponytail and she's bouncing on the balls of her feet, arms outstretched slightly. She looks like a bird. It makes Dean's mouth pull into a sad smile.
After a while of following them, Krissy joins them at the knives-throwing station. She's actually got pretty good aim, but only for smaller blades. She's just so small. It makes Dean's heart hurt, especially when he thinks of her Victor father back in District 11. Especially when he pictures Sam in her place, tagging along after older, stronger tributes, never given a fair chance.
Krissy's smart; he'll give her that. She's good at plants like Jo.
Back on the District 5 floor, Castiel and Bobby seem to have one goal: to know what's happening in the Training Center. They grill him and Jo on what each person's skills are, who seems to be friendly, who seems to be unfriendly, and so on.
Jo takes all their advice into consideration, but Dean can't lower himself down that low; Castiel is a Capitol escort. He cares about Dean's life about as much as Dean cares for the alley cats he sees scrounging for food. Maybe less. And, no matter how sober Bobby appears to be, the fact remains that every other tribute he's ever mentored before has died. The fact remains that Bobby does not have any contacts, does not have any friends, and probably expects both Dean and Jo to die in the Bloodbath.
During the third day of training, during lunch, first the District 1 boy is called, and then his counterpart. Dean doesn't know the male District 1 tribute's name, but he knows the female is called Bela Talbot. Then goes the District 2 tributes, Rugaru Mills (some of the names the Career districts come up with are just ridiculous) and Constance Welch. After that is Peter Sweeney and Wendy Igo from District 3. All those six people had volunteered for the chance to be Victors. They're all going to die, and the worst thing is that they all chose this.
After Dae Mon and Mary Worthington of District 4, Dean is called. Jo wishes him luck in a soft voice and reminds him to throw weights. Dean reminds her to use her knives.
They nod at each other and Dean walks out the door.
Immediately he knows he is in trouble. The Gamemakers, just like everybody else in the Capitol, are dumb and lazy and have to be entertained all the time. They're swarming around a group of Avoxes who are bringing them out some more food. The only two Gamemakers watching Dean are the blonde one that had winked at him earlier and the scruffy one with the slanted eyes. The blonde one has a lollipop in his mouth.
Dean throws around a few weights, making a few Gamemakers cheer halfheartedly. At one point one of them even catches his eye and nods. There's not enough watching him, though. By the time Dean gives up with his weights, all but the two Gamemakers are turned away from him.
Determined to see it through, Dean walks over to the station that he'd been itching to go to all three days. It had been mostly empty all three days except for that Bela girl from District 1. Nobody bothers to use guns. They're too boring. Hopefully they will make Dean stand out.
He picks up one gun and a box of ammunition. His hands immediately fall back into the old pattern of loading, unloading, checking the chamber. He looks up. The Gamemakers still aren't watching him; they're focused on a dead pig being carried in by an overwhelmed-looking Avox.
Anger floods Dean's face red. These assholes don't understand, do they? He needs a good score so he'll get sponsors so he can get home to Sammy. But if they don't pay attention to him…
A furious recklessness takes over and Dean raises the gun, clicking off the safety, right at that stupid dead pig with the apple in its mouth. To his surprise, the blonde Gamemaker doesn't look alarmed at this new development. The Gamemaker with the slanted eyes opens his mouth to yell, but Dean's already fired, and the blonde Gamemaker claps his hands and whoops with delight.
The apple seemingly disappears from the hog's mouth. The rest of the purple-clad Gamemakers jump back, looking around wildly as its guts splatter on the wall behind them. No one was injured. Of course they weren't; Dean's a perfect shot.
Somehow someone sees Dean still standing with the gun extended and, like a wave, the Gamemakers turn to look at him.
Dean barely manages half of a bow. "Thank you for your consideration," he says, sarcasm dripping off his every word, and he walks out of the room without being dismissed.