Jo arrives in the District 5 floor in a huff, blonde hair flying furiously as she storms off into her room. Dean looks up from where he'd been trying to stomach enough wine to dull the pain of knowing he'd angered the Gamemakers. They're going to give him the lowest score imaginable so no one will sponsor him and he knows it. He'd just lost his head at being ignored. "Jo?"
Her furious footsteps falter and then stop. After a second she storms back into the room he's sitting in, lounging around on the couch while Castiel sits stick-straight in a chair near him, glancing disapprovingly at the alcohol in his hands every few minutes.
She heads right to Dean, face so thunderous it sobers him immediately. "Woah, woah—" Dean starts, putting the wine glass down hastily. "What did I—"
Jo topples over the side of the couch and falls heavily onto Dean, clenching so hard around his waist he has a little trouble breathing. It's been a while since Sam has needed a hug like this, though, and Dean's missed giving them out, so he returns the gesture. "That bad, huh?"
"They didn't even look at me," Jo gripes. Her voice is so hard Dean can tell she's trying to be angry so she doesn't cry out of frustration. He knows just how she feels.
"Yeah, mine didn't go so hot either," he murmurs, smoothing her hair over her back. "Scumbags, the lot of them." He shoots a look at Castiel, but the escort's eyes are pasted firmly on the ceiling. He's obviously communicating nonverbally to act like he isn't here, that he isn't listening. Dean can't figure him out.
"I threw my knives like you said and I did well," Jo continues. "Did a few obstacle courses. Only the blond Gamemaker watched me."
"I can get behind that," Dean agrees. "My weights did nothing to impress them. The blond Gamemaker and the scruffy little Gamemaker were the only ones that watched me. They're probably the only two people that take their job seriously."
Castiel snorts softly behind them and Jo whirls around. "Oh, I'm sorry that we're worried about whether or not we're going to get sponsors!" she snaps. Castiel's eyes widen comically and Dean realizes this might be the first time someone's ever yelled at him. "It's not like our lives are on the line, by the way!" she continues.
"You misunderstand me," Castiel interrupts. He swallows visibly and Dean hides his smile behind his hand. Maybe the escorts do have more emotions than he'd thought. "I know that Gamemaker. The blond Gamemaker is my brother, Gabriel, and he is probably the last person to ever take his job seriously."
"Well, that's reassuring," Jo snaps as Dean's expression hardens. "We got the attention of yet another spacey, lazy, good-for-nothing—"
Dean puts his hand over her mouth.
"You misunderstand again. Gabriel never wanted—" Castiel stops himself suddenly and wets his lips with his tongue. "He doesn't take his job seriously, but not, I believe, for the reason you'd expect." With an air of finality, he turns himself around just slightly enough so he's looking out the window instead of at Dean.
Dean frowns. Gabriel never wanted what? He never wanted… his job? Why would he be doing it, then, if he didn't want it? No, Castiel's family is obviously very high in the government and they're all scumbags because they laugh at kids who are about to die.
"If it makes you feel any better, I shot at them," Dean says off-handedly. Jo's eyes widen and Castiel's head whips around, making him look like an owl. Neither of them are the first to speak, though.
"You what?"
Dean winces and closes his eyes at the new voice.
"Don't tell me you shot at the Gamemakers, boy," Bobby hisses, stepping farther into the room. His hat is back on his head and he's wearing wrinkled denim pants and a yellow-tinged white undershirt. He looks like he normally does in District 5. "Boy! Of all the idiot—"
"Why?" Jo asks, cutting him off.
Dean shrugs. "They were more concerned about a roast pig being delivered than me, so I shot the apple in its mouth. Nobody got hurt," he adds hastily.
"Impressive," Castiel murmurs.
"They're not going to hurt Sam, are they?" Dean wonders aloud. "Or kill me?"
Bobby hesitates before shaking his head. "Not this late in the game. Besides, everything that happens in the training rooms is secret—or's supposed to be, anyway," he corrects, his eyes twinkling a little bit. Or it could be the lights of the Capitol reflected in them. "No, what they'll do is send some monsters after you in the arena," he finishes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Dean groans, but it's not like he hadn't been expecting that. No, his reaction is mostly exaggerated to make Jo laugh. Dean is very good at knowing when someone wants him to react to something, like when Sam will tell a blatant lie but Dean will go along with it just to see the delight on Sam's face when he thinks he's tricked Dean.
It works. Jo laughs, a little hollowly, and pushes Dean's shoulder. "Well, it's not like they weren't going to already."
Bobby leans forward. "What were their faces like?"
Without thinking, Dean begins to make fun of the fat, lazy Gamemakers in their stupid purple robes. He doesn't even think about Castiel overhearing him. When the thought finally occurs to him, Dean realizes he doesn't much care. Castiel's been pretty helpful so far; he hasn't told Dean off for the other offhanded comments he's made or the plotting he must have overheard about a way to get both Dean and Jo out of the arena.
Dean doesn't want to admit it, but he doesn't think Castiel is the first person on his enemy list anymore.
