Dean rouses himself enough to get as far away from the hellhound as he can after a few hours of rest. In truth, it had been the boom of the cannon that had shocked him enough to get up. Unfortunately, the Games don't stop, no matter what travesty occurs. They didn't stop for Bela, so they certainly won't stop for Dean. They won't stop for Jo. He needs to find her and Krissy. He needs to protect her. That's all he's good for. That, and killing people.

Killing people to protect Jo. That's the best thing he can do, at this point.

He's chewing on another piece of beef jerky when he hears the low thrum of voices a little bit away from him. The way they echo through the buildings' weird placement is confusing. Dean is struck with the odd compulsion to know who's in the area, though, so he tries to track the voices. For all he knows, they might not know about the hellhound. Sure, he wants the other people in the arena dead. But not by the claws of a hellhound. That's too painful, terrifying, and violent a death for anyone but President Naomi.

The way the voices are echoing makes it impossible to track them down. Dean eventually stops and closes his eyes, trying to find them. All that happens is he can name the voices: Dae Mon, Mary Worthington, and Ava Wilson. Odd team-up, but sure. They can have their alliance. They should be more careful, though, about how loud they're talking. If Dean can hear them, then surely the Careers or other tributes have heard them too.

He's just… so tired. He's just seen someone torn to shreds by a hellhound. He hasn't gotten a good night's sleep since he was dropped in the arena. Could he really have been living luxuriously in the Capitol just three days ago? It feels like an eternity ago he could eat whatever he wanted, and even longer ago that he was with Sam.

Despite the dry jerky he's been snacking on, Dean's stomach is protesting loudly. He'd gotten much too used to eating a lot. And his lips and throat are dry, but Dean can't waste his water, which is already running pretty low. He's not going to die from starvation and dehydration, he vows to himself. After killing Cole, shooting a hellhound, and wielding the gun he'd been longing for so long, there's no way something so small as a deficit of nutrition isn't going to take him out.

The sun is casting mile-long shadows by the time Dean stops. His feet ache. These Capitol-supplied boots are nice and flashy but they haven't been broken in the way his old boots were, and now they're chafing at his heels. Blisters aren't the worst thing in the world, but they are pretty damn annoying. And, as any good tribute will know, any sort of weakness could be the difference between life and death in the arena.

Dean's just rubbing at his heels, one elbow braced against the side of a brick building for balance, when the screaming starts.

He jolts, eyes suddenly very wide, and his hand clenches around the jerky in his hands like he could use it as a weapon if the need arose. Two screams. Another. Thudding noises, yells that blend together until the words become indecipherable…

And then silence.

It's probably best if Dean gets to higher ground and stops eating. He doesn't know what new threat Dae, Mary, and Ava just faced, or if they're even still alive. It's always best to be prepared. Right now he needs to find Jo (again) and keep himself alive.

Simple, right?

Except nothing in Dean's life is ever simple.

Screw it. He takes another swig of water, effectively drying himself out. He'll get more tomorrow, hopefully, if he can pick more locks. He needs to see the death recap to get an estimate of who's still in the arena and who's not. He enters the building, making sure to lock the door behind himself. The first floor is completely bare, which isn't a good sign. Still, Dean presses on and starts to climb the stairs up until he gets to either the top floor or a floor with a chest in it.

Boom. Dean flinches as the first cannon sounds, making his foot slip on the stairs. His hand slaps against the wall for balance at the same time as the second cannon that sounds. He holds his breath, waiting for the third boom, but it doesn't come. Either one of them was lucky, or…

Time in the arena is really messing with his head. It's not really conceivable that one tribute had killed the other two, and it's the sort of thought he'd never have had before getting dropped in the Games. But the tribute pool is dwindling quickly and Dean's seen terrible things happen to innocent children. So maybe, Dean muses while slipping into the building, maybe it was foul play. He contemplates that possibility as he uses one of his knives to pull up a sliver of wood to pick the lock on another chest, this one with a fancy lock carved in the shape of a train. It must be a room made for District 6, but the light is already so dim Dean would have to strain his eyes to see further decorations. He has to move quickly before the death recap starts.

Inside the trunk is another unopened plastic bottle of water and a can of more food. Dean empties the water into his water bottle and picks up the can, scowling at the words printed on the top: 'BLACK BEANS'. He's never heard of black beans before. Sometimes John brings home tan beans from the grocer, but even that is a rarity.

