Disclaimer: Supernatural and The Hunger Games belong to each of their respective owners; I'm merely the crazy person who decided to play with their toys.

Chapter Two

"I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship." (Romans 12:1)

Dean could still remember the fire. The heat threatening to swallow him whole. His mother's screams. His father shoved this small, tiny bundle of blankets and snot at him, ordering him, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Now, Dean! Go!"

He ran out the front door as hard as his tiny legs would let him, his arms wrapped tight around his little brother. He'd promised that it was okay. "It's okay, Sammy," he'd said.

As Sam moved into the center aisle, head held high against the torrent of fragmented whispers, John Winchester fell to his knees with a broken sob. Ellen tried to raise him back up, but he wouldn't move, stubborn as he was drunk. Dean was numb to his father's wails as Sammy took his first steps towards the stage.

When Dean was all of nine, his father stumbled forward and gripped his face. His breath had stunk of whatever cheap liquor he got his hands on, heavy and wet against Dean's nose. "You gotta…" He hiccupped and chuckled like he'd just told the world's funniest joke. "You gotta promise me somethin' Dean. You have to watch out for Sammy."

"I always watch out – "

"No, no, no!" John swayed, his hands still loose on Dean's cheeks. "You have to protect him. All the time. Every minute. He's… He's your brother, so you have to." He looked down at Dean, and it didn't matter that he couldn't see straight – that gaze could still pierce right trough Dean's heart. "Promise me."

"Daddy, you're – "

John gripped him tighter, causing Dean to whimper at the pain.

"Promise me!" he repeated.

"I promise," Dean whispered.

For the first time in his memory, his father smiled down at him. His touch gentled and he patted Dean's now red cheek. "Good boy. Good boy."

Sam's shirt wasn't fully tucked in. The tail stuck out over the back of his pants and flapped with every step he took. He ignored his father's keening as he continued his way up the aisle. His lip trembled as he passed by Dean, and for a long moment, he thought Sam might run, to him or away, he couldn't know. But he didn't. He kept walking and left Dean behind him.

And then when Sammy turned seven, Dean's first Hunger Games, he had cried all night, clinging to Dean and refusing to leave the house. He shook his head stubbornly, right up until the moment Dean told him, "I promise it's gonna be okay. I'll always protect you."

Sam sniffled. "But what if -"

"Doesn't matter." Dean wiped a thumb under his brother's eyes. "I'm still gonna protect you."

"Always?"

"Always."

This afternoon he'd promised they wouldn't call his name. He'd meant it; he said they wouldn't call it, and Dean had never broken a single promise.

He would always...

Always…

No. Please, no.

How was he still standing? Why hadn't he collapsed like his father? His knees felt too weak, his breath coming out in short, desperate pants and the world fading in and out in splotches of black and white. Maybe the kid beside him was holding him up by the elbow; Dean couldn't tell. He couldn't see past the skinny boy who had now climbed onto the stage, the straight back as Becky fussed over him and the clenched fists and the shirt that didn't fit him. That stupid, stupid mop of hair refusing to stay combed back.

Twenty five 'Dean Winchesters' in that jar. More than a thousand other names. Just two 'Samuel Winchesters.'

Why the hell wasn't the Lord smiling down upon Sammy? Why couldn't he have shown a little mercy, just this once? The odds were entirely in his favor; he shouldn't, he shouldn't have to. He was just a kid, just a tiny bundle of blankets and snot and Dean had promised him.

He glanced across the discomforted crowd and met his father's watery eyes. His lips moved slowly. Dean couldn't hear what he said, but he didn't have to.

He'd promised.

"Well, well, we have our tributes!" Becky cheered. "So, I guess we'll just - "

"No."

It took Dean a long moment to realize he'd spoken aloud. The crowd's eyes all turned to him, expressions ranging from confusion to heartbreak to dismay. He was vaguely aware of Ellen shaking her head desperately, but it was so far away and so very unimportant.

"No!" Dean felt his heart pounding in his chest, blocking the reasonable voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Sammy.

Sammy.

"SAMMY!" he shouted. "SAMMY!" He lunged out of his roped off section, the rest of the boys easily parting for him. The peacekeepers were less willing to let him pass, standing in a line in front of him and shoving him away. Dean pushed right back against them and ignored their worthless threats. Bruises were nothing, broken ribs and an empty stomach were nothing. He kept reaching for Sam, kept howling his name because these men didn't understand that that was his little brother on that stage, damn it, please, no –

Becky giggled nervously, pulling at the collar of her ridiculous dress. "I apologize for this… little outburst." She fluttered around, eyes darting about at the cameras as if one of the archangels might descend and kill her for Dean's insolence. Or maybe President Michael, himself, was watching. "Now, if we can just get on to the benediction - "

"I volunteer!" Dean cried out desperately. "I volunteer! Please! I volunteer as tribute! I volunteer!"

The square came alive with shocked whispers and murmurs. No one seemed to quite know what to do. Should he be shoved back, or called to stage? There hadn't been a volunteer in District 12 in so long. The proper protocol had fallen to the wayside.