Immediately John's face swims in Dean's vision, scowling, scolding. Don't trust him, he can hear John ordering. He's Capitol. He's scum. He killed your mother.
"They didn't dismiss you?" Castiel asks, the first time he actively participates in the tribute and Victor's conversation. Dean sort of sees it like an olive branch, especially considering the hopeful, hungry-dog sort of look Castiel is sending him. He wants to be included.
"I dismissed myself," Dean replies. He doesn't try to sound as short as he does, but he's just now remembering his promise to Sam that he would come home. Disrespecting the Gamemakers like that will hardly aid him in that goal, now will it?
"Well, even if you get a low score, people have been known to hide their talent by appearing mediocre and catching their opponents off-guard," Castiel points out. Dean locks eyes with him and knows in that instant, they're both thinking the same thing: that's what Dean's mother did.
In some small way, that makes him feel better. Somehow Castiel made Dean feel like he's closer to his mother. It's practically a miracle and something he can't say thank-you for aloud, but hopefully the escort sees it in the secretive smile Dean sends him.
"Well, that's that," Bobby says. "You all ready for dinner?"
The elevator doors open, as if on cue, and Charlie and Kara step in to dine with them as well.
Dinner is a relatively quiet affair. Dean is tired from both the stress of the day, the adrenaline that had coursed through him once he'd loosed that bullet, and the wine he'd drunk while waiting for Jo. Jo's still angry, a little bit; Castiel doesn't seem like a talker; and Bobby is too busy eating real, good food to strike up a conversation. Apart from the initial outburst that had followed when Dean admitted to shooting the Gamekeepers, everyone seemed to respect Dean and Jo's desire for quiet.
After dinner, the motley little group heads over to the sitting room to watch the scores be announced on television. As expected, all the Careers score in the eight-to-ten range. Dae Mon from District 4 gets a 9, which causes a small uproar in the room, considering he's not a Career, but his counterpart, Mary Worthington, only scored a four.
Dean can feel his heart pounding louder as his picture flashes on the screen. Then the number… eleven?
Eleven?
Jo shrieks a little and hits Dean's shoulder, completely missing her own scoring. Then everybody but Castiel is patting Dean on the shoulder, clapping him on the back. Dean barely notices Cole Trenton from District 7 get a nine—not terribly high for the district but still impressive considering he's not a Career.
"There must be a mistake," Dean says weakly, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen as Krissy Chambers scores a 7. "I… how could this happen?" He turns his eyes to Bobby.
"They must have liked your attitude," the elder Victor shrugs. "God knows we need more than some bloodthirsty killers in the Games. More quips, less blood. It's more entertaining. It's—" Charlie elbows him and he falls silent.
"Just wait until you see your interview suit," she says, eyes sparkling, and she pulls him into a hug.
"More sparks?" Dean asks.
She just smirks at him. "Of a sort."
"Wait," Jo says into the sudden, stunned silence. "What was my score?"
"You scored an eight," Castiel answers. It's impressive. Dean tells her good job.
What is Sam thinking right now? Dean thinks. Dean's scored an eleven, which could mean more sponsors, but it could also mean a target painted onto his back. Surely the other tributes, especially the Careers who volunteered, are angry that he beat them out for the top score. Is Sam old enough to understand all the nuances of the Games, or is he just happy his brother is the best?
John knows all the nuances. Dean can't help but wonder if his dad is proud of his high score or disappointed that he apparently hadn't had enough self-control to blend into the crowd? Dean should know; he knows his father best, after all, but now that John's seemingly a world away, in District 5, he seems like a faint memory.
Hopefully Dean did the right thing. He can handle the other tributes, can't he? He just needs to be able to handle the brutal conditions he'll undoubtedly face.
So. He lets out a long, controlled breath. Can't regret it now.
Dean wakes up to someone in his room. At first he thinks nothing of the soft footsteps padding on the floor; Sam is an early riser and wakes him most mornings.
Then he remembers where he is—the Capitol, not his home; and alone, not with Sam—and he bolts upright, one hand reaching under his pillow for a gun that should be there but isn't.
Castiel doesn't turn around from where he's rummaging through Dean's closet. "Damn it, Castiel!" Dean exclaims, wiping sleep out of his eyes. "Don't you know personal space? Privacy? How to knock?"
"I apologize," Castiel replies, not sounding apologetic at all as he examines two seemingly identical pairs of pants. They're looser than the ones Dean had worn yesterday, thank God, and denim like the pants he wears back home in his District. "But it is time to wake up, and Jo warned me not to wake you up directly. She says you sleep angrily. Like a bear."
Dean blinks with surprise and wipes his eyes once more when he sees the hint of a smile curving up the ends of Castiel's lips. First of all, Jo and Castiel are on friendly speaking terms? They're talking about Dean on those friendly speaking terms? And second, Castiel is… acting like a friend to Dean, teasing him. Since when is that their normal?
No. Castiel works for the Capitol. He escorts children every year to their deaths. No matter how nice or teasing he may be acting right now, the fact of the matter is that he is complacent in a system of death and extortion.
"What's next?" Dean asks bitingly. "You gonna watch me while I shower?"
