Dean's on fire.
He's burning, he's burning, he's burning, but there's no sweet relief of turning to ash and letting go. Constance can rot in hell as a Victor but it'll be just another cage. She'll never be able to escape.
Is that really what Dean wants?
But Sam, Sam, Sam.
He stands up, rage shaking him to his core. There's so much blood all over him and only some of it is his.
They're calling you the Flaming Sword.
Well, good. He's on fire. Jo lit the last match and it caught and now his ribs are burning and his head is aching and his heart is being burnt to tiny ashes.
And yet it beats.
He hears the cannon but isn't sure why. It's just another boom, the telltale thundering of his heart in his ears, but it's too loud.
He looks around. This isn't District 5. This isn't the forest that surrounds it. There's no Sam.
This isn't where he belongs. This isn't where he's supposed to die.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
Only he can hear it, only he can feel the fluttering it creates just under the skin on his neck, but it's Constance's funeral dirge. It's because he's the only one who matters that will care just a little that she's going to die.
But that isn't going to stop him.
Whatever had been living in his heart has been burnt to ashes. He feels the ashes wash through his veins all the way to his nose where it bleeds out of him. Whatever had been living there, a feathery little something that had been telling Dean he and Jo would be all right, has died. Has gone.
He doesn't care.
Easier not to wish. Easier not to feel.
"I'm coming home," Dean says aloud. The words feel foreign on his tongue without another, smaller person next to him saying them. But they're the truth; at the end of the day he's either coming home to Sam or to Mary. And it won't even matter which one.
Because Dean's never mattered. Not to Sam, not to John, not to anyone that isn't dead. Not even to Ellen; not after her daughter's dead and he's not and she still won't give up the insane effort he's begged her not to go after.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
The funeral's coming for Constance.
Dean can't feel his ankle almost buckling under his weight with every step. He can't feel the tender skin of his stomach stretching with every step he takes. He doesn't feel his arm aching, doesn't feel every cut he's gotten so far stinging, doesn't even feel his hollow stomach begging for food.
The trees pass him by as a blur, or maybe he's the one passing them by, but everything is too confusing and Dean's head is pounding. Either way he finds himself on the outskirts of the forest, one hand resting over where the gun is concealed in his pocket, the other fishing inside his boot for the only other weapon he has: the small knife that had stayed with him through the earthquake against all odds. He'd almost kept Jo's knife, knowing she'd most likely not be buried with it. But her ghost would never be able to forgive him for that.
No doubt Constance will have tons of weapons from the Cornucopia as well as food. She probably won't have a sprained ankle.
That's all fine.
Sam, Sam, Sam.
Constance is waiting for him. She's a bright spot against the brown and grey rubble of the buildings behind her. She's not wearing the standard uniform every tribute donned when entering the arena. There must have been an extra change of clothes in the Cornucopia. If Dean didn't know that she wants to kill him, he'd almost call her angelic—every garment is stark white, a beautiful contrast against her dark hair.
His ankle buckles and he stumbles. He doesn't fall.
Sam, Sam, Sam.
Dean's almost surprised to see that there are still a few buildings left standing. He'd assumed they'd all be rubble by the last big showdown, but even the Gamemakers couldn't predict when that would be, he supposes.
Dean could whip out the gun right now and kill her. But he's too far away, her reflexes are too good, his hands are still shaky, his balance is off—the excuses keep piling up, and there's no John to force him.
"Just you and me, huh?" Constance calls out.
Dean leans heavily on his left leg. What's stopping him from sitting down and never getting up?
His brother's smile, dimples in his cheeks, teeth the same shade as Constance's clothes. Sam's shaggy hair always in front of his eyes, his gentle voice, his brother's gentle hands turning the pages of books. Sam bragging about his grades at school.
Sam. Always Sam.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Joanna," Constance continues. "If not me, I'd hoped that you'd be the change. That someone, at least, would get a happy ending."
