Dean grits his teeth as Jo's fingers, none too gentle, probe at his burnt stomach, cut forearm, and the various bruises he'd earned from the earthquake and falling rocks. Cameras could be on them right now, seeing as how they're the 'star-crossed lovers', or at least primed to switch to them the second they start to do anything remotely loving. Ergo, he can't show weakness. It'll put off sponsors.

"I lost my backpack," he says in a low undertone just in the case of nearby tributes.

Jo's eyes squint and her fingers spasm for a brief second. Dean recognizes the telltale signs of her trying to control her temper and is grateful for the self-control. He's barely keeping it together as it is.

At the end of the day, Jo doesn't have any family apart from her mother. Sure, she's close to the Winchesters, but she's got no idea what it feels like to actually have blood relatives she's supposed to be responsible for. Her whole life, Ellen or John or Dean has looked after her. She's never had the responsibility for someone and the self-inflicted guilt Dean's feeling right now whenever something happens to that person. He'd barely known Krissy but she'd been as old as Sam and had a mole under her left eye. She'd seemed smart, maybe even as smart as Sam.

And now she's dead.

So Jo's not really as fussed about Krissy's death as she could be. Sure, she feels for the kid. But she's not angry with herself and projecting her little brother onto the corpse at the same time, which is a nasty combination.

"How?" she eventually asks.

Dean shrugs. "Earthquake."

Jo's eyebrows lift and she looks significantly less angry after that.

Dean looks around furtively. They'd chosen an outcropping of rocks—basically a cave—to shelter under as they recuperated for the time being. It's not the best shelter, and not so far away from Vam and Krissy's bodies to keep Dean from hearing the hovercraft vehicles pick them up. He'd tensed both with grief and the forbidden fantasy that had entered his mind, of sneaking onto one such vehicle to escape. It's never been done before and he knows that it would be a death sentence but what does it matter? The arena is a death sentence. The reaping is a death sentence.

John's continued insistence on Dean putting Sam in front of him, always and forever, no matter what, is a death sentence.

Dean's been dead for years. He's been dead ever since he was four years old.

This is just the first time that he truly, absolutely feels dead inside.

His head hits the rock behind him as he groans, low and tense, at the burning sensation produced by Jo spreading balm on his infected shoulder. Jo's lips press against his, tense and thin and cold, and he doesn't know if she's trying to comfort him, herself, or just plain appease the Capitol.

He just doesn't know. He doesn't… he doesn't know anything.

After all, corpses don't need to be educated.

Dean's in a house he barely remembers.

It's the one he lived in for four years, only retained in his memory by trauma and the one picture he has of his mother—Mary and Dean, sleeping together in his bed after he'd worn her out. He'd been an enthusiastic child, Dean knows, and he vaguely wonders where that enthusiasm has gone.

Everything around him is fuzzy. What he focuses on is completely clear, but it still spins slightly.

Dean can recognize a dream of a memory brought on by utmost exhaustion, but he can't figure out how, exactly, to wake himself up. He's had this dream before, too, but he can't quite remember how it ends. Not now. He can only remember how it begins and the middle part that leaves a hollow pit in his stomach both from the dread of what's coming and the dread of waking up.

So he keeps walking.

Dean passes by John sleeping in the green armchair in front of the old television. He fell asleep in front of the television often, Dean can remember that much. Besides, he's read every entry in Mary's journal (the journal he'd hidden away so only he could read it during the years he didn't talk, and it was the only act of disobedience John ever permitted) and she'd documented their little family's habits extensively.

The John sleeping in the chair is as old as he is now, but his face is more relaxed than Dean's ever seen. He doesn't clutch at his journal, a bottle, or a weapon as he sleeps. His head lolls to the side and he snores, unaware of the tragedy that's about to befall his family.

Dean knows it's wrong, that John wasn't asleep when it happened and it wasn't even at night when it happened, but the funny thing about dreams is that those facts don't really seem important right now.

There is a rail on the stairs that Dean grips. He walks up the stairs one at a time, legs suddenly shorter than he remembers, and he has to crane his neck to try to make out the pictures he know used to hang above the stairs. They're too far away and all blurry, distorted, filled with colors Dean's almost positive would never show up in a family photo. No matter how much he tries, his brain can't create images of a John that smiled freely or a Dean that was simply a child. He can't imagine Mary ever being a part of the family, not after so long without her. Her absence is John and Dean's defining characteristics; take that away and what would stand behind her in the pictures?