"If you wish," is all Castiel says. He chooses one pair of pants and lays it down on the bed next to a yellow flannel and gray short-sleeved shirt.
Flabbergasted, Dean just watches as he crosses the threshold of his room and leaves. What the hell?
It takes one long shower and hasty dressing before Dean arrives in the dining room. Jo is already there, as usual. Dean's never had reason to notice before, but she must be a morning person. He most certainly isn't. If he could, he would sleep all day. Screw consciousness, that's what I say.
He'd said that once to Sam as a joke, but the thought of that easy morning where Sam had begged Dean to take him out tugs at Dean's heartstrings now. He should have taken Sam out with him. He should have done whatever Sam wanted to do, because now he'll never have those memories with Sam. Sam's going to grow up under John's strict, watchful eyes instead of sneaking out of the district border to pick strawberries. He'll be made ready to be a tribute—he'll be a Career—instead of being protected from the Games.
He and Jo exchange nervous glances. The interviews are tomorrow, where Dean will lay the foundations of the plan they'd formulated. That is, he'll pull a Hail Mary and hope that it works. Hope that, for the first time in the history of the Games, two Victors will be allowed to survive.
"So what's the schedule?" Dean asks around a mouthful of pie. Everything else about the Capitol might be crappy, but their pies are fantastic. If he could, he'd eat it for every meal.
"Just prep with me and Castiel today," Bobby answers. "Four hours with each."
Dean groans around his pie. "You're joking?"
The glare Bobby sends him tells him he's anything but. "You'll be working with me first, Dean, for content. Then with Castiel for presentation."
Dean snorts softly. He can't imagine how doing anything with either man will take four hours.
How wrong he'd been.
Then again, the first half hour of his time with Bobby is the man just glaring at Dean. The few times Dean had fidgeted or tried to speak, Bobby had hushed him. He's intimidating, even if Dean knows he's really just an old drunk. Finally the Victor starts to speak. "I'm trying to figure out what to do with you," he admits.
Dean frowns. "What?"
"Do we make you aloof? Charming? Fierce? Tomorrow is going to make or break you, at this point. You volunteered for your brother, which is a good piece—we can work that in, I'm sure—and Charlie made you look unforgettable. You got the highest training score. But nobody really knows who you are."
Dean opens his mouth to say that he doesn't care if anybody here knows who he is, that nobody in the Capitol is worth his time, but Bobby tells him to shut up.
"If you have a likeable personality, you'll gain more sponsors. It's just the facts," he shrugs. "But at this point you're just being sullen and hostile, and nobody wants to sponsor someone like that."
Dean crosses his arms.
"Or somebody petulant. How about this," Bobby suggests. "How about I interview you? We can see how much work you need."
Dean tries, he really does, but the more questions Bobby asks him the more defensive Dean gets. Don't these people already know everything there is to be said about him? They know about Mary—they killed her, after all—they know about John, they know why he's a tribute. There's not a whole lot left about Dean. His whole life he's been taking care of Sam, taking care of John when he's too angry or too drunk, taking care of Jo at school when she pisses off the wrong person.
Finally Bobby calls that approach off. "You're still too hostile, and I don't even know anything about you. I've asked you over fifty questions and you've managed to make every single one of them relate to your brother, which is actually rather impressive." Bobby peers closer at Dean. "I've seen you around without that boy tagging along. He's not your charge. He's your daddy's. He's not your whole life. So stop acting like he is. Come on, boy, surely you've done some things without your family around."
Dean's face flushes at the thought of telling Bobby about the things he does when he's not working or taking care of Sam. Sure, he's not ashamed of it or anything, but the thought of talking about it with an old, alcoholic hermit makes him very uncomfortable.
Bobby's eyes glint and he suddenly reminds Dean very much of a predator that's spotted prey. Of course, that makes him the prey. "See, there we go. You've thought of something."
"I'm not going to try to seduce you," Dean jokes, shaking his head.
Bobby throws his hands up in the air. "I thought we'd never get there!"
"Get where?" Dean can hardly try to seduce his interviewer. Apart from the fact that he's seen Andrew Gallagher and finds 1. his attitude, 2. his outfits, and 3. his age repulsive, that would be highly awkward for everybody involved.
"You've got to seduce the audience," Bobby says.
Dean's eyes go wide and an abrupt laugh escapes his lips. "No. No way." That would be so uncomfortable. That would be so embarrassing.
"Just use the same tactics as when you're trying to get a lady," Bobby shrugs. "Compliments. Turn everything back about them. Use the charm you've so conveniently stored away in a box for Castiel and I."
Four hours are up.
Dean is the first one to the table. Jo comes storming down the stairs not long after he arrives, a fancy ball gown hiked up to her knees and a thunderous expression on her face. Castiel trails after her, his expression annoyingly unreadable, like usual.
"Well, I sure am looking forward to my session," Dean jokes. He just wants to sleep, really. He wants to sleep and wake up learning that this is all just a hyper-realistic, cruel dream.
But no one's won the Games by sleeping before.
Dean sighs and follows after Castiel once he's finished eating. Time for manners.
Somehow, Castiel is even worse than Bobby.