Dean has been trekking north for a day by weaving between the oddly-placed buildings and occasionally ducking inside them for a respite from the glaring sun. He knows he must be very boring, knows that Gamemakers must either be planning something for him or are focused on another fight that's going on somewhere else. Or maybe the cameras are broadcasting him, showing a tribute slowly wasting away from hunger or exhaustion or dehydration.
A solid week of eating good, rich food and having enough to eat has gotten his body used to being able to eat. Not that his mind has forgotten what hunger feels like. Still, though, Dean's regretting gorging himself. It gave him strength yesterday but it's making him weak now when he thinks about the crackers and beef strips in his backpack.
Every building Dean's come across has been uniform in an unsettling way. Even though each room's decorations can change to represent different districts, the rooms have always had a Capitol level of idealization and comfort. For example, Dean's fairly sure no one in District 12, the poorest District, has plush pillows, a full bed, and a shower with multiple buttons to water temperature and pressure when not even District 5 has reliably working showers. Especially when Road kids sleep on beds that are stuffed with straw and under blankets that have been gnawed through by mice and old age.
These rooms are what they should look like. What reality should be but not what it is, because the reality isn't that Dean's standing in a room with beautiful black sheets, just waking up from a nice sleep and waiting for Sam to come back from wherever he'd been. No, the reality is that Dean is locked inside an arena where children are being forced to fight to the death.
In every chest in every room Dean finds the same thing: a can of food and a bottle of water. It's a good thing he knows how to pick locks. It's a much more reliable source of food than hunting. He's got no idea how many animals the Gamemakers had decided to provide them with.
One thing he can't figure out is why the Gamemakers would make this arena so vast and with so many places to hide. They'll start to get complaints that the Games are boring, which is something that should never be allowed to happen.
Dean stifles a yawn behind his hand and pinches the skin on the inside of his arm in order to keep his eyelids from slipping down. He'll sleep when he's with Jo and she can watch over him. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of good times to sleep in the arena. During the night, but the Careers will be hunting and everyone will be hiding. During the day, but people will be exploring and might happen upon Dean. He doesn't know who escaped to the woods and who went to the buildings.
There are so many buildings. The Careers will never be able to find anyone like this.
Dean hears a shuffling sound behind him. It could be a stray animal, but knowing his luck, it's probably Bela. And she's probably learned how to shoot a gun in the small amount of time she's had it. Yes, that would be just Dean's luck.
Dean turns around and is met with a fist to the face.
"Fuck!" he curses, stumbling back. His hands fly up to his lips. Surely that must have at least loosened a few teeth. He tastes blood. He must have bitten through his lip accidentally.
Cole Trenton leers at him. He shakes out the hand he'd used to punch Dean. In his other hand is a sharp axe with a blade already stained with blood. He's going to be very good with that axe, Dean notes distantly. District 7 specializes in lumber and paper. "You aren't careful, Winchester."
"Look," Dean starts, holding up his hands to show he's unarmed. "I don't want to do this any more than you do, Trenton." The adrenaline coursing through his veins keeps him awake and helps him forget how weak he feels, but it will be superficial.
Cole snorts and shakes his head. "Oh, but I want this, Winchester. I've wanted this for a long, long time."
"I know you want to win," Dean tries. The weight of his machete is heavy at his waist, a constant reminder that the weapon is right there but any sudden movement will have Cole lunging at him axe-first. "I want to, too. But I don't want to fight you right now."
"I've been tracking you ever since you took off from the bloodbath," Cole hisses, taking a step forward. Dean steps backward. "Took me a while to find your trail, 'cause I lost sight of you for a second while I was hacking Peter Sweeney to bits."
Ah. Dean had been wondering how the Career had been beaten in the bloodbath. It's not surprising, though; apart from the Career districts, District 7 is most likely to win. Their sheer strength and skill with an axe helps with that. That also explains why the Careers are looking for him. They're probably threatened by his skill with his axe and angry he'd killed one of their own. "You've been tracking me? Specifically me? Why?"
Cole lets out a derisive laugh and takes another step forward that Dean counters by stepping back.
"You know the Careers are looking for us specifically, right?" Dean tries. "We could team up—"
"I would never ally myself with you!" Cole hisses. He swipes with the axe and Dean drops and rolls to the side, ending in a crouch. "I don't care if I live or die. I just care that I kill you."
"Why?" Dean can't help himself. He's curious.
"Because your father killed mine!" Cole exclaims.
Wow. Dean cannot believe how lucky he is. This moment is surely gaining shocked gasps from the Games, increasing bets as to who will win this fight. Winning this will gain him sponsors. The Capitol will love this revenge-feud. Cole was stupid to monologue for this long, but then again he was also dumb to not hurl the axe right into Dean's unsuspecting back. Dean got lucky he was so obsessed with revenge.
Dean snorts. "Wow. Awfully convenient you got reaped for the one Games I volunteered for, huh?"