It's too many what-ifs for his brain to comprehend during a dream that he is only barely dozing through at best.

He gives up and transfers his gaze to the top of the stairs, where a single light that illuminates the cream-colored hallway flickers slightly—an omen of the coming catastrophe—and no one had even noticed. Not that night.

Only in hindsight, because hindsight is always 20/20.

Then suddenly Dean's at the top of the stairs even though he could have sworn he was only five steps up. He stares down the hallway. There are two rooms on his right and one room on his left.

The hallway stretches out to be miles long but Dean doesn't find that unusual for some reason. He turns to the first room he reaches, which also happens to be the only one on the left side of the hallway. The door opens without Dean ever touching the handle and he's suddenly inside the room.

The walls of the room are a dark grey-blue. A bed rests in the center of the room adorned with fluffy white blankets that look entirely too much like clouds. It contrasts with the shadows in the corners and the rapidly- darkening paint.

Dean frowns and looks at the walls, because paint isn't supposed to darken. When he touches the wall, it's burning hot and his fingers come back black with ash. The room is slowly smoldering.

The room pulls away from him as it crumbles into ash that blows away into the wind and suddenly Dean's back in the cream-colored hallway, only able to stare through the doorway as every piece of furniture in the room blackens and crumbles.

The door slams shut.

The hallway isn't miles long anymore. It's barely four feet long and there isn't a window at the end of it nor are the stairs behind Dean anymore. There are only two ways out of the hallway: two white doors side by side in front of him. There are no markers on either but somehow Dean knows which door leads to which person's room.

He reaches for the door that hides what used to be his safe haven. Back when he had a mother and a father and slept in his own room. Back when he threw a ball and wrestled with his father and thought about teaching Sammy the same things. Back when his mother was a constant and he didn't know what the Games were, and nor did he care. Back when Dean wasn't petrified of Sam turning into another person hardened to the Games or, God forbid, one of the psychos that looks forward to the Games.

Or, at least, that's how he imagines he used to be. Dean can't imagine himself as anything other than dead.

Apparently not even his subconscious can imagine that, though, because he's denied entrance to an escape.

The handle of Dean's door glows with heat as he touches it and he snatches his hand back with a hiss. It doesn't hurt—dreams can't hurt, can they?—but the heat reminds Dean of pain and that's enough.

A woman's scream breaks the silence of Dean's dream and he yanks open the door to
Sam's room. The handle doesn't burn, but the room inside is filled with fire. Mary is hanging from the ceiling by a rope, slowly spinning as her nightgown catches fire. When she faces Dean, her mouth contorts and she screams, "Get up, Dean! Get up now! Run!"

Then John's looming over Dean, much taller than he remembers him, and he's shoving a blanketed bundle into Dean's arms.

"Daddy!" Dean cries instinctively, even though this isn't the John that he was allowed to call Daddy. He hasn't been able to call John anything other than 'sir' ever since then. The word rolls smoothly off his tongue and Dean wishes yet again he could be a child.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can!" John orders. "Don't look back. Now, Dean! Go!"

Dean turns and runs right into a crowd of Peacekeepers and then suddenly he's in a white room, alone, shivering and cold, as the only door to the windowless room shuts with the sound of a cannon.

Someone's shouting from down the hallway. Someone's shouting his name. Someone's hand is on his shoulder. Someone's—

"Dean, come on, wake up!"

Dean's head falls and jerks back upwards as he wakes. The sky is still dark, so he'd not napped through the whole night, but that's to be expected when he's having nightmares about the last time he ever saw his mother alive. He's cold all over. Dean shudders, wishing again for the sleeping bag he'd lost, but Jo doesn't look to be suffering from the cold.

"You were having a nightmare," Jo says softly. She squats before him, her hair out of a ponytail. It's too dirty to be curled prettily the way she likes. As of now, her hair barely holds stringy waves; her curls are gentle to begin with and days of no showering will do that.

"Oh." Dean tries to control his breathing and he nods as his stomach growls, but he knows that there is no food for him now. "Sorry."

Jo rocks back and forth a little bit on her heels as she bites her lip. Finally she offers hesitantly, "Want to talk about it?"