Still, Dean inspects every inch of the can for even the faintest hint of nightlock. He sniffs the can, makes sure there are no holes, makes sure the can hasn't been opened, and even licks the can and waits for a while to see if he'll get violently sick.

He doesn't.

So Dean takes the can of food and treks up the stairs until he's on the roof again, ready for another painful death recap. He scoops the beans up with the smaller, non-serrated knife—after washing his blood off, of course. They actually taste pretty good, but he bets that they would taste better if they were hot.

If only I'd had them during the fireballs, Dean thinks derisively. That would have warmed them right up.

The Haven anthem starts to play and Dean jumps. The knife, which is very conveniently in his mouth, jerks and cuts his tongue.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelps, the sound muffled by the deafening cacophony of instruments. It would definitely be quieter if he was on the ground, but up here he has less of a chance of running into another tribute or missing something in the livecast. Appetite suddenly gone, Dean wipes the knife on his pant leg and drops it back into his boot.

Bela's smirking face is shown first. Her eyes seem to meet Dean's and he's suddenly frozen on that rooftop. If I couldn't survive, she seems to be saying, why on earth do you bother to believe that you can? And then the smirk fades and she's saying, Why did you lock me in there with that monster?

"I don't know," Dean says, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully with the weird angle he's craning his neck at. "I'm so sorry."

But it's just a projection of a headshot recorded days ago (back when she was still alive) and so she doesn't hear and even if she did, she probably wouldn't care. She was a Career. You either do something or you don't; you don't try.

Dean's been trying to protect Sam. He's been failing at doing that. He's been trying to protect Jo, but he hasn't been very good at doing that either.

The picture changes. Now Dae Mon's picture is shown, his dark hair falling over his eyes and making the dark brown look black.

If Dean had looked harder for him, he might not be dead right now. The picture seems to know that, too, as it glares accusingly at Dean. What right do you have to be living when I'm dead? he asks. It's a question Dean doesn't know the answer to.

He needs to survive for Sam. But these kids also have families that are watching the Games anxiously, just like how Dean's been picturing Sam and John watching the television. Hell, some of them might be protecting their family just like how Dean protects Sam. Some of them might be the only things keeping their families from starvation.

And Dean's so selfish he can't even bring it in himself to care.

He hadn't cared when he'd killed Cole. Cole was just trying to avenge his father. If Sam ever got hurt Dean would avenge him. If John ever died Dean would kill whoever killed him too.

Mary Worthington's picture is shown next. That means Ava Wilson was the one out of the trio to survive. Dean can't imagine that scenario in his head. She'd been the only tribute to openly cry—sob, really—during the Reaping and looked to be completely useless during training. Sure, that tactic is used a few times to mislead other tributes about your strength, but the thought hadn't even crossed Dean's mind. She'd just seemed so authentic, her fear so palpable, and so… useless. Out of the three, he'd expected her to be the first to die. How could she survive something that killed two other Careers? And if she killed them, how on earth did she manage that?

Dean's got way too many questions and not enough answers. He'd never considered while watching the Games at home how frustrating it might be for the tributes for them not to know the fates of their other tributes. It seems so obvious now.

Well, the Games certainly change one's perspective.

Sam and John know everything that's happened in this arena. If only Dean could contact them. What are they thinking right now? What would they say to him? What would Ellen say to Dean right now?

What would Castiel say to Dean right now? He's been so busy Dean hasn't been able to think of a good nickname for him. He's still stuck on 'Cassie', damn it, and even though he doesn't mean to think about the girl, he can't help it. Cast? Cal? Damn, making up nicknames is easy most of the time.

Dean frowns. What makes this any different?

Because he's an escort, he tells himself. Because you're making friends with the people you hated just a few weeks ago. Because he may not be as dumb as you thought he was before, but he is terrifyingly smart, which makes him even worse. Because that means he knows exactly what the Games are, more than a television show for entertainment, and he still doesn't care.

Still, it's nice to think about being able to give someone a nickname. It's nice to think about having a future.

Castiel's steely blue eyes watch, unamused, as Gabriel flits between gaggles of people. He holds a bottomless glass of champagne in his hands, or maybe it just seems that way because the Gamemaker always seems to be able to find a replacement the second he's done with one glass. Soon enough Gabriel will find his way back to where Castiel is sitting silently, one leg crossed over the other and an untouched bottle of champagne dangling loosely from his fingers from where his arms are draped over the top of the chair he's sitting on.

