Hey guys! So this is the first chapter of the actual Games. Make sure to read the list of trigger warnings. Most of them are to be expected, but I just want to make sure everyone knows what they're getting into. Reviews are always appreciated.

TW: John Winchester's A+ parenting (abusive John Winchester), Non-explicit Suicide, Explicit Language, Internalized Homophobia, Violence (Hunger Games/Supernatural typical violence), Homophobic Language, Death.

Reviews are always appreciated!

The light is blinding, the crowd deafening, and Dean puts a hand up to his eyes, careful not to step off the platform he's standing on so he doesn't get blown up immediately. It's always quieter whenever he watched the Games through his television. The light was always less blinding. The adrenaline that had pumped through him while on the couch next to Sam is nothing next to the feeling that's making him shaky right now. Watching the Games never made him as terrified as he is right now, staring down the rest of the tributes that want to kill him.

Dean Winchester has walked into the Hunger Games. He's fuller than he's ever been in years but also more terrified than he's been in years. He's got an ally and a brother waiting for him at home. As much hope as a sane person could have is stored in the heart Dean likes to keep locked up.

He's got so much more than some of the tributes in the arena, which means he has more to lose.

He's going to die.

"Get out of there fast," Bobby had said last night when he'd sobered up a little bit at the prospect of them both dying today. In just a few moments, actually. Probably. Dean's plunging headfirst into the bloodbath, after all; it's foolish of him to think even for a second that he'll be special or spared or anything like that. "Find a source of water. A source of food as well. Just… get out fast."

Dean and Jo had exchanged looks then, and they exchange them now. Their roles are clearly defined: Jo will be the runner, the one sure to survive (and if Dean doesn't, well, she'll be the one to protect Sammy. It'll be nice to help someone else shoulder the burden, won't it?). Dean will wade into the bloodbath and grab the weapons he needs. It's his job to survive too, but the more important part of his job is to take out as many people as he can. Less people for Jo to face later.

They're supposed to meet up at the northernmost point of the arena. Things can always go wrong, though, and so quickly. Dean doesn't even bother to hope that he'll see Jo after she takes off.

Speaking of weapons… he looks at the arena that has been designed for this year's Games, searching for the Cornucopia. This arena is similar to District 5, actually, in the way it's filled with buildings, some ruined. These are abandoned, though, and so tall Dean could reach the sky if he climbed all the way to the top of it. In District 5 the buildings are no taller than three stories. The tallest building is clearly visible and looks to be about fifteen stories.

This year's arena is… an abandoned district. Or something like that. Buildings in the center, the Cornucopia only fifty feet away (but that fifty feet will become, Dean knows, no-man's-land once the Careers take control of the Cornucopia).

And in the outskirts, obviously, there are some trees and bushes, just enough for someone to hide and hunt, but Dean has a feeling the majority of the food will be found in the buildings.

And it will be a finite amount.

Dean's eyes track around the arena as more tributes emerge from their Launch Rooms. They're all wearing the exact same outfits: brown pants cinched by black belts, grey tunic down to their knees, black jacket. Charlie had remarked that there might be some cool nights. Dean hadn't mentioned that he can make fires, maybe because he'd thought by saying the thought out loud the Capitol would make it just that much harder for him to find the materials necessary.

Charlie had told Dean that she wasn't allowed to bet, but if she could, her money would be on him and Jo. She'd said that while helping Dean tuck his amulet underneath his shirt and winking at him like they're sharing a secret.

God, he hopes she's right.

Dean thinks about what she'd told him. "They're calling you the Flaming Sword," she'd said. "They love your training score. They love the way you volunteered for your brother. They love your love confession. You just need to prove you're worthy to be sponsored. They want you to be worthy. It won't be hard."

The voice of the Games' announcer, the legendary Asmodeus Stardonna, booms all around Dean. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the 68th annual Hunger Games begin!" It starts the sixty-second countdown before tributes are allowed to leave the metal circles and swarm the Cornucopia. If they do step off the circle, their legs are blown off. And their heads. And their arms.

A flurry of movement catches Dean's attention and he turns his head just in time to see the hobbled boy, Kubrick, who'd been so obviously scared yesterday, fling himself off his ring. The explosion rattles the ground and Dean drops to a crouch so he doesn't fall off as well.

The countdown doesn't stop. At 'thirty-three' the trembles stop, leaving shocked tributes in its wake. Dean looks up. Jo had been right next to Kubrick. She's never killed anything before.

