Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for your support! I'm really, really happy that you guys enjoyed the first chapter. This chapter was harder to write than almost anything else that I've ever written, and I'm still not really sure why, but I think that the struggle shows, and I apologize for that. The next chapter will be more eventful, I promise.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

Thanks again to Anna and Brownie for your help along the way. I don't know what I'd do without you guys.

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything from anywhere. I barely own the clothes on my own back. Anything from Supernatural belongs to Kripke and the rest of the team, as well as the lovely people at the CW. Anything taken from The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Any similar dialogue, terminology, and situations are in direct reference to the book and are not my own creations.

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Dean makes a point to avoid Bobby's gaze as he's led through the hallways—wide, off-white halls with soaring arches and red tapestries—and then into a room where he's left alone. It isn't until the Peacekeepers shut the door that the reality of the situation begins to sink in. Dean doesn't want to think about it, but he has to. There's nothing else to do in the room, which is larger than Missouri's entire house. Just thinking. He sinks into one of the couches and barely notices the soft, velvety material that's likely worth more than he'll make in a year once he starts working in the mines. If he starts working in the mines. It's not likely. Not anymore.

It takes him a few moments to realize that he's shaking. Not with the slight tremors that come along with being anxious or the rapid jitters that accompany being insufficiently clothed during a bitter winter night, but really shaking—from his core, from his toes to his fingers, uncontrollably. He covers his head with his hands and takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. It's a losing battle. Year after year, every last citizen of Panem watches the Games. Even if they despise it, even if it terrifies them, they watch. Dean knew what he was getting himself into, but it's finally hitting him with the force of an express train.

He has to stop dwelling on it, though, because the door is opening and Sam is running through it, and then he's throwing his arms around Dean's waist. Dean has to take a step back, thrown off-balance by the ferocity of the hug, but his arms instinctively wrap around Sam, holding him as tightly as physically possible. Missouri is standing in the doorway; she's loathe to ruin the moment and Dean's grateful for it. He's grateful for everything that she's done for the two of them, and he suddenly regrets never telling her that. So he mouths it, knowing that it's not enough but at least it's something, and she gives him a sad smile before disappearing around the corner. Part of Dean is prodding at him, telling him to call her back, to give her a hug and a proper goodbye, but he knows that he only has a few minutes, and he needs to spend them with Sam. Sam, who's shaking even more than Dean—who's been talking this whole time, even though it's obvious that Dean hasn't been listening.

"Sam. Sam, hey, calm down." Dean doesn't know how, but he's managed to keep himself from falling apart. He keeps his arms around his younger brother as Sam stifles a sob in his shirt. "It's gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

It's not. It's not, and they both know it. Dean's sick of telling lies, but he doesn't know what else to do. Is he supposed to tell the truth? Is he supposed to say that he knows that he won't be coming back—that these are their last moments together? Is he supposed to give Sam some long speech about taking care of himself, because he won't have his big brother around anymore? Is he supposed to tell this thirteen-year-old kid that he's going to be alone from now on, so he had better get used to it? Honestly, Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to do or say, so he keeps on with the lies, perhaps with the hope that they might have a sliver of truth in there somewhere.

"Dean, you should've just let me go." Sam pulls back just enough for Dean to get a full view of his tear-stained face, and Dean can feel his heart constrict so tightly in his chest, it's a miracle that it doesn't implode right then and there. "I'm the one who got picked. You should've just let me go."

"No way in hell, Sammy." There's no way that he would ever let Sam do this. And no, he doesn't want to do this, either, but if he could go back to the reaping a million times, if he had the choice a million times, he would make the same one over and over again. He would always volunteer for Sam, no matter what. Even though he knows that he won't be coming back. Even though he knows that Sam has to stick it out without him, he would always make the same choice. Because Sam has a chance now; he has a chance to finish school, to graduate, to become a teacher, to meet a nice girl, to get married, to have a family, to die peacefully, knowing that he lived a full and happy life. The world's better with Sam in it; the world can do without Dean. "It's better this way, okay?"

Sam shakes his head, arms dropping to his sides. "No. No, Dean, it's not better. How is this better?"