One of Gabriel's coworkers, the only other Gamemaker who favors his natural coloring over the artificial ones of the Capitol, rolls a grape between two fingers anxiously as he sits in a chair to the left of Castiel. His name is Kevin Tran, Castiel knows. He knows that Kevin has a mother and that President Naomi knows about said mother. And that Kevin knows that Naomi knows about said mother.

Castiel has also heard the unspoken whispers of the Avoxes that say Kevin is a rebel and that is why he is so anxious. That his mother must disappear before he makes his move. That the younger boy is less of a coward than Castiel and more of a man than the escort could ever be.

Interestingly, both Castiel and Kevin are sitting on the only two chairs that aren't as obnoxiously loud and bright as everything else in the Capitol. Whether by some fluke, pure coincidence, or some manipulation by Naomi, once they arrived to the revelry the only chairs left were the plain white ones.

It could be nothing. But Castiel's been living in the Capitol for long enough to know that things are rarely nothing. Everything is something. Even something as simple as the color of your bedsheets when your laundry is done can mean something—the Gamemaker that Kevin replaced, a man named Luke whose surname Castiel never learned, had remarked offhandedly to Castiel that his bedsheets had been replaced with red ones just one day after mentioning that it was unfair of the Capitol to hoard resources when the districts are in dire need.

And then he'd been dead just two days after that.

"These Games have been especially brutal," Kevin says after a long silence.

Castiel merely hums with agreement and nods his head up and down slowly once. His eyes are still trained on his brother. Right now Gabriel is plucking different food items from trays carried by Avoxes. Gabriel has never been one to turn down luxury, which is why he excels so greatly here in the Capitol. Perhaps it is the memories of their early days when they had nothing that influences his gluttony. Either way, he tries to eat as much as he can, take advantage of every perk the Capitol can offer, and avoids every mention of the districts. Castiel would be exasperated with him, and he often is, but Gabriel is the only connection he has to their old lives.

Castiel's eyes flick to study Kevin Tran—study the bags under his eyes so dark they look like twin black eyes, the crumpled collar of his shirt, and his ragged nails (Castiel cringes a little bit at that, just thinking about how much they must snag on his clothes). Right now the Gamemaker can play off his obvious signs of stress by saying he's been working hard on the Games, but that excuse can't fly for the entire year.

He'll learn how to mask his worries soon enough. Everyone here does—that is, everyone here that's not a mindless Capitol citizen. Everyone that works in the government knows just how precarious their position in Haven is—and, by extension, their life. Whether they be stolen from the districts when they show promise or raised in the Capitol and added onto the teams of people for extra cannon fodder as well as a unique perspective, there is no way to work for President Naomi and not realize how small everyone is in the grand scheme of things. Especially compared to the great President. She seems to think of herself as a great giant that can crush anyone she wants with every step just because she can.

Well, Castiel thinks as a sneer twists his lips and he pretends to take another small sip of champagne as curious eyes glance his way, I'm the size of the Training Center, Naomi. Who's bigger now?

But, of course, such thoughts of grandeur and rebellion are just that—thoughts. They will never come to fruition. Castiel will never act on them. Not unless he wants to die immediately.

That had been his motto, right up to about a week ago: A rebellion won't work. You'll just die before the thought even passes your lips. Because the Capitol has specialists who watch for signs of deviance, of heresy, or even the slightest hint of resentments towards Naomi in the Capitol (not so much in the districts, where everything was so much easier and yet more complicated, where survival was a struggle but people were able to band together with their shared revulsion of Naomi and everything Capitol). Castiel would last three days, maybe less, if he dared mention his internal struggle aloud (and yet, somehow, Gabriel can still be serious enough to read him and knows what he's thinking most of the time. He adapted to the life of a Capitol citizen much more easily than Castiel, and sometimes he can't even tell whether Gabriel's frivolousness is an act. It unsettles him to feel doubt when looking into his brother's once-familiar face).

It was the mantra he repeated to himself every time he saw Naomi's lined, serious face on the television. It was the mantra he repeated to himself every time he had to reach his fingers into that bowl and condemn two more people to death (God, Castiel doesn't think he'll ever forget a single name).

And then Castiel had been instructed to, no matter what, announce Samuel Winchester during the boy's reaping. And the same for Johanna Harvelle.