Just as Dean had suspected, Jo looks shell-shocked. When she turns to look at Dean fully, he can barely make out a smear of what looks to be dirt from the explosion on her face.

Or maybe it's not dirt.

Quickly, Dean looks around. Everyone looks to be shocked by Kubrick's decision, even Bela. Dean is, too, but maybe he's just better at keeping his emotions locked down tight because he crouches down into a ready position again as the countdown reaches 25.

Dean's eyes scour the entrance of the Cornucopia. He needs to pick his target, grab the supplies, and get out immediately. To his surprise, he spots a pretty handgun by the entrance. That's for me, he can't help but think. That's mine. Because he's surely the only one that knows how to use one or aim with any sort of precision, but everyone else will want to get it, if only to keep everyone else from it. He's not as fast as some of the people must be, but he's strong, so he has a snowball's chance of grabbing the gun. And if he gets that gun, he's much better off.

The countdown sounds 10 and Dean gets ready. He sees Jo crouching as well, her knees pointed in the direction away from where the bloodbath will be. There's a few items spread out that far away from the Cornucopia and he hopes she has the good sense to grab them. Especially what looks to be a first-aid kit right by her circle. He's going right into the bloodbath; he might need it.

The gong sounds before his ears stop ringing from the blast. Dean's leaping off the silver circle before anyone else, his legs hitting the ground so soon he's almost worried he jumped off before the bombs could be neutralized. But he's fine, he doesn't get blown up, and he starts to sprint to the Cornucopia, scooping up whatever is in his path that he can shove into his pockets. He gets a loaf of bread and a pack that might protect from rain. Krissy Chambers nearly bowls him over as she sprints away from the bloodbath like Jo, but he manages to stay on his feet. He still loses a few seconds, though, and internally he curses.

Baku Sun from District 12 cuts in front of Dean and grabs the bright orange pack he'd been headed for. Dean almost runs past it until the boy keels over, a knife suddenly sprouting from his back. Dean scoops up the backpack without looking back. It's probably Wendy Igo; she spent most of her time during training at the knife station and, as far as Dean can tell, never missed a target.

He chances a glance behind him and sees Wendy's arm already drawing back. Somebody jumps her, though, but not before the knife goes flying. Dean tries to dodge, but he stumbles and the time he takes regaining his footing is all the time the knife needs to slice clean through his right forearm. It hurts less than he'd expected. It's probably the adrenaline.

Then the pain sets in. But he can't think about that now.

Dean scoops the knife up, deposits it in his bag, and keeps running. Fear and pain make him pant more than the actual exertion of zigzagging between fighting teenagers. At some point someone gets cut and their blood splatters onto Dean's face but he just blinks and keeps running. By some miracle nobody tries to pick a fight with him; they're either too preoccupied with fighting other people or running from the bloodbath.

Both Vam and Rugaru are fighting over a spiked club by the time Dean makes it to the opening of the Cornucopia. The gun is so close, he's so close, but then the boy from District 9, Bart Kemp, bumps into him while also grabbing for a hunk of cheese and by the time Dean looks at the gun again Bela's already got her sticky fingers on it and is running away as fast as she can.

A roar fills the air behind him and Dean turns. Somehow Vam had managed to grab a torch of sorts that shoots flames. Rugaru screams in pain and falls to the ground, rolling to get the fire out of his clothes. Vam turns around, a machete in the hand he's not using to wield the flame-torch, and his eyes lock with Dean's.

Dean takes a small step back and his booted foot brushes against something. It's another small knife.

Just as Vam shoots a stream of fire at Dean, he ducks and rolls, scooping up the knife. Before he's back on his feet he throws the knife blindly in Vam's direction, trusting his skills to do the rest and trying to ignore the fiery pain in his forearm every time he moves his arm.

Dean blinks liquid out of his eyes and pats down his hair just in case he hadn't missed the fire completely. His eyes are watering now, his lungs screaming at him to take a break, but now isn't really the time for breaks.

Vaguely he processes Vam stumbling back, the knife lodged neatly in his side, but Dean is more preoccupied with the machete in the boy's hands. He yanks it out of his grip, fumbling with the bigger boy's clammy fingers trying to keep hold of the weapon.

Without thinking, Dean yanks the knife out of the boy's stomach. No, wait, he is thinking. He's thinking that the knife would stop the bleeding if it was kept in.