"I just got lucky, I suppose," Cole snarls. To Dean's surprise, he drops the axe and crouches, beckoning Dean to attack him with two fingers. That is… the dumbest move Dean's seen anyone pull in the Games. "I want this to be a fair fight," he explains. "I want your daddy to watch you get beat fair and square. Then again, if it was your brother in the Games maybe I would have just chopped him up. It would have been a mercy—"
Dean sees red, but he knows that's what Cole wants. Sam's not here, Dean reminds himself. This bastard is never going to get to Sam. "Oh, but is that payback? Is that exactly what my dad did to your dad?"
"You're right," Cole admits. He draws a knife from his back pocket. It's not unlike the serrated one Dean had used on Vam. "That's not payback. This is payback."
He lunges, swiping with the knife, and Dean dodges. Cole tries to swipe at Dean's stomach but Dean grabs his arm, twists it, and kicks him in the stomach, sending the angry tribute sprawling. "You've got no idea what you walked into here, did you?" Dean asks, his voice distant because of the cacophony that is his panting breaths and the blood rushing in his ears. "You're just a boy that chops lumber. I used to wrestle. You're strong but you've no idea how—"
Cole lunges again, off-balance so that Dean grabs his shoulder, chops at his hand so he drops the knife, and shoves him away again.
"You've no idea how to actually fight," Dean finishes in a whisper. Maybe the cameras will pick up on it. Maybe they won't. All he knows is that he's going to kill this sick puppy before the chance that he'll win ever occurs to anyone ever again. He's never going to give Cole the chance to touch a hair on Sam's head.
Cole lunges with his fists. He gets a good hit on the cut on Dean's forearm, and while Dean's flinching with pain, he gets another hit right in Dean's eye.
Dean stumbles back and nearly falls. First his mouth hurts when he talks and now his eye is going to hurt like a bitch when he blinks. This bastard is a right… a right bastard. "You know," Dean starts. "I'm just spitballing here, but maybe you're not as good as you think you are." He spreads his fingers out in a what can you do? gesture. It's not exactly the best timing for it, but he needs Cole riled up.
Cole scrambles for the knife on the ground. He picks it up and spins around, probably expecting Dean to just wait for him to arm himself. No. Dean had taken advantage of his momentary lapse in judgement and lunged while his opponent had been turned around. Cole screams with anger as Dean's body weight covers him, trapping the hand with the knife underneath his stomach.
Dean hopes that he hadn't accidentally stabbed himself. That would be a lucky kill and wouldn't gain him any sponsors.
"If you really wanted to kill me, then maybe you shouldn't have relied on luck," Dean hisses. "Maybe you shouldn't have relied on brute strength. And maybe—"
Cole brings his head back right into Dean's nose. God, what is it with him and my face? Dean thinks miserably, pinching his already-bleeding nose shut and rolling off his body
Cole twists himself up and over, slicing Dean's cheek with the knife. It's a move born out of brute strength and not agility. Wrestling is a combination of both.
Dean slams his fist into the boy's face again and wrestles the knife out of his grip. Cole's head slumps against the ground.
"Go on," he whispers. "Do it. Show your brother you're the same monster as your father."
That hits Dean harder than any other blow. His hands fall to his sides as he contemplates the meaning of those words. Is he like John? Is it his fault he's using force to win? He's not going to become his father. But is his father the way he is because of the Games?
Cole uses the low blow to switch their positions. Now he's the one pinning Dean to the ground. His fingers scrabble with Dean's for the knife.
In a last-ditch attempt for his life, Dean lets go of the knife and his hands reach up to close around Cole's throat. The cutting off of oxygen doesn't stop his opponent, though. There's only one way to stop the hand bringing down the knife that's glinting as it reflects the brutal sun.
Dean meant to push Cole off of him. That's all he meant to do. But what would you have done once he was off of you? that traitorous, murderous voice in his head whispers. It doesn't matter what he would have done.
A cannon goes off and Dean winces. It's not his, is it? Is he dead? But no, he tells himself, if he was dead he wouldn't be wondering that. He would be very much aware of the fact.
Cole's body topples off of Dean, the knife falling out of limp fingers. It falls onto Dean's chest, turning just enough as it falls so it doesn't create even a scratch as it bounces off his shirt.
Dean scrambles to his feet, looking around wildly everywhere except for the body. The body with a head that's lolling at an impossible angle. The body of the boy whose neck Dean had just snapped.
Dean can't vomit. That would look weak in front of the cameras, he knows. So he settles for coughing—basically gagging—out blood that had run into his mouth from his bleeding nose. It doesn't feel broken. Just very, very tender.
The cut Cole had opened on Dean's cheek smarts. The slice on Dean's forearm aches. The skin around it is hot and red. Dean can recognize the signs of infection easily.