Jo isn't really the type of person to hug and share feelings with. Hell, Dean isn't either. He tries to be, for Sam's sake, to make sure he's a better man than Dean and John will ever be, but he's never been good at it.

Dean actually considers it. If he doesn't say it now, chances are he'll never say it again (though what it is that Dean wants to say he's not sure). Even without Jo as a potential competitor, there are still way too many tributes for him to confidently say that he'll survive. The only reason he's not freaking out right now is because Dean knows he'll be dying so Sam can live.

He suspects it's the same reason why Jo is offering; in their last few days together she's making an effort to be supportive. He appreciates it.

But they're still being monitored. They're in desperate need of food. And they haven't been playing 'lovers' nearly as much as they should be.

So he nods. Jo's surprise is clear on her face, but it quickly clears when Dean says quietly, very aware of all of Haven's eyes on them, "It was about losing you."

Even if he was dreaming about that, there's no way he would willingly admit to that and Jo knows it, so she can tell he's lying. Playing the lovers angle would be so much harder if they didn't know each other, but close relationships between two people that aren't related are so often misinterpreted into romantic ones that even if they aren't kissing, Dean knows they're fooling the whole country. It's just a good thing nobody had ever listened to him whenever he insisted that he thought of Jo like a sister. Then it had annoyed him—both others thinking they're privy to his personal life and the impossibility of friendships of any kind being platonic, it would seem—but it's just as well now. It's saving his and Jo's life now.

"You're not going to lose me," Jo insists. "Not after that announcement, remember? We can both go home together." She presses cool lips to his forehead. Maybe they just aren't that cold. Maybe it's because Dean's head feels so warm. He must have a fever.

"You have a fever," Jo says, frowning.

Dean shakes his head. He can't be sick. Not in the arena.

"You do," Jo insists. "I don't have any medicine for sickness."

"I'll be fine," Dean tells her—tells himself too, sternly. He's not allowed to be sick. Maybe if he insists it hard enough his body will heed him.

"It must be because of the cut, or at least partly because of it," Jo muses. She pulls up Dean's sleeve to see the cut, courtesy of Wendy Igo. "Or the cold nights, malnutrition—"

Dean shuts her up the only way he knows how: with a hand over her mouth. "I'm not sick," he insists. "Let's get back to sleep, all right? I'll be fine in the morning."

I'll never be fine, he recognizes internally, and almost looks forward to falling asleep. And, after that, nothing, when one of the tributes finally offs him. Sam will be fine and John won't be able to hurt him anymore and Dean won't be hungry and tired all the time.

No, that's just the fever talking, Dean commands himself. Sam wouldn't be fine, not until John is far away from him, and if Sam doesn't have John or Dean, who would he have? Dean can't leave Sam. Who is he without Sam?

He holds one arm out for Jo to curl up under for the rest of the night and dozes off almost the moment his eyes close.

More memories sink their claws into him and drag him into their depths.

Castiel can't deny how odd he finds it to see Jo and Dean exchanging kisses on the screen. Maybe it's just because he knows that it is an act. He'd like to think he'd be able to see the wrongness of the situation even if he didn't know, but that's simply his hubris.

At least he's able to recognize that much.

Kevin Tran sits next to Gabriel today, but he sends furtive, anxious glances back at Castiel so often his jaw grinds. The boy obviously has no experience at keeping secrets, much less secrets of the magnitude that have been entrusted to him. His anxiety is going to kill him, and probably Castiel as well. And then everyone else connected to Kevin. And Castiel. Until the chain reaction caused by one nervous boy will result in thousands of casualties.

Castiel may be newer to the organization Kevin is involved in, but he has much more experience in deceit and trickery. Years of practice, of mastering the art of lies, of being a good soldier, and it can all be destroyed by one shaggy boy with a brilliant mind, bouncing knee, and wandering eyes.

Years of practice that somehow can't stop Castiel's eyebrows from creasing whenever he looks up at Dean and Jo cuddling together as they sleep. He wonders why seeing them acting like that inspires such a visceral reaction in himself.

Peacekeepers accepting poached animals in District 12. John Winchester's 'secret' meetings. The stolen weapons from the Career districts. Mockingjays parroting insults about the Capitol. Drawings on buildings of flaming swords. The Peacekeepers in District 5. The riot in District 11 after their girl tribute's death.

