A/N: Hey everyone! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think by dropping a comment down below!

There is a TW for this chapter: homophobic language, references to abuse, and internalized homophobia. Enjoy!

ALSO, VERY IMPORTANT: THERE WILL BE NO NEW UPDATES UNTIL MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 2020. I AM GOING ON VACATION AND WILL NOT HAVE SUFFICIENT ACCESS TO THE INTERNET DURING THE HOLIDAYS. Regardless, I hope everyone enjoys their holidays. I will see you all again in the new year!

Dean wakes up to the sound of someone screaming his name. At first he blinks, swipes his hand over his eyes, and swallows. His throat went dry during the night and he almost reaches for his water bottle before wondering why, exactly, his heart is racing and he's awake. The sun hasn't risen enough to stir him and, near as Dean can tell, there are no hellhounds or fireballs nearby. He'd been jerked out of a deep sleep, after all, and—

"Dean!" the person bawls. "Jo! Help me!" The person's voice cracks and warbles, sounding very close to tears.

Dean jackknifes to his feet and scoops his bag up off the ground after hastily stuffing the blanket inside. The voice sounds like… but no… she was with Jo, wasn't she? How did they get separated?

"Dean, please!" Krissy yells again, a sob now, and Dean's off, pounding down the stairs (he never does get a break, does he?) and sucking in deep breaths of air that scratch at his dry throat. Something awful must have happened for her to separate from Jo, not to mention that Krissy must be in trouble herself to be yelling his name so loudly. Now the tributes are going to know that both Krissy and Dean are… wherever Krissy is right now.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Dean chides himself as he bolts down the stairs. It could be a trap for all he knows.

He's still going to go, obviously. He can picture John watching the television and shaking his head. He can picture Sam biting his nails, anxious, and he can picture Ellen standing up to grab a beer so she doesn't have to watch him run headfirst into danger once more.

"Jo!" Krissy screams again. The sound echoes all around Dean, bouncing off the buildings, and he curses that no other disaster has caused more buildings to fall yet. Sure, it would be forcing the tributes closer together; easier to kill one another. Easier to find one another. Easier to find Jo and protect her.

Then again, maybe the hellhound was one of those disasters. No one's going anywhere near it, at least, and all the surviving tributes know about it.

So the fireballs took care of the northernmost section of the faux-district and the hellhound is guarding the area to the west of that.

"Krissy!" Dean bellows. He closes his eyes and waits for her response.

"Dean!"

He's pretty sure he knows where her voice is coming from. John had never really focused on tracking sounds without being able to see, but Dean had done enough obstacle courses and hunts during the night that he's pretty well off without only using his eyes. "Krissy, it's all right, I'm coming!"

"Please hurry, Dean!" he can hear her pleading. God, what could have happened now? Who would have wanted to hurt such a small kid? Twelve years old, for God's sake, with a little mole underneath her left eye. Who would want to hurt that? Even Dean, who's killed animals and people without batting an eye, couldn't do that. He doesn't want to think that the Careers would, either, but he suspects that he has more of a soul than those from Districts 1, 2, and 3.

Dean can feel the buildings closing in on him as he jogs toward the sound of Krissy's pleading. He doesn't want to sprint, doesn't want to make too much noise, but his location is already shot anyway, isn't it? He can surely expect company wherever he turns up.

The buildings surround him like silent giants. Some of them are tall enough to cast shadows, blessed relief from the sun pounding down and baking everything in its glow, but not enough. Not enough for Dean's eyes to relax from their angry squint. He can feel the back of his neck burning. To make matters worse, the cut on his arm feels warm to the touch. Not to mention that the burn on his stomach smarts when he presses a hand to it. Capitol creams seem to need to be used more than once on burns that severe—another motivation for Dean to find Jo.