Mindful of the District 12 girl that's pinned to the ground by the District 7 boy only a few feet away, Dean kicks Vam in the knife wound. When the boy yells with pain, bending forward and swearing through streaming eyes, Dean grabs the flame-torch as well. Seeing another Career girl stalking towards him with murder in his eyes and a large club in her hands, Dean recognizes that his time in the Cornucopia is over. He grabs a spare water bottle lying on the ground, and takes off.

Yes, he's leaving Vam to die, but only because to stay and finish him off would be suicide. This creates the risk that Vam won't bleed out and will want to kill Dean any more, he knows, but he takes off out of the Cornucopia anyway, fires a very small burst of fire at the girl with the club to discourage her from following him, and is swallowed up by the tall abandoned buildings within seconds.

He'll just have to deal with Vam later if he does survive.

After what feels like an hour of running and weaving through the abandoned district buildings, Dean deems it safe to slow down and duck into a building. It's eerie how just minutes ago he'd been able to see every one of his competitors, and now the arena seems completely deserted.

The door isn't locked and, really, Dean shouldn't have expected it to be. He does expect an ambush, even though the odds that someone else is in this building rather than any of the others in the whole arena are slim to none. With a hesitant, watchful eye, Dean eases the door open with his foot. The machete he holds in his right hand so tightly his knuckles go white and the flame torch in the other.

Just the creak of the door has Dean jumping, and then he scolds himself internally. He's just a little on edge. With good reason! Every one of his breaths could be masking the approach of a tribute. Every shadow could be hiding someone waiting to kill him. Every—

"Stop," Dean says aloud. He takes three deep breaths and clenches and unclenches his fist to keep his fingers from shaking.

Everything he does is broadcasted on live television. Dean can't afford to panic. He needs to appear strong so he'll get sponsors and find Jo so the masses will coo at their epic love story. From now on he might as well pretend that Castiel is steps behind him all the time, except… Dean feels like he wouldn't need to pretend in front of Castiel.

So he'll just pretend that the blonde Gamemaker—Gabriel, Castiel had called him; his brother—is always behind him. It's not like he's not watching. It's not like Castiel isn't watching, either.

Everyone is watching Dean. Everyone in all of Haven, including every insect, every district citizen, and even the president. Maybe not right at this moment; if the fighting is still going on at the Cornucopia, the cameras will surely be focused there. But surely he's appearing on the screen at intervals, letting people know that he's still alive.

The door creaks all the way open, letting light flood into the room. It truly is an abandoned district; the layout of the room is as if someone had just left it. It's extremely clean and, judging by the seashells on the stand by the bed, it is supposed to look like a room someone might have in District 4. Dean doesn't see any flurries of movement. There are no bloodstains or shuffling sounds to notice. He's probably alone.

He steps further into the room and eases the door shut behind him. Now is probably the best time to take stock of what he has, when people are either running or fighting.

What he has: the bright orange backpack (vaguely Dean wonders if there is anything he could use to dull the color; perhaps if it rains he can dunk it in mud), the plastic pack he has yet to decipher what it could be used for, one machete, the knife that had grazed his forearm, a small loaf of bread, the knife he'd used to stab Vam, the flame torch, and a water bottle.

All those weapons are well and good, but if Dean can't find a source of water and more food, he's screwed. If he doesn't find Jo soon, Jo without any weapons to protect herself, she's screwed too.

When Dean opens up the backpack, he's pleasantly surprised to see a thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat, a pack of crackers, a pack of dried beef strips, a bottle of iodine, a box of wooden matches and a small bottle of gasoline, and a small coil of wire. He came out of the bloodbath unreasonably well, and he can't help the paranoia that tells him that once the Gamemakers see how well he's doing, they'll send more obstacles his way.

Dean tucks the machete into his belt where he'll be able to reach it easily. Though he longs to take a bite of the bread, he knows he can't. Eating any food in the arena requires careful consideration; his mother had ensured that. He doesn't have the time for that.

Dean drops the small knife with his blood on it into his boot. The knife he'd used to stab Vam is slightly longer and has a serrated edge, which will be useful if Dean ever needs to cut through anything. He puts that and everything else in his backpack.

What he also has: the cut on his forearm. It's still burning with every move he makes, but he's had worse. It had bled a lot, though, and Dean has to peel his tunic away from the cut in order to see it, wincing when the fabric pulls at the torn skin. It's a thin cut, neat but deep. It's almost stopped bleeding, but when Dean probes at the skin another bead of blood wells up in the cut.