Becky set her hands on her hips. "If you were going to volunteer, you should've done it sooner, because it's time for – "

A soft voice growled, "Oh, let the boy go."

Rufus Turner hadn't spoken aloud since his stint in the games. People had forgotten what his voice sounded like. It was still as gruff and commanding as it had been in the past, and Becky was forced to cease her yammering to listen to him. "But I didn't get a chance to – "

"What does it matter? Let him come up." 'To his death' went unspoken, but it was as if he'd shouted it.

Becky sniffed, but gave a light nod. Dean stumbled forward as the peacekeepers finally relented. He resisted the urge to sneer at them through their hard, plastic masks, and instead ran forward towards the stage. Sammy was shaking his head back and forth fiercely, glaring at his brother as tears went down his face.

Dean knew there was some sort of protocol he was supposed to follow, maybe say hello to Becky or Rufus or even the mayor, but he couldn't bring himself to care even a little. He'd already broken protocol all to Hell. His first order of business was to open his arms for his little brother and enfold him to a fierce embrace, petting his hair and taking the light punches thrown at his arm.

"Jerk, jerk, jerk, jerk," Sammy sobbed into his chest.

"I know," Dean whispered. "I'm sorry."

Sam whimpered. "Dean – "

"I'm sorry."

That was the mayor's voice. Dean wanted to tell him to fuck off, never wanted to let Sammy go. But he'd bent the rules too much already. Heaven was watching.

Carefully, Dean pried himself from his brother. "Go on, squirt," he murmured.

Sam's lip quivered. The mayor reached out to touch him, but he shrugged the contact away, just like any thirteen year old ought to. Carefully, deliberately, he stepped off the stage and walked back to the crowd. Jo met him in the aisle, wrapping her hand around his and hugging him when Dean couldn't.

Back with the adults, still resting on his knees, Dean could see his father nod his head just so.

A loud clap broke the spell. "Well, that was exciting!" Becky chittered. Dean wanted to punch her face even more when he was this close. "Very in spirit of the games. Very much not in the script."

The smile she gave Dean reminded him of the wolves he sometimes saw in the woods, just one second away from clamping their jaws around his throat. She laughed suddenly in that god awful nasal way she had. "I suppose since – oh goodness, I don't know your name."

"Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Oooh, I bet little Samuel over there was your brother. Cute as a button, isn't he?" Dean clenched his hands at his sides, his nails breaking the skin of his palm. "Anyway, I suppose since Mr. Winchester, here, saw fit to volunteer, we might go back and ask if there are any volunteers for our lovely Lisa Braeden?"

Nothing. Not a peep. Dean expected as much. Lisa's only sibling was a four year old boy named Ben. They only sent the big kids off to die.

"Well! I guess we can finally get onto the Benedictions, can't we? On your knees, children."

Dean and Lisa knelt, heads bowed to the ground. The mayor approached. "The Lord bless thee, and keep thee," he said softly, pressing two fingers dipped in oil to Dean's forehead. "The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee."

He reached out to Lisa, next, his shaking fingers dripping oil onto his perfectly shined shoes. Someone else could've done this. Anyone else so he didn't have to bless his own daughter to her death. Of course, that wasn't how things worked in Heaven. "The Lord… lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace." (Numbers 6:24-6)

"Amen," the crowd murmured accordingly.

Becky rang her small, annoying bells, cueing the music to start. In the fancier Districts, they played an actual organ. Not here in District 12. They had to make due with a crappy stereo system, a boombox placed next the microphone to amplify the electric hum. They sang in Latin, too, their voices loud only because there were so many of them.

They ended with Becky's obnoxious bells, big, heavy things the girl could hardly lift and sent vibrations through Dean's chest. He never realized how loud they had to be so the whole congregation could hear them. His ears could definitely tell this close, his whole body shaking.

He could tell Lisa was shaking, too. Her eyes were squeezed shut to try and block out the assault on her ears, her fingernails scratching the ground. Keeping the movement small, hoping the cameras would be too focused on Becky to notice him, anyway, he reached out and took her hand.

Lisa seemed startled by the touch, her eyes flying open to meet Dean's. He offered a little smile and gave her fingers a squeeze. She hesitated, then returned the pressure, even managed to give him a smile back. He'd known she was pretty, but wow. It was a pity they hadn't met sooner.

It was a pity that they both had to die.

A pity he might have to be the one to kill her.

Dean released Lisa's hand just as Becky started her obnoxious applause. "Rise, everyone! Rejoice! Rejoice this blessed day!" She grinned maniacally down upon the crowd. Dean wondered if she honestly thought anyone would smile back. "Happy, happy Hunger Games to you all! And remember – may the Lord smile upon you!"

Dean looked upon the crowd. Everyone looked hollower up here, like stick figures dressed in clothes too big for them. His brother was bent in half to cry into Jo's arms and his father still couldn't get up from his knees. A perfectly wonderful girl and his stupid ass were about to be sent off into the wilderness to slaughter each other.

Yeah. The Lord sure was smiling down upon them real big and wide.