Dean follows the girl's voice until the very edge of the buildings. He doesn't come out anywhere near the Cornucopia. There's only a couple hundred yards between the buildings and the thick foliage. A couple hundred yards that, Dean knows, is called no-man's-land during wartime, if the buildings and trees were opposing sides of a conflict. If he follows that logic, then there could be snipers from the trees' team watching his every move, watching him shift his weight between feet as he debates his options. His home team, the side he's on, are the buildings. But Krissy's been taken captive by their enemies and he needs to bring her back.

Dean shadows his eyes with his hand and he scans the area. He's got the only gun in the Games, which is a pretty big advantage. But spears, knives, hell, even stones, can be chucked hard enough to kill someone if they hit him in the right spot. He doesn't see movement in the trees, apart from them waving in the barely-there wind that doesn't stop sweat from trickling down his face and back. Far as he can see, there's no one hiding in any windows of the buildings, either, or pressed to the sides. It looks pretty safe.

He thinks.

But, as John has always said, Dean's not the thinker of the family. That's Sam and sometimes John. Dean's the impulsive one that gets his hands slapped for taking food without asking, that gets caught stealing food for his brother, that gets caught with girls behind the school, that sneaks out beyond the district's boundaries.

But if he gets caught now, he won't get a slap on the wrist or on the cheek. He won't get his privileges taken away or detention. He'll have to kill someone, get killed, or at the very least get injured.

"There's got to be a better way to her," Dean murmurs. He takes a hesitant step forward and then backs up, clunky Capitol boots nearly tripping over a spare piece of debris on the ground. If only the buildings and trees connected at some point. No such luck, unfortunately. The no-man's-land looks to stretch around the entire faux-district.

"Dean!" Krissy yells again. "Please help!"

Dean wants to yell back that he's coming, but the words are stuck in his throat. Why can't she shut up? he wonders miserably. He'd thought she was smart; how is it smart to constantly yell and bring attention to your location, especially if she's stuck wherever she is? And she has to be stuck; if she wasn't she wouldn't be screaming for help.

The blood rushing in his ears is too loud for Dean to even think.

The piece of rock he'd almost tripped over skitters across the ground and Dean looks at it, frowning. Nobody'd kicked it. He hadn't, had he?

The rock continues to shake on the ground. Dean can barely feel the tremors through his boots and he frowns with confusion. How could a rock that small—barely the size of his fist—be skittering around the ground hard enough to create vibrations, and why is it moving on its own anyway?

The blood stops rushing in Dean's ears and he realizes that that sound was not blood.

He turns slowly on his heel.

The buildings that had been so stationary, so immovable, so tall and silent and strong, are unmistakably shaking and swaying. The sound that Dean had written off as the uncomfortable awareness of his own bodily functions turns out to be little rocks falling off the sides of the buildings and sliding on the ground just like the one he'd nearly tripped over.

Dean knows the word for this disaster. It's called… it's called…

He'd learned about them in school, damn it, and their Capitol-written, edited, and supplied textbooks all claimed that it was during Haven's rule that all the old disasters stopped. It was never really clear how, though, the Capitol stopped those disasters—they'd seemed so big in the textbooks, even on paper, so vast, that Dean can't wrap his head around anyone being able to control them—nor was there ever any clarifications as to how common the disasters were before Haven. 'Almost completely halted' the textbooks had claimed, but there was only their words to say that the disasters hadn't been 'almost completely halted' before the rebellion too.

All the disasters he knows. The tornadoes are the huge whirlpools of air, flooding he of course knows (it is a constant threat, what with living near the hydroelectric dam and all), and he knows the one where the earth shakes. Quakes.

"Earthquake?"

If he didn't know better, Dean would say it was just his own vision bending in the same way that mirages are made, but mirages can't be felt. And Dean can definitely feel the tremors radiating up his legs.

"Why's it always me that has to outrun the rubble?" Dean asks, flopping his arms at his sides. He doesn't know how the Gamemakers plan to make him run from these buildings swaying like plants in a harsh wind. First the fireballs, then the hellhound… and Dean can hardly shoot at some buildings, can he? He's certainly not strong enough to live if one falls on him—oh.