"Because I have a chance of winning, Sam." This has got to be Dean's best lie yet. He doesn't have a chance. He doesn't have a chance in hell, but he's going to act like he does, because that's what Sam needs right now. Almost every year, the Games are won by one of the careers, and Dean doesn't think for a second that he has the skills necessary to beat all of them. But no matter how slim his chances—how impossible it will be to win—he's going to try. He's going to give it everything that he has, because he wants, needs, to get back to Sam. Because he wants to see that thirteen-year-old boy grow up. Because Sam's all that he has. "And you don't. I mean, look at me, and look at you. You're all...reedy and scrawny. They'd pick you off in seconds."

He says it teasingly, with a grin, with the intention of lightening the atmosphere—with the intention of making Sam smile. It doesn't work; the sadness and the fear never leave Sam's eyes, and Dean's grin falters almost immediately. When Sam speaks again, his voice is hardly more than a whisper. "I didn't ask you to do this for me, Dean."

Dean pulls him into another hug, just as tight as the first. "You didn't have to, Sammy."

They stay that way for a few long moments before Sam takes a step back, scrubbing at his face with his hands in an attempt to erase the tears, and Dean loves him even more for it. It's a lot easier for Dean to be strong—to keep the tears from falling—if Sam isn't falling apart in front of him. Because Dean wants to fall apart. He really does. But he knows that any sign of weakness will single him out as an easy target, and there will be an army of cameras waiting for him when he leaves the safety and seclusion of the posh—and now very comforting—room. While he doesn't think that he has any chance of surviving, he's not just going to roll over and die. He's not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he feels like he's being ripped into a thousand mangled, bloody pieces.

Even though he looks sick—face drawn, lips set into a thin line, skin pale—Sam seems to have found some solid ground. His eyes are dry and he's looking at Dean head-on, chin up, his clenched jaw giving his usually childlike face a decidedly masculine outline. Sam's going to grow up to be one hell of a guy. Dean wishes more than anything else in the world that he could be around to see it.

"I don't want you to worry about me, okay?" Dean doesn't know why he's talking. For some reason, he feels like he needs to. Maybe because this will be his last chance. Maybe because, if he doesn't fill the silence, the cracks will begin widening and he might actually break into pieces. "I'll be fine." He reaches out to ruffle Sam's hair and—yeah, the kid's gonna hit his growth spurt really soon, and he's gonna be one handsome son of a bitch, isn't he? "I'll be back before you know it, and if you haven't been focusing on your grades, I'll kick your ass."

Sam almost smiles, almost, and it's enough. His eyes are still puffy and bloodshot, but that little twitch—that little upward curve at the corner of his lips—brightens the whole room. That's all that Dean needs. He just needs Sam to smile. He needs Sam to keep on smiling because that's the whole point. That's the point of all of this.

"Dean, I..." Sam swallows hard, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to pull out what looks like a necklace. He holds it out to Dean, who responds by looking confused. "I want you to have this."

The necklace—more of an amulet, really, now that Dean looks at it—slides from Sam's fingers to coil in Dean's palm. It's heavy, solid. Probably brass, from the look of it, and Dean has no idea where Sam would've gotten something like this. He runs his thumb over the strange-looking face and the mercifully dull horns. Looped through a ring at the top is a simple leather cord. It's simple and doesn't stand out, but Dean's attentive and he knows that he's never seen it before. He must look as confused as he feels, because Sam looks embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck before clearing his throat.

"I got that from Bobby a few years ago. It...was supposed to be a gift for dad. But then..." He trails off with a shrug. They don't really talk about their dad much. What's there to say? John was working, there was an accident, the explosion blew him a few others to smithereens, and Sam and Dean were suddenly orphans. It changed everything, but didn't seem to change much. Bobby's never been stingy with his booze, and John was probably the number-one recipient of that generosity. Ellen's always gotten more, sure, but it's for the bar—which John also visited on a daily basis. Dean spent more than one night dragging his dad to bed, cleaning up blood from drunken brawls, washing puke-stained clothes, or just worrying—wondering where John was, if he was still alive—until he could feel his mind physically fraying.