"I need to find Jo," Dean sighs, sitting down with exhaustion. He should get away from the body. It needs to be collected so it can be shipped off to his district. Surely other tributes heard the scuffle and are on their way right now.
Dean can't bring himself to care.
He leans his head back on the side of the building (exposing his neck for anyone that wants to slit it) and closes his eyes (so someone can sneak up on him). He's so tired… he'll only rest for a few minutes. Giving into the temptation, Dean soothes his rumbling stomach and eats half a strip of the beef jerky and one cracker.
A faint rumble reaches Dean's ears and he scrunches up his face when the faint smell of smoke reaches his nose. Someone else must be attempting to building to build a fire.
A rat skitters over his foot and Dean flinches away, eyes opening with irritation.
Another rat runs by him and Dean rushes to his feet. He wouldn't put it past these rats to be muttations. Maybe they're chasing after some of the tributes to eat them. But if that was the case, wouldn't they try to attack him too? Or maybe they're running from tributes.
Dean looks up as a thunderous crash echoes through the arena. The ground shakes under his feet. That's not tributes, not unless tributes got hold of explosives. That's…
Dean looks up slowly as one of the tall buildings directly in front of him catches fire.
They're calling you the Flaming Sword.
Dean starts to back away. The air is suddenly filled with smoke as the wave of fire, too large and uniform to be anything but man-made, catches the building directly to his right.
The fire's coming from the north. It's destroying everything in its path. No wonder the Gamemakers made the arena so large in the beginning. They're going to narrow it down, catastrophe by catastrophe, until there's less than two feet of space left between the last two tributes.
How is Dean supposed to find Jo when the northern part of the arena is destroyed? They never counted on that during their planning.
He turns and runs.
The world has transformed to flame and smoke. Windows explode above Dean's head from the built-up heat inside each building, but Dean just covers his head with his hands and continues. When it becomes too much, he pulls his shirt up above his mouth to filter the air.
He can't remember the memory now or he'll die. If he thinks for one second he's anywhere other than the arena he'll die, and he knows it. Surviving requires every instinct and skill available, and being locked in a flashback is hardly the way to achieve that.
He tries his best to follow the rats as they flee from the fire. Their sense of direction will be much better than his own. But they are faster, so much faster than Dean. They fly across the ground while Dean's bootsteps hit so harshly and loudly he must be causing his own earthquake.
Running. Burning. Panting. Crying. Is this how Dean's going to go out? Fleeing from man-made smoke right after killing one of the most formidable opponents in this year's Games? Struggling to stay aware of the moment he's in?
At one point Dean runs straight into the side of a building, because God forbid the Gamemakers map out the city in a gridded pattern. No, the odd placement makes twists and turns that Dean's streaming eyes can't make out through the smoke. Sure, it would make the Career's job to track down and kill their opponents easier, but it would also make Dean's fleeing easier.
He's almost out of the fire, he thinks, because the building to his side is still standing and the smoke is a tiny bit less oppressive than it had been five yards back, when he trips over a bundle laying in the middle of the street.
Dean barely saves his head from hitting the ground, which would surely result in a concussion or at least unconsciousness. And that would mean instant death. He raises his head, blinking blearily to get the smoke out of his eyes. He'd tripped over a body. It's not Cole's body, though; Dean left that behind buildings and buildings back.
It's the body of little Krissy Chambers.
Dean crawls over to the unconscious form. She's small, smaller than Sammy even (Dean wonders if her father is watching right now, fists clenched as he expects Dean to kill his daughter). To his shock, he sees the rise and fall of her chest. She's still alive.
Dean looks up. The buildings are still crashing to the ground. Debris could easily hit her, trapping her or killing her immediately. The decision he makes isn't smart, but when was she ever a threat to him? He'd sacrificed himself for his brother and she's just as young as Sam had been.
Dean stands up. He only gets the strength to do so, instead of lying down and providing a little bit of comfort to the little girl by dying beside her, by thinking of his family watching him. John. Sam. Ellen. Bobby. Jo's still counting on him, even though she can't see him (but wasn't she caught up in the fire, too, considering they were supposed to meet up at the north and she had a headstart on him?). Dean realizes with some surprise that he's also counting Charlie and Castiel. He doesn't think their affection for him was fake.
He turns his head to the side and vomits. Vomits for what he did to Cole, vomits for what he'll have to do to other children before he makes it out of the arena, vomits because of what Krissy has to endure at the same age as Sam.
He washes out the foul taste with a sip of water that cools his aggravated throat. One minute, Dean promises himself. One minute until I keep going. One minute until he keeps going to where the Gamemakers had shepherded him. Surely he'll find more people with vendettas against him. Or the Careers. Or whatever new monster the Capitol's thought of now.
And so, not because anyone is watching but because Krissy doesn't deserve this because nobody does, Dean picks her up. He throws her over his right shoulder and keeps stumbling away.
As long as a cannon doesn't sound off, he's fine. She's fine.