That's how the Gamemakers plan to make him run.

The thought crosses his brain for maybe half a second—not enough time to process or react—before he sees one of the taller buildings sway too hard to one side as a particularly strong tremble makes him stumble.

"Please don't let Jo be in one of those buildings," Dean murmurs.

And then he realizes that the building that had tilted too far to one side is crashing down.

In his direction.

Dean turns to run, but the two buildings that had been marking his entrance to No Man's Land are shedding rocks as if it's a waterfall.

The ground trembles again, knocking Dean off his feet. The building that had been first to fall leans with enough force into another building that just so happens to be about 50 yards away from Dean, creating a collision that has debri flying everywhere. A stray rock glances off Dean's hurt arm, making him cry out. He's in so much pain. His head knocked against the ground when he fell, his forearm still hurts—it's been in constant pain since the Bloodbath and the infection manages to make the pain feel somehow deeper—and Dean hasn't had a good night's sleep or full meal in days. Maybe it would be easier to get crushed by a building. Jo can make it home without his help, right?

What, you can't take a little earthquake, cut on your forearm, and burn on your stomach? John Winchester scolds. You've had worse, boy.

(broken limbs, twisted joints, Sam crying)

I've done worse to you

(bruises on his wrists, cuts on his back, calluses on his feet)

to make sure you were prepared for this moment

(were you always planning this, Dad? Did you know that I was going to be damned just like you and didn't even bother to tell me?)

but maybe you just aren't as strong as I thought.

(Well, that's true at least; I'm just so tired, how did you manage to win this competition?)

Come on, now. Get up.

But I'm just too tired, Dean argues back deliriously.

Get up! Sam suddenly screams into his ear, a faint echo of the few times his younger brother had found Dean, bleeding in the bathroom (the horror on his brother's face was worse than the actual injury), and Dean had just joked that a monster had gotten him (and maybe one had). Don't give up! his brother commands like when Dean's struggling with school because he's the dumb one of the family, he's the soldier, it's why he's in the Games instead of Sam. Get up, his brother repeats softly, on the days when Dean's almost too tired to get out of bed but Sam wants to get out, Sam wants to explore, and Sam can only do that when Dean's around because Dean will protect him.

"Yeah, I'm getting up," Dean grumbles. His father can't be trusted around Sam. He needs to protect Sam.

The trembling is getting worse. Dean isn't even sure if the ground will be there when he takes another step, which seems like the sickest thing the Gamemakers have done to him all the Games. He's seen fireballs, he's seen hellhounds, he's seen people kill and die every way imaginable both on a television screen and in real life. But some things have always been the same in all the Games—there's always at least a little food and water, there's always weapons, there's always allies and enemies, and most importantly, the ground has always been stable. Except for during the countdown during the opening of the Games, of course.

Dean makes it to a crouch, one hand braced against a building for extra support, even though that won't do much good. He has a feeling the way the buildings are swaying in front of him isn't entirely from the earthquake.

But Dean cannot have a concussion in the arena. He cannot.

Another building falls, making the ground shudder so hard Dean hits his knees again. He just needs to make it through the rock-fall and no-man's-land and then he'll be able to help Krissy and find Jo. Too bad the no-man's-land looks about as far away as Sam is right now.

A small shower of pebbles rains down on Dean's form and then, finally, he has the brilliant idea to use his backpack to shield his head. Without his arms to help, balance is a little trickier, but Dean bends his knees and runs sort of like a crab.

Another building falls. The sound of it crashing down nearly deafens Dean and he stumbles again as more rubble fall. A rock hits the small of his back particularly hard and Dean groans but continues to stumble towards the no-man's-land. Distantly Dean wonders if his stumbling gait looks anything akin to John's when John comes home very late, and then he tells himself that not isn't exactly the time. His attention wandered too long, though; he's on his hands and knees again, the backpack has gone sprawling, and a small pebble glances off his ear.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean barks. This is just getting annoying. It's like the Gamemakers are targeting him or something. Then again, he'd never expected the Games to be easy to win.