"You held onto it all this time?" Dean's surprised enough that Sam would've wanted to get a gift for their dad. Sam and John had a...complicated relationship. Complicated enough that it's highly unlikely that Sam would hold onto a gift like that out of sentimentality.

"I tried to give it back to Bobby, but he said to keep it, just in case. Just in case I found myself needing it one day. I didn't know what he meant, but...now I think I do."

Dean's chest is constricting again and he wishes that he could wipe the pain and worry right out of Sam's big doe-eyes. He knows that it's his fault. He knows that Sam is worrying about him, and no matter how guilty he feels, it's better than letting Sam run off to his death. Anything is better than that. So he slips on the amulet and gives Sam one more crushing hug, because that's the most that he can do—because that's the only way that he knows how to reassure his little brother. That's the only way that he knows how to say goodbye. "Thanks, Sammy." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the doors opening, and that makes him hold on even tighter. "Thank you."

Too soon. It's too soon for the Peacekeepers to be back—for them to drag Sam away—and Dean hates them. He hates them more than he's ever hated anyone. His short, sharp fingernails actually draw blood as they dig into the palm of his hand. The pain distracts him from the desire, the drive, to tear into those white-suited bastards with his bare hands. But they have guns, and they have Sam, and he knows that they wouldn't hesitate for so much as a moment to kill both of them. It's his job to keep quit. It's his job to swallow down the lump in his throat and blink back the tears in his eyes and just stand there, still and silent.

Sam doesn't say goodbye. Dean understands. There's so much more that he would've liked to say. Keep up the good work, Sammy. I'm proud of you. Do your best and don't sweat the small stuff. When you meet a pretty girl, don't be a pussy and go get her. Never let anyone tell you shit about what you can and can't do. Be happy. Don't miss me. I love you.

But the last words that he'll ever speak to Sammy are "thank you," and that's fitting, he thinks. Sam's given him something to fight for—to live for and to die for—and he should be thanked for that. The rest...well, things are hard enough for both of them, as it is. There's no reason for Dean to make it even worse. Besides, he's never been one to say that stuff out loud, and he doesn't have time to decide if that's something that he should fix. He's all out of time for fixing himself. He's going to be who he is until he dies, and that's okay. That's just fine and dandy.

"Hey, Dean."

Dean's head snaps up. He didn't hear Garth come in, and that's concerning, since Garth isn't the stealthiest guy around. Letting his guard down like that is going to get him killed in a split second in the arena. Way to make things easy for everyone else.

"Hey, Garth."

It's a lot easier for Dean to act normal, unaffected, when the worst that Garth gets is awkward. He's got some angst, somewhere deep down, but Garth doesn't know how to express it any better than Dean does. Maybe there's a little affection there, too—on both sides. People get extra sentimental when they realize that they'll never see each other again. Even so, Garth just stands there, scratching the back of his neck, and Dean feels more stable than he's felt since the morning.

"That was you, wasn't it? The salute?" Garth looks embarrassed, but he's also grinning—looking pretty damn pleased with himself, actually. He tries to hide it by ducking his head, but Dean doesn't miss the look, and that's all of the confirmation that he needs. "Why would you do something stupid like that?"

Head still ducked, Garth shrugs. "I thought you deserved it."

That doesn't make any sense. Not even a little bit. "Why?"

"'Cause that was really brave of you, Dean. 'Cause I don't know anyone else who would do that. Who would do...this."

And that is something that Dean doesn't understand. It's something that can't be true, because who would let his little brother walk into the arena when he could do something to stop it? What kind of sick bastard would let someone like Sam—a defenseless kid—get ripped away from his chance at a life? At a full, happy, meaningful life? And it's a little selfish, too. Dean's selfish. Not brave, not a hero—selfish. Because he can't imagine life without Sam. Because Sam is his life. And Dean would rather die than have to go on without him.

He rubs a hand across his eyes because he is not going to tear up—not now. "Nah, Garth. I'm just doing what I gotta do. But...thanks. Thanks, dude."