"Isn't your happy ending killing me?" Dean counters. He doesn't miss the spiked club she's leaning slightly on. She wields it, he knows, like it's simply an extension of herself.
"My happy ending is going home," Constance says quietly. "I just want to go home."
Naomi looks up at Duma. "Release the hounds," she commands. Her assistant's eyes widen and she scurries out of the office, already barking commands at her underlings. Not a second can be spared.
On the screen, Dean Winchester, who'd just snapped a girl's neck with his bare hands not fifteen minutes ago and watched his teenage love die painfully, tells the only thing standing between him and safety that he's sorry her partner had died as well. He'd been the one to kill Vam Pyre.
This doesn't make sense, and Naomi hates it when things don't make sense.
Why aren't the tributes slaughtering each other? Dean looks distraught, and Constance knows her siblings will starve without her.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that, inexplicably, impossibly, the last two tributes aren't at each other's throats. They're sharing condolences. They're speaking pleasantries.
If the tributes choose to be human, then Naomi will provide the animals.
"Kill her, Dean!" Sam screams, knotting his hands in his lap. John sits next to him on the couch, tensed as he leans forward, eyes fixed intently on the screen. Neither male dares to blink. They hardly dare to breathe.
Ellen had left the house when Jo died. She'd closed her eyes when Ava attacked her daughter, a single tear slipping down her cheek. The slippery District 10 tribute had taken her daughter by surprise, quick as a flash. Ellen had been expecting it after seeing Ava lock the tributes from District 4 into the same room Bela Talbot was torn to shreds in. She'd been too smart. Jo and Dean had fallen for her tricks and she'd known that it was a death sentence.
Knowing and seeing are two different things.
Sam barely noticed her go, and John barely cared.
She's dead, Sam thinks callously, but Dean's not. One part of him whispers Thank God and the other part hisses He's the only one that matters now.
John hisses out a breath when Dean tells Constance he's sad Vam is dead. "What are you doing, boy? Just kill her!"
"He's got his gun!" Sam exclaims. "Why doesn't he just shoot her?"
What if Constance bashes in Dean's brains with her club, what if Dean trips and falls, what if he gets hurt oh God what if he leaves too oh God it'll be my fault oh God oh God oh God what if what if what if whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif
In another life, Bobby thinks, they might have been friends.
He makes eye contact with Rufus Turner, Constance's mentor, across the room and the two men nod at each other. No hard feelings.
Well, not at each other. Towards the Capitol—towards Naomi—then definitely.
In another life, children might be able to grow attached towards each other without wondering during the night if they might be forced to kill each other. In another life, Dean Winchester might not have so many bruises on his wrists and Constance Welsh might not be carrying the guilt of a dead brother on her conscience.
Yeah, Bobby had done his research.
And he despises himself for it, but he'll continue to work with John Winchester. Some evils are necessary.
The Games aren't. Not by a long shot. They never were.
In another life, the two children—children!—might be able to throw down the weapons they're too young to wield and shake hands and probably cry and then go home. They might have been able to be civil towards each other in a schoolyard, not a battlefield.
How did John manage to raise such a good boy, anyway? One willing to die for his brother. How many people volunteer for their siblings nowadays, anyway? He's one in a million.
How did District 1 produce a girl that can kill without any hint of remorse and then stare down her last enemy and offer him compassion?
How the darkness of Haven managed to produce such bright spots of light, Bobby doesn't know. What he does know is that the only two humans left out of all of humanity are going to kill each other.
Bobby leans back in his uncomfortably comfortable chair and wishes it were him that was in that arena.
"I need to protect my brother," Dean whispers. He doesn't think Constance will hear it, but he needs to get that off his chest. He's not here because he wants to kill. He's not here because he loves Jo. He's here for Sam and only Sam and even if he's lying to the whole world, Dean's never been able to lie to himself. Not really.
He'll lie to Sam to protect him, he'll lie to John to protect himself and Sam, he'll lie to the entire world to protect Jo.