He looks up and, as if in slow motion, sees that the two buildings that are now presenting his only escape—because he's sure as hell not running further into the earthquake-affected buildings—are swaying very dangerously. He has to get through them fast. Or, you know, he dies. Fun times.

He scrabbles on hands and knees to the once-orange, now-brown-spotted backpack that contains all his food, half of his knives, a water bottle, and other survival supplies.

More rocks rain down, making Dean cringe away just in time to see a small avalanche fall on top of the backpack.

"Son of a bitch!" He slaps his hand against the ground and puts the other right above his heart, where the gun in his jacket is. A rock hits his boot and bounces off. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

GET UP, DEAN! Sam screams. GET UP NOW! RUN!

He's never said that to Dean before.

Dean gets up. He runs.

He runs through the buildings, arms cradling his head and bearing the brunt force of at least five rocks. One rock bounces off the ground, or something like that, because it hits Dean right in the chin.

He sprints through no-man's-land, completely forgetting about the possibility of people watching and waiting for a good shot. All he can hear is the crash of rocks on the ground behind him and the low rumble of a man-made earthquake that still shakes the ground where Dean is.

It seems to take so long but logically, Dean knows it only lasted about half a minute to get in the middle of the no-man's-land. Another tremble shakes the ground and Dean's foot lands before he'd thought it would.

He goes sprawling. White-hot pain lances up his right ankle and Dean cries out. "Son of a bitch!" He grabs his ankle instinctively but that just makes the pain throb more, so Dean leans back and curls his hands into the grass, breathing deeply to stop himself from panicking.

He looks up just in time to see the earthquake stop. All of the buildings in a quarter-mile radius seem to shiver, freeze for a moment, and then the bottoms all fold in. The buildings collapse in a way that is not natural.

Third part down. Dean can't help but wonder where the Gamemakers will strike next, and what they will do.

He cranes his neck to look behind him. Krissy has stopped crying out. Maybe she's scared of what the crashing noises could mean or maybe she's unconscious or something like that. There's still about a hundred yards left for Dean to travel until he's safe under the cover of trees, but judging by the way Dean's ankle is throbbing, he's not going to be able to walk without a large degree of pain accompanying his every step. He could hop, but his but his balance isn't good enough for that.

"Son of a bitch." Dean fishes inside his boot. Thankfully he still has the smaller knife. He just doesn't have any food. Or a blanket. Or supplies.

A coughing fit overtakes him and Dean doubles over. His throat is coated with dust and scratched raw from panting furiously as he sprinted.

Need to get out of the open, he thinks desperately. Trying to put pressure on his foot sends more stabbing pains up his ankle and he grimaces. Twisted ankles are never fun. At least John had trained Dean for them. His training was damn near perfect.

Breathing through gritted teeth, Dean stands up, leaning heavily on his left leg, and starts to stagger towards the tree line. Every time he puts pressure on his twisted ankle he has to grit his teeth and try not to cry out.

You're not weak, boy, John commands. I didn't raise no girl, did I? Did I raise a faggot or did I raise a man?

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the pounding in his head just behind his eyes. No, sir.

You a faggot, boy?

No, sir.

Then keep walking.

Yes, sir.

Sweat trickles down the side of his face and down his neck. One step—pain. Another step—more pain.

Just put one foot in front of the other, Dean tells himself. Almost there. He falls onto the nearest tree once he reaches the forest with a cry of relief as he relieves his foot of his body weight. His head pounds and vision swims.

"Krissy?" Dean rasps. His throat has been completely coated with dust, and he's now without water and food and a blanket to keep him warm at night. He is royally fucked. He swallows and tries again. "Krissy?"