Neither of them knows what to do or say next; it's not like they've been prepared for this moment. Dean never knows what to say under pressure, and this is a particular kind of pressure, knowing that whatever he says next will be his last words to Garth. Sure, they aren't the closest, but Dean figures that they're friends—and, since Dean doesn't really have friends, that means something.

"You're gonna come back, right?" Garth's looking at him now, and Dean's finding it difficult to meet his gaze. "You're gonna win, and you're gonna come back."

Dean's tired of lying; he's tired of saying what everyone needs him to say. But he knows that he's going to have to keep it up, because, soon, there are going to be cameras and interviews and evaluations. The whole country is going to be expecting him to say the right thing—just the right thing, and Dean's not sure that he'll know what that is. So he could use the practice, right? "Yeah. Yeah, I mean, I got a chance, right?" The cocky grin is a nice touch, he thinks. A nice embellishment that helps him sell it. "I be back before you know it." Funny, it doesn't sound any more convincing the second time that he says it.

Seems to be enough for Garth, though. Garth, who's standing there with that muted little smile of his—who looks just as gawky as ever, and Dean likes it, because he can count on some things to never change. "We'll be waiting for you."

That's almost enough to make Dean crack right then and there, but it's time for Garth to go, and that gives him some breathing space—a chance to regain his composure. Or, that's what he thinks. Dean didn't think that anyone else would come to see him, because there's no one left, but the door opens again and he is not ready to face who walks in. He's clenching his fists again, and there might be fresh blood pooling around his fingernails, but it's impossible to tell because he can't look at anything but Ellen's tear-stained face.

Dean knew that he was going to have to face Sam one last time. He had a feeling that Garth was going to pop in for a final goodbye. But he never would have guessed that Ellen would come see him. Suddenly, he feels small—so small that he could just...vanish. He wishes that he could vanish, because he doesn't know what to say to her.

Sorry things turned out this way. Sorry you're going to have to watch your daughter being hunted on the big screen. Sorry I couldn't volunteer for her, too. Sorry you have no one else, because Bill died in the same explosion that took my dad. Just...sorry.

None of that seems fair, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Ellen watches him for a few moments, just as silent as he is—maybe because she doesn't know what to say, either, or maybe because she doesn't trust herself to open her mouth just yet. Dean knows that she's already said goodbye to Jo; aside from the fact that she would've been the first one admitted to Jo's room, he can read it all over her face. It isn't so strange that she would want to say goodbye to him, too, but with Jo's life on the line, he doesn't know why she would want to so much as look at him.

"That was real brave of you, kiddo."

Dean doesn't know why, but that's the last straw. That's what breaks him. He slumps back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. When Garth stood there and told him that he was brave, he could take it, because Garth has always worshiped him. But now Ellen's standing there saying the same thing, and it means something different coming from her. Dean doesn't know what he expected her to say, but it wasn't that. Ellen's always been great to him and Sam, but he assumed that she would resent him now. Even if, against all odds, he and Jo make it to the end, they can't both come back. Dean knows that he wouldn't be able to be so kind to anyone who stood between him and Sam—ever, no matter the circumstances.

So he finally loses the fight against the tears when Ellen sits down next to him and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. Not from her. He's heard the whispers—the rumors that the explosion was his dad's fault. Even if he doesn't believe it, a lot of other people do. John was a drunk, and that made him accident-prone. Something tells him that Ellen believes it, but she's never treated them any differently. Not even once. Because that wasn't Dean's fault, and it certainly wasn't Sam's fault. But this is different. This is Dean. Not his dad. Dean.

When he forces himself to look up at her, he's positive that his eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, which makes him wish even more fiercely that he could disappear. But, although her expression is stony, her eyes are just as red, and she's squeezing his shoulder so gently. "I sure as hell don't feel brave." And he's all right with admitting it to Ellen because she understands, because she's not judging, because she would have volunteered for Jo in a second if she could have, and it wouldn't have been out of courage. It would've been out of desperation. Fear, even.

"But you are, Dean, and you've got to buck up and go out there with a big smile, because..." She falters, and her grip on Dean's shoulder goes from consoling to constricting. "They need to know how strong you are."