Except… look how well that turned out.
"I really wish it didn't have to be this way," Constance informs him.
For a moment Dean's traitorous heart wants him to tell her that it doesn't. They could both refuse to fight each other. They could go home together like he and Jo were supposed to. The words are there on his tongue, aching to spill out of his mouth, but he knows people are watching him right now.
The Gamemakers are watching him. Naomi is watching him.
John and Sam are watching him.
So Dean tells her, "No hard feelings." He brandishes the little knife, hating the pity that flashes across Constance's face as she compares it between her own spiked club. It's not fair to lull her into safety like this when Dean's got a gun ready for her when she comes closer.
Constance takes one hesitant step forward, wary eyes watching Dean's every move. He stays still, weight still on one leg, waiting for her to get just a little closer.
Another step. She lifts the club higher, gripping it tighter. She's just three meters away. So close and yet, with Dean's injured foot, so far.
One more step. Her eyes are narrowed into slits at his lack of resistance. Dean's seen alley cats fighting before when they bristle their fur at each other and glare. He knows after the glaring comes the screeching and clawing.
For a moment the two Victors stay like that, both waiting for the other to make the first move. Constance isn't stupid; she knows the posture Dean wears isn't that of a boy that's given up. But she's also a Career. She was raised to prize brute strength over strategy.
Dean sees on her face the hope that he'll be too slow to dodge her blow. It betrays her, this wild hope, even though she relies so heavily on it, and Dean sees himself in her and Sam in her hope.
Constance swings. Dean ducks.
The force of her swing catches her off balance and she stumbles forward, the muscles in her arms straining and bulging as she hefts the club higher. Dean dives underneath her arms and the force knocks them both over. He moves to stab her in the side with the knife, belatedly realizing that getting close isn't the best strategy when he wants to shoot her, but Constance is quick and slams the non-pointy end of the club into his jaw.
Pain explodes in Dean's face and he curses. Constance shoves him off and he rolls away, twisting his already twisted ankle in the process. Dean screams through gritted teeth and clutches the knife in his hands so tightly he doesn't think he'll be able to let it go when this is all over.
Constance jackknifes to her feet and runs at Dean, roaring with anger as she brings the club back up again. Dean rolls as she brings it down and the spikes dig deep into the soft ground. As she struggles to wrench the weapon out again, Dean flings the little knife without thinking. John had taught him how to throw, so of course it reaches its target. Constance screams and wrenches it out of her hip without thinking. A spray of blood follows the tip as it exits.
She turns the eyes of a feral animal onto Dean and he thinks, Yep, definitely no hard feelings here.
He struggles onto his feet and breaths out a sigh of relief when she flings the knife down and it lands hilt-deep in the soil, quivering from the force she used to throw it.
Careers all act the same way when they're angry. Dean's glad he was able to make her so. Now he doesn't regret watching all those years of past Games.
Constance lunges at him and Dean knocks her in the nose with his fist. It's not a particularly powerful blow because Dean has to remain stationary so as not to aggravate his ankle. It still manages to swat her out of the air like a fly. As she falls, she shoots out a foot to knock into Dean's unsteady leg and it folds. He staggers and she uses the distraction to flip herself back up.
Dean just needs her to sit still for the seconds he needs so he can shoot her.
Constance pushes herself up. The two tributes regard each other, both breathing heavily. For a moment their chests rise and fall in tandem. Constance slowly reaches up to wipe the small trail of blood leaking from her nose because of Dean's blow. Dean tastes blood in his mouth and realizes he must have bit his lip.
Just minutes ago Constance's clothes had been spotlessly white. Now there are grass and dirt stains all along it as well as a splattering of blood on her chest and a slowly darkening crimson circle on her hip. Her eyes flicker down to the spiked club a little ways to Dean's right. She's figured out that she can't beat him using her fighting skills alone.