Just two more names. Ezra Moore and Bucky Sims were spared a terrible fate, certain death, and Castiel not only condemned two more to the same fate, but these children had a chance. They'd not been called. They'd deserved another year, all the years, and a life without the Capitol.

"Who do you think will win?" Kevin tries at making conversation yet again. Castiel had pegged him the moment he'd seen him as someone who always wanted to be stimulated. If he wasn't working, then he had to be talking, and if he wasn't talking someone else had to be. Or maybe there had to be some sort of stimuli for him to be distracted by. He's the perfect Capitol citizen—or he would be, if he wasn't so smart. If he didn't have Linda Tran as a mother.

It's why Castiel stays silent now, why he simply shrugs. One can learn a great deal of things about another when they're uncomfortable.

But he knows what his answer would be.

Dean Winchester. Maybe also Jo, if their desperate gamble to appear in love pays off.

Castiel looks over to where Robert Singer is chatting up two older women that must owe him a few favors. He sits on a chair shaped like an egg, perched at the edge. If he sat back he'd be at least a foot shorter with how much the chair sags. It also looks like it would be uncomfortable; the back of the chair is made of blue metal spikes that curve outwards in a cradle-looking contraption. The two women he's entertaining are sitting on chairs with no backs covered entirely with goose feathers that match their skirts.

For such a rough, cranky old man, he sure is good at seeming like a sweet one when he feels like it. Like an old man who's grown attached to the tributes (he's known for less than a week) and wants to see them survive and grow old and happy together (and while he does want that, he doesn't want them forced into a loveless marriage).

Castiel doesn't know what Robert is saying to the women. Logically, he knows that he shouldn't be worried about the old Victor. He's managed to wrangle sponsors for most of the tributes he's mentored, so obviously he can navigate treacherous, glittery Capitol waters without much effort. He will be able to get sponsors for Dean and Jo—that is, if they even need them. The two tributes have surprised and impressed everyone watching the Games with the odd skillset they both possess.

But at the same time, it's Dean Winchester. Castiel's… friend? No, the person he sentenced to death, really. Castiel hadn't missed the revulsion that had been clear in Dean's face as he'd looked Castiel in the eyes for the very first time. Neither boys had been under any illusion that Castiel was anything less than a monster.

Castiel has long come to terms with his selfishness, his limited perspective that both plagues him and comforts him. He knows that not seeing what happens to the grieving families and sentencing children to death saves him and helps him sleep at night. And yet knowing that makes his stomach churn sometimes like when he drinks the special drinks made just for regurgitation.

Why is it his life or someone else's? Why is it his happiness or someone else's?

But for some reason Dean looked past that. At least Castiel thinks he had. The tribute had promised Castiel a nickname once he got out of the arena and he'd offered a few small smiles at times in the days preceding the Games. In a way, those small smiles had felt a little like olive branches. If Dean is anything like Gabriel, then they were meant to be taken that way.

Nobody has ever given Castiel a nickname. First he was unloved by all but his brother in the districts (he had a different name, too; Jimmy, but now that name sounds as foreign to his ears as voices without the Capitol accent) and then he was unloved but feared, respected, even hated, as an escort for the Capitol. But he was safe and so was Gabriel, so that was enough for Castiel, until Dean Winchester had glared at him and promised to give him a nickname.

Castiel clears his throat and stands up, throwing back the whole champagne glass with one gulp. Kevin Tran startles like a frightened deer and drops the grape he'd been worrying between ink-stained fingers for the better part of an hour.

Screw Gabriel, Castiel thinks sourly as he watches his brother scurry between multicolored citizens, regaling them with his outlanding stories and crude yet lovable humor. He'll come find me when he feels like being responsible for once. Castiel hasn't been able to hold a grudge against his brother for years, but seeing him fit in so well with these people (knowing he's working with other Gamemakers and they're all trying to kill Dean) makes him irate for some reason.

He plans on leaving the party early, as he often does. He plans on going back to his room and sleeping or watching the Games. But how can he watch the Games when he sees a boy that had shown him the first kindness he's ever known from someone other than Gabriel fight for his life? How can Castiel sleep knowing that even if Dean survives, he will never get a nickname because he is a selfish bastard and Dean is sure to see that? How can Castiel watch children die—children whose names he drew out of a bowl at random?

How can Castiel sleep when he knows he is a murderer?

"Come, Kevin Tran," Castiel invites. "Let's take a walk. I imagine we have much to talk about."

A/N: I'd love some reviews. Feedback is always appreciated!