"Ellen..."

Her eyes are glassy and she has to close them to hold the tears at bay, the muscles in her cheeks twitching as she clenches her jaw. "I know that it's not fair of me to ask for anything. Not from you. Not now. But, Dean, I need you to look out for her. She's my baby girl, and I need you to keep her safe. As much as you can. As long as you can."

Dean pries Ellen's hand from his shoulder and holds it tightly in his own. "Hey." Every last bit of him is trembling, but seeing someone like Ellen—someone so strong and capable—shattering in front of him puts things into perspective. He needs to be strong for Sam, for Ellen, for Jo, and maybe even for himself. "Hey, Ellen, look at me." She does, and Dean chokes up for a second, silenced by the ever-present lump in his throat, but it's only for a second and then he finds that solid ground again. "I swear to you that I will do everything that I can to keep her safe."

And it's not fair. It isn't, but Ellen is crushing him with her arms, and as his arms close around her shoulders in response, Dean knows that he could never deny her any peace of mind that he can offer. He also knows that he's going to make good on his promise, because even though Jo isn't Sam, she's as close to family as anyone else could get. Even if Ellen wasn't there, begging him for help, he would do everything in his power to keep Jo out of harm's way. If he can do anything—anything—to look out for Jo, he's going to do it. Without a thought.

But it's likely that he won't be able to do much, and he knows it. Tributes from the same district are often split up early, unless they're careers. They'll probably be picked off before they can find each other. Dean knows that, even with the best intentions, his promises are empty.

There's always a chance, though. No matter what, there's always a chance, and he supposes that he should have a plan, just in case it comes down to him and Jo in the end. Because that's the one thing that he's hasn't planned for. It's the one thing that he hasn't even thought about. And he still can't think about it; he still can't plan. Not yet. Not with Ellen smiling at him and looking so damn grateful. Not with shame rising like bile in his throat.

She cups his face with her hands before pressing a brief kiss to his forehead. "Be safe, kid. We'll all be keeping an eye on Sam."

Those words ring in Dean's ears as he reunites with Jo and Bobby. He's still dodging Bobby's pointed stare, but he and Jo exchange a look, making sure that the other is all right, reminding each other to chin-up. They're herded into a car, and no one feels the need to disturb the brief ride with conversation. Even Crowley stays silent. He just sits there with a very nearly lascivious smirk, probably getting off on their discomfort and dread. Dean's always found him disgusting, but never more so than right now.

Making their way past the cameras on the way to the trains is surprisingly easy. The more people there are, the more they have to prove, the easier it is for Dean to hold his head high. He's not going to let them break him, and he's going to show them just how determined he is—just how strong he's going to be. Jo, bless her heart, is even better at it than Dean. She practically floats through the station, smiling and waving at the onlookers, looking springfresh and lovely in her yellow dress. Because he knows that the cameras will love it, and because he feels the need to reassure Jo that they're in this together, Dean throws an arm around her shoulders and tugs her against his side before kissing the top of her head. She looks startled, and if he's translating that spark in her eye correctly, she probably wants to punch him, but he squeezes her shoulder and winks, because the people watching are going to eat that shit up.

Maybe it's a little strategic, too. They're both thin, hungry, visibly weaker than a lot of the other tributes will be. District 12's tributes always are. Apart, neither of them poses much of a threat. Sure, Dean's got some muscles on him and Jo knows how to skin anything that moves, but, divided, they'll be greeted like fodder. Together, united, they'll look so much stronger. They'll look like a threat.

Plus, it's no secret that Jo has been harboring a massive crush on him for a long time. That's why she wants to hit him and why she's going to forgive him. His heart tightens as he wonders what she must be feeling right now—how difficult this must be for her, too. How much it pains her that they're in this together. And then he feels guilt sinking back onto his shoulders and crushing his ribcage, because even if it does comfort Jo to know that he's there supporting her, it must also be killing her. So he lets his arm slip from her shoulders and takes a step to the side, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

After stepping aboard the train, Dean isn't given any time to admire the shiny, sparkling clean interior. As soon as the doors close and the camera's blur, Crowley drags Jo away, babbling on about her private chambers and the lovely dresses that have been prepared and how fetching she'll look in them. Dean barely takes a step forward before being thrown back against the wall, Bobby's hands roughly gripping his jacket. It knocks the wind clear out of his lungs; Dean's getting really tired of that feeling.