He doesn't have much longer before he needs to continue on and find Jo, so he neatly rips a strip of fabric off of the bottom of his shirt and wraps it around the cut. Hopefully she'll have picked up the first-aid kit so he can get it patched up the right way. Infection would not be a good thing in the arena.

Another thing he has: lasting power from being able to eat as much as he'd like. He's got more stamina to run until he finds Jo.

Dean can only hope his slight injury isn't going to cost him any sponsors. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, where there are more casualties than any other day. The only other time the betting is as competitive is when the field of players narrows to five people or so.

Dean peeks his head out of the building and stares up at the sky. The sun is high in the sky directly overhead, leading him to believe that it must be midday. The cannons won't be fired for a few more hours. Unfortunately, now he can't tell which direction is which. When Dean tries to wrack his brain to remember where the sun had been rising earlier, he can't remember.

Well, until he can figure that out, he might as well search for food. He ducks back into the building, reasoning that it's better to be sheltered than to be out in the open for now. To his surprise, there's a lock on the door that Dean slides shut immediately for some semblance of protection.

Instead of loitering, Dean looks around the room. The room is small, about the size of his own back in District 5. He crosses the room and sees a narrow staircase through a doorway. Each floor of the building is only one room and the staircase connects each floor to each other. In this room there is a lot of furniture.

The Gamemakers wouldn't have put all this furniture in the arena if it wasn't useful for something, would they? Surely there's something under the pillows or the mattress or inside the locked chest.

Dean bets that most of the tributes don't know how to pick locks. This may be just the edge he needs, as long as he can find something suitable to pick the locks with.

Dean's scratching at the floorboards, trying to pick out a piece of wood long enough to pick the lock of the chest, when the cannons start. Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have stopped at the Cornucopia. When it's still going on it's too confusing to truly discern if someone's dead or just wounded. They never collect the bloodbath victims until the killers have dispersed.

Dean allowed himself to stop, wincing at the one fingernail he'd torn off and the splinters in his middle finger, as he counts the shots. One, two, three… on and on until eight cannons are shot. Dean's ears ring. Eight people already dead. That's less than it normally is. There are sixteen people left in the arena, fifteen not including Dean, and fourteen that want to kill him.

He knows that Baku Sun is dead. He won't be able to learn about any of the others until they project the dead's images into the sky so everyone sees. Ticks them off the list of people they need to kill. Hopefully another two are Rugaru and Vam, both succumbing to their injuries. Hopefully Jo wasn't caught by anyone. If Dean sees her face projected onto the night sky, well… the Capitol would surely believe his lie. He simply can't imagine Jo already bled dry and shipped back to District 5 in a box.

Dean licks dry lips and suddenly realizes he is thirsty. Would it have killed the Gamemakers to have filled up the water bottle? Still, he continues on with the arduous task of ripping the wood up. The more boring he is, the less of a chance there is that the cameras will be on him. The greater the chance that the Gamemakers will find a way to make him decidedly less boring.

It's a very thin line he's walking, but hopefully he'll be able to do it.

Finally a piece of wood comes up that's both long and thin enough. Dean makes short work of the lock. Sometimes he'd had to pick the lock on the pantry when John had been gone too long and hadn't set out enough food for him and Sam. When he pushes the lid of the chest up, there is a single plastic bottle of water and a can of food sitting in it. Dean picks up the can and reads the label. It's something called tuna.

Well, any food is useful, and the best thing about eating out of cans is that there's no chance it's been poisoned.

Without thinking, Dean opens up the water bottle and downs about half of it before remembering himself. He doesn't know how much more water he'll be able to find. Stupid, Dean scolds himself. He can hear John saying it too. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Do that with food but not with water. Water is much more precious.

A quick thought has Dean's mouth quirking up. Most likely the tributes don't know how to pick locks, and if they do, they don't know how to do it well. He and Jo do, though, and if there's food and supplies in the buildings…

He needs every edge he can get. He's taking after Mary.

Dean looks up at the sky. Mom, I'm taking after you. I'm outsmarting my opponents. He knows that his mother was never in this arena, that she died long before it was even beginning to be made. But somehow being here makes him feel close to her in a way that he never has before.

Dean raises shaking hands to his face and allows himself to rest, for just a moment, trying to calm his breathing and shaking limbs. He survived the bloodbath. He survived the bloodbath.