"Dean!" the girl yells and Dean hops, using trees as a support, in the vague direction of her voice. The trek is hardly easy, considering the roots, sticks, and leaves on the ground. Plus, the trees seem to be thinning. To top it all off, every hop jostles Dean's ankle and makes him pray for Bobby to send some help.

"Krissy, are you all right?"

"I'm just… stuck," the girl admits with not enough embarrassment in her voice for all the racket she was making a few minutes ago. "What about you? What was all that crashing?"

Dean lunges for another tree branch and misses. He hits the ground palms-first, which sends bolts of pain up his arms and he's almost sure the cut on his arm oozed a little more blood at the jolt. "Son of a bitch!"

"You okay?" Krissy asks. Dean looks up and meets her gaze. The child is hooked up in a net that hangs from a tree branch about two feet off the ground. Her little fingers twist in the rough fabric and she beams at Dean. For one breath all he can see is Sam, because the gesture is so different from the blood and carnage he's seen so far in the Games. Are people even allowed to smile during the Games? Dean's almost sure it's never happened before.

He even allows himself to start smiling back, because Sam's here and that means Dean's safe and out of the arena (how did everyone kill each other off, it's lucky Dean never noticed it happening, and Jo must be dead now too, but at least he's out and Sam's here) but then the mole under Krissy's eye crinkles where Sam doesn't have one and Dean's shocked back into the present.

"I'm fine," he grunts, stretching up to grab a low-hanging branch and using it to pull himself up. "What about you? What happened to Jo?"

Krissy grimaces. "I'm not sure. We got caught by the Careers. I think the girl from District 3 might have thrown a knife at her? Then again, it could have been either of them. I was too busy running, you know?"

"Understandable," Dean grunts through gritted teeth. He hops toward the net and reaches inside his boot for the knife. "I'm sure she's fine. It was just… just the heat of the moment that made you think she got hurt at all."

Krissy makes a little sound of disbelief, but she's just a child and what does she know, so Dean ignores it.

"We just need to find her once you're out of this," Dean continues, sawing at the thick rope with the knife. If only it was the knife with the serrated edge. It would make this process go a whole lot faster.

Krissy gasps. "Dean, look out!"

"Huh?" Dean's head jerks up and his eyes meet Krissy's, which are staring at something just to the right of his head. He whirls around but something cuts through the air in front of him not more than an inch from his nose. Dean jerks his head back, blinking rapidly, and sees that it's a huge spear. Krissy sucks in a shocked breath as the spear stops with a wet sort of thudding sound. But it only lodged itself above her body in the net, right?

Almost in slow motion, Dean turns his head and dumbly watches Vam Pyre pull a machete from his waistband and fancily flip it so it's in perfect stabbing position.

"Lost all your weapons, Winchester?" the District 1 boy snarls. "Looking a little worse for the wear there. Must have lost a few fights, huh?"

"How's your side, Vam?" Dean retorts instinctively, lowering into a crouch in front of the net to protect Krissy. "The stab wound sting a bit?" He brandishes the small knife in his hand, which looks like a toothpick compared to Vam's machete.

But Vam's wounded, which gives Dean an advantage—no, nevermind, Dean's wounded too. But Vam's alone—well, Krissy's trapped in a huge net, so she's not much help and hoping that Jo will sweep in to save Dean is ludicrous and not the way the Games work. But at least Dean's had better nutrition than Vam these few days… maybe. Hopefully.

Dean takes a step and something heavy brushes against his chest right above his heart. The partially-burnt skin smarts and Dean puts his hand to the affected area. He feels the outline of a hard object in his pocket.

"I'm an idiot," Dean says aloud. He drops the small knife into his pocket.

Vam falters. "What?"

Before the District 1 boy can take another breath, Dean's drawn the gun and pointed it at him. "I can't believe I completely forgot about this," Dean admits.

And he fires.