"You need to look at me, boy."

Dean does, and, wow, Bobby looks tired. He looks rougher, more worn, than Dean has ever seen him. There are bags under his eyes and his breath reeks of alcohol. It's a familiar smell, but it never gets more pleasant. As soon as Dean levels with him, Bobby lets go and takes a step back, but he's still glowering. Dean figures that he deserves it; he's been doing a grade-A job of ignoring Bobby this whole time, and it isn't right. It isn't, but Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He doesn't know a lot today, and that feeling—being at a complete loss—is driving him insane.

"Bobby, I—"

"Shut up." There's no venom, no fire, in Bobby's voice. Mostly, he sounds exhausted—as much as he looks it. "What am I supposed to do with you, Dean?"

"Feeding me would be a start." His smile falters after a split second, because Bobby's glare shoots him down; and that's okay, because it was fake, to begin with. Although, technically, he wasn't joking. There has to be food on the train and Dean is itching to stuff his face. If he's going to die in a few days, he might as well make the most of his remaining time, right?

"Jokin' ain't gonna make this go away, ya idjit." Bobby sinks into a chair, and the anger's gone out of his eyes, replaced by a sadness so deep that Dean has to look away—has to avoid it. "I can't believe that I have to do this. I never thought that..."

"And ain't that just the way the cookie crumbles?"

Bobby's not amused. Neither is Dean. There's nothing amusing about the situation, but, fuck, he's all out of tears and tender moments. The second that he stepped onto the platform in the train station, the game started, and Dean's going to play it. He's going to play it hard. Bobby has to understand that. Hell, he has to appreciate it. Bobby won this thing once; even if it was a long time ago, he knows what it takes.

But as he continues to sit there in silence, it becomes more and more apparent that this is tearing him apart. And why wouldn't it? Bobby's close to Ellen; he was close to Bill, too. His two best friends died, and now he has to send their kids off into the arena. Honestly, Dean can't even begin to imagine what that must be like. It's got to be paralyzing. Crippling. Heartbreaking.

"Bobby, this is just... This is the only way that I know how to do this, okay?" Dean can be honest with Bobby, because Bobby doesn't need him to be strong. Bobby doesn't need him to put a positive spin on things. "I can't let it get to me. Because, if I do, it's gonna be too much. It's gonna be too fucking much."

After another moment of silence, Bobby says, "I know." He does. He knows better than anyone else, and he has to understand that Dean doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Dean can't open up that part of himself again, because if he lets even a little fear leak out, every negative feeling that he's holding back is going to come flooding out, and there won't be anything that he can do to stop it. "I know, kid. I'm just...sorry that you have to be here, in the first place."

Dean takes a moment to look out of the train's window, and he can see the buildings of District 12 already fading into the distance behind them. "Huh. Never thought that it'd look so small."

That's all that he can think to say. It won't be long before all that will be visible of the whole district is the trees. Dean's never stepped foot outside of the district. Almost no one that he knows has so much as seen the boundaries. There's the fence outside the Seam, sure, but nobody really sees the forest beyond as something truly outside of the district. A few people go out to hunt and gather every now and then, despite it being illegal, but they never go far. Everyone knows better than to do something stupid like that.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Dean turns to look at Bobby, because Bobby deserves that much. "We'll figure something out, Dean. We'll figure a way out of this mess."

Dean smiles. They won't, but it's still a nice thing to say. It's still a nice thing to hope for. "Yeah, Bobby. Of course we will." He gives Bobby a heavy pat on the back—probably a little more forcefully than he needed to, but it communicates what he wants to communicate. He's strong. He's okay. He's going to give this his all, because he wants nothing more than to see those buildings reappear. "But, first? Food."

And that's enough to coax a smile out of Bobby, although he huffs and feigns annoyance. "You never change."

Ain't that the truth.