And above all, Dean Winchester's knack for escaping the jaws of certain death. Surely it's a skill his father had taught him, along with that annoying stubborn nature and unhealthy devotion to family.

All signs of Haven's waning power. All signs of Dean Winchester's growing influence.

All the more reason for him, Joanna Harvelle, and everyone in their families to die—most importantly, Samuel Winchester. Those with influence cannot be allowed to live in Haven, not when said influence is even remotely as strong as the Capitol's. And the influence Samuel Winchester has on his brother, who has enormous influence as the most betted on tribute this year, is immeasurable.

By far, he and Joanna Harvelle are the hardest to control. There is no way they can be allowed to be Victors.

Naomi still regrets the announcement Asmodeus had made, but the Capitol's clamoring has been unanimous for a chance for the star-crossed lovers to have a happy ending. Once they're both dead they'll be remembered as a wondrous story. It's harder for citizens to think of living people as stories and legends, though.

Them dying could spark unrest among Capitol citizens, however…

"Ma'am?"

President Naomi doesn't stop drumming her fingers on her desk as she calls out, "Come in!"

"The Districts sent over the transcripts," Naomi's personal assistant, Duma, says while pushing herself into the office. "I saw to it that more microphones and auditory recording devices were sent back."

"Perfect," Naomi says with relish. Duma's a great assistant. With dark hair she's streaked with white and bright white lipstick, she blends in with the Capitol populace while not taking the ornamentations too seriously. She's also masterful at anticipating what Naomi will have her do next. She's singlehandedly reduced the amount of work Naomi has to do by half.

The assistant drops the box onto her desk and respectfully backs out of the room. Naomi makes quick work of the packaging and pulls out twenty-four small hard drives that she need only plug into her computer. At the moment she's only focused on one.

The hard drive is grey and as large as Naomi's pinky finger. Attached to it is a sticky tag that reads 'D5M—D. Winchester'.

The president plugs the hard drive in and turns the volume up on her computer.

The audio file starts out with thirty seconds of footsteps and breathing. Naomi waits, though; she is nothing if not patient, and finally a sound that must be the door opening is so loud that she flinches. There are multiple thuds and the sound of someone crying. Samuel Winchester.

"You gave us quite a scare there." John Winchester. Naomi scowls. "I thought for a moment you wouldn't volunteer."

"Of course," Dean Winchester says after a second. His voice is tired and heavy and Naomi grins. This right here is something she can capitalize on. Weariness caused by a father's strict, even cruel parenting? If by any chance Dean Winchester does survive the arena, this is something she can use.

There is rustling and paper crinkling. Naomi continues to insist that her technicians create cameras to put in the rooms, but so far they have not been able to create technology that is small enough to go unnoticed by some of the more… paranoid tributes and their visitors. The following dialogue is confusing but would be obvious if she could just see what's going on.

John admits he knows something and then mentions his meetings. Naomi draws back, eyebrows crinkling. Is he… open with his sons about his under-the-table plans? Surely even such a negligent father such as himself wouldn't be so careless as to give his sons information that they could be killed for knowing.

"It's a warning," Dean Winchester says. So he does know. Then he adds, "Either way, one of your children is going to pay the price," with such venom in his voice that Naomi laughs. Oh, yes, she likes this family dynamic. Dean Winchester is not a fan of his father's secret activities.

Samuel asks his brother to promise something Dean will never be able to guarantee, and stupidly, Dean promises. Then Dean chastises his father again for trying to rebel against the omniscient Capitol and Naomi grins wickedly.

Dean Winchester does have a lot of influence. He's not as strong as the Capitol, not as strong as Naomi, but perhaps it would be useful to have him on her side. It would be an awful waste of potential to kill him now that Naomi knows how much he resents his father, how much he'd sacrifice for his brother…

He's a sixteen year old boy, a voice in the back of her mind whispers. Easy to manipulate. Easy to use. There's no need for senseless violence when your enemy is so powerful and yet so vulnerable.

Naomi unplugs the hard drive. She'll get back to the rest of it later, but for now the beginnings of a plan are beginning to stir in her mind and she doesn't want to forget one bit.

After all, why douse a sword's flame when one can wrest it from its owner's grasp and use it against them?