Dean falls for the trick. His eyes stray to the weapon too and then she's wielding a curved knife she'd pulled from God-knows-where and aiming right for his throat. Dean dodges and his hand goes to the gun in his pocket. Before he can pull it out, Constance lunges again and Dean catches her by the wrist, twisting his body away in the process.
The air in Dean's chest leaves him in a whoosh at the sight of the extremely painful certain death he missed by a hair. The knife would have taken his eyes out, if it hadn't gone straight through his skull.
Constance lets go of the knife and it falls into her other hand. She doesn't hesitate before driving it directly through Dean's right side, with enough force that her shoulder hits Dean's and the hilt of the blade stops further forward motion.
He doesn't even feel it. Not until Constance lets go and shoves him.
Dean falls in slow motion, hands unclenching and eyes widening. This doesn't compute. I was so close to winning. So close. And now he's Krissy and she's Vam and he's been impaled. Somehow Dean just knows that the tip of the blade is poking out of his back.
He thinks he might hit the ground. Maybe. Or maybe time slows down so much that he's hovering above the grass for all of eternity.
First his ass, then his back, and finally his head. Three cannons signaling his death.
A strangled gasp falls from his lips as he jostles the in-and-out wound. His hands go instinctively to the source of the pain and he groans as white-hot fire shoots through his side.
Constance moves closer and her hand reaches out. Through the haze of pain making his vision blur and his ears pound, Dean knows she wants to rip the knife out of his body.
He weakly slaps her hand away. Constance shrugs—or Dean thinks she shrugs; everything he can see is wiggling now—and takes a step back. She's going to wait for him to bleed out.
Dean groans and rolls slightly away from her, one hand clenching his chest with a fist in an attempt to distract himself from the pain.
He rolls again onto his back, screaming behind clenched teeth as the knife moves in his own flesh. Surely there's an important organ in his side that she's nicked.
Then Dean shoots Constance right in the thigh.
He's honestly surprised he managed to hit her at all. His vision is still fuzzy and white. At least his rolling on the ground in pain distracted his opponent long enough for him to draw the gun and cock it.
Constance screams and falls.
When Dean pushes himself up, he feels like he's being torn apart. With a grimace, he pulls the knife out and drops it. For a moment his head spins and he gags.
Sam, Sam, Sam.
He tears his shirt into strips. As Constance gasps on the ground, seemingly paralyzed by the blinding pain of failure and being shot, Dean wads up the strips and binds them to the two wounds on his side. He's bleeding way too much. He knows that. He also knows that Constance isn't going to last much longer than Dean.
Instead of the two Victors the Capitol wanted, they'll get none, he thinks gleefully. At least he's going out spitefully.
Once he's finished his pitiful attempt at prolonging his own life, Dean turns and stares at Constance. She glares up at him with eyes spilling over with hatred in the form of tears.
He's got two bullets left. She's not going anywhere.
It should be so easy.
Dean cocks the gun and points it right at her head. Though it'll be a painless end, the fighting should have satisfied the Capitol viewers enough. In this, at least, he can remain human.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, his voice cracking, and Constance grits her teeth and nods.
"Don't wait," she asks—orders. She'll not be so shameful as to let her last moments be that of a dying, pleading girl. Dean knows how Careers think. He knows how John thinks. He knows how he thinks.
She closes her eyes.
But she's somebody's Jo. Or somebody's Sam.
Dean closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger.
Constance is a hair away from death when a faint howl reaches his ears. Dean's finger slackens.
Their eyes open at the same time.
"Hellhounds," Dean breathes. The wound in his side is forgotten. The hole in Constance's leg is but a mere memory. He extends his hand to her while shoving the gun into his waistband and she takes it without hesitation.
Dying at a hellhound's claw is bad enough. Leaving someone to be torn to shreds by those mutts? He'd be as bad as Naomi.
They turn and run.
hands clenched together, Jo's hair flying in the wind as she giggles, every step taking them farther away from the scene of their crime
Every step is fire in Dean's side and his ankle feels like it's being hacked at with a rusty knife with every step, but he doesn't imagine Constance is faring much better. He grips her hand hard enough to hurt and then he grips harder. The pain in his hand distracts him from his side and ankle.
Don't stop, boy. Are you weak?
Yes.
Don't stop, boy.
I can't keep going.
Don't.
I wish I wasn't.
"In the Cornucopia!" Constance yells.
Dean takes one look at the squash-shaped building and shakes his head. He doubts that there are enough supplies left in it to build a barrier sturdy enough to keep hellhounds out. Besides, he's not sure they'd have enough time to build a barrier, judging by how loud the howls are getting. There's more than one hellhound, he can tell, and they're gaining on the two injured tributes fast. "We don't have enough time!"
"We could climb on top!" Constance yells back.
Dean risks a glance behind himself and sort of wishes he didn't; the sight of four or five hellhounds streaking across the grass field behind him makes his heart stutter.
"Push me up!" Constance orders the moment they reach the smooth metal structure.
"You won't be able to pull me up," Dean counters. He's not sure if she's being honest or hoping the hellhounds will take care of her problem, but he's not going to take that chance. His intentions might be good but hers might not be.
Constance glances behind herself, sees the hellhounds drawing closer, and must decide that arguing isn't worth it. "Go quick."
Dean stretches for any sort of purchase, but the metal is too smooth. After a moment he feels Constance's arms around his knees and she lifts him up. Dean pretends that he's doing something by scrabbling at the metal.
The second he feels like he's got a good grip, Dean spins around and lies on his stomach, reaching out for Constance. As he struggles to dig his feet into the metal, their fingers scrabble and lock onto the other person's wrist.
Dean's eyes meet Constance's wide ones. Just minutes ago she had looked perfect and now she's leaking blood, her clothes are filthy, and her hair looks like an unmanageable bush.
He lets out an animalistic growl, struggling to pull the girl up without any good purchase. Her boots slap against the metal like she's rock climbing, breaths coming out in panicked spurts, and she's so close. Her other hand grips Dean's shoulder.
Then Dean realizes the growling isn't coming from him.
There's a blur of black that nearly pulls him off the Cornucopia and a scream that's cut off way too abruptly. Then Dean's holding a disconnected arm.
He can't help it—he screams too. Blood drips out of the empty elbow cavity of the arm he's holding and his fingers spasm, dropping the limb right into the waiting jaws of a hellhound. It disappears with a snap of gleaming white teeth.
Constance's body lies on the ground, neck snapped cleanly.
Dean stares. And stares. And stares.
That was a dumb decision, because the hellhounds obviously don't care that he's the last tribute standing. One with bloodstained teeth leaps for him and Dean jerks himself up, but not before the mutt's long claws shred through the shirt covering his left shoulder and rake down his skin.
He screams, his vision going white again, and falls backwards. With a horrible feeling of slipping down the other side and knowing just how terrible that would be, Dean forces himself to sit up in the middle of the structure. He lets out a shuddering breath and wills himself not to throw up or pass out even though his head is getting dangerously fuzzy.
The hellhounds on the ground freeze and cock their heads.
One makes direct eye contact with Dean and he knows that this is their leader. There's a cold intelligence in its dark eyes.
Dean shoots it right between those cold eyes on instinct. His hands shake with the effort of holding the gun up.
Strength is leaking out him, its color a dark red, and the next thing he knows is that he's slumped on his face, back craned uncomfortably. He barely makes out the sound of mutt paws thumping against the grass. He raises his head and sees through bleary eyes that they're running away.
The gun slides off the Cornucopia and lands anticlimactically in the grass. Dean's almost disappointed it didn't go off and plant the last bullet in his own forehead.
"Congratulations!" Dean hears a too-loud voice exclaim. "District 5's very own Dean Winchester is the winner of this year's Hunger Games!"