The ceremony over, Lisa and Dean found themselves ushered into the Justice Building. The peacekeepers didn't touch them or anything, but Dean got the feeling they were just waiting for him to screw up so they could beat him for that display back there. Whatever. Dean wasn't really good at making friends, and he didn't need to be friends with these bozos. He was gonna be dead in under a month, anyway.

With that lovely, happy thought, they showed him to a room and locked the door behind him. It was certainly the richest place he'd ever seen, pale white walls with gold accents – the real stuff, no doubt. Big paintings all around of various scenes from nature: a red sunset, a fawn dancing in threes. Fancy, boring, rich stuff.

There weren't a lot of places to sit. A fat gold harp, sure, but few chairs. Dean tried to pick the least girly one and settled into the uncomfortable leather. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was rickety wood instead. The Hunger Games were years and miles away. It was Sammy's birthday, and he'd bought some chocolate for him with the last of his savings. Sammy gave him a wide, chocolate covered smile.

The door creaked and Dean's eyes snapped open. He only had an hour for visitors, so he needed to make this as quick as possible.

He refused to cry. He didn't care if it made him look sympathetic to sponsors. He would not give Heaven the satisfaction.

Dad entered first. Dean thought it odd that they didn't send his father and Sammy in together. Maybe they requested not to, just so Dean's last memory wouldn't be them fighting.

His father was oddly quiet, shuffling from foot to foot. If Dean hadn't seen him down that entire flask in one go, he might've thought the man was actually sober. His father looked up at him, and suddenly Dean had to struggle to keep upright while John clutched his oldest son into a fierce bear hug. His face was so close, Dean could smell the whiskey hot on his breath.

"You did good, son," John whispered in Dean's ear. "You did… You did real, real good."

Dean squeezed back. It didn't matter to him how drunk he was. The man was here, wasn't he? He was here, and he was proud, and good sons don't ask stupid questions. "Thanks, Dad," he murmured back.

They stood there a few more moments before the peacekeepers barged back in. Dean gently pried his father away. John stumbled back to the door and Dean felt his gut clench. "You'll look out for Sammy now, won't you?" he blurted out, terror suddenly pulsing through him. "Won't you?"

John stared at his son with bloodshot eyes as the dark wood slammed shut in his face. Dean was alone again.

Ellen and Jo entered next. Ellen's first act was to thwack the back of his head so hard that Dean thought his brain rattled in his skull. Jo promptly assured him that he didn't have a brain and gave him a punch to the shoulder. After that, it was all hugs and holding back tears.

"Maybe you can win," Jo sniffled against his shirt. It felt like that morning, only a thousand times worse. "I mean, it's possible, right? That maybe… Maybe you can do it. You're big."

Dean gave a wry chuckle. "I'm not big. You're just short."

She hit him again, though it wasn't hard enough to cause any damage. "Well, you got no brains, so maybe being big's your only chance."

"Brat," he informed her.

She smiled toothily, though the glow of it was ruined by the messy tearstains on her face. How she'd managed to collect coal dust already was beyond him, but he dutifully wiped it away.

Ellen gave him the saddest, fiercest look Dean had ever seen. "You keep fighting," she told him. "Do you hear? You do well and use those hunting skills I don't know nothing about."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her lip trembled and she pet softly at his hair. Dean leaned into the touch on instinct, eyes fluttering shut.

"I'll watch out for Sam," she said softly, giving him the words his father couldn't. "Make sure he eats, gets fed. Make sure he and John don't damn well kill each other."

Damnit, she made it so hard to keep his resolution. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't.

But it was so nice to know that someone would be looking out for Sam. Someone who could see straight, someone whose main priority wasn't to forget. He loved his father, but it was his own damn orders that made Sam come first.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She smiled and patted at his cheek. "You're a good kid, sweetheart."

When they left, Dean tried hard not to think about how much more it mean to hear Ellen say those words than his own father.

Dean was on his own to pace for a little while. He didn't expect anyone else to come, at least not in terms of friends. The only two of those Dean had were Ellen and Jo. There was just one person left to wait for, and he was beginning to think Sam wasn't going to come at all.

What if he decided not to? What if he thought it was better not to talk to Dean before he left? What if he thought Dean was going to cause another scene? It wasn't an unreasonable thought. Maybe he'd decided he never wanted to see Dean again. And Dean would die without getting a chance to say goodbye, to say…

The door creaked open. Dean spun in place, his eyes locking on Sam's sheepish face.

"Hey," the squirt greeted.

"Hey, little brother," Dean replied softly.

That was all it took before they were crossing the room to each other, Dean crashing to his knees to properly enfold his brother in his arms. He didn't mind the bruises, just the messy mop of his Sammy's hair and the too skinny arms and rubbing his hand up and down that quivering spine.

Perhaps it was the years of no chick flick moments that had them embracing so much today. Dean rather thought it was the whole death part, actually.

"There's… There's gotta be something I can do," Sam choked. His arms were tight around Dean's neck, refusing to let go for even a moment. Dean scooped him up and settled his little brother across his lap, rocking and shushing him like he was five years old again.

"Don't think about it, Sammy."

"I can't let you go," he whimpered. "I can't, I won't just let you go there, to that place and those things –"

"Yes, you will." Sammy shook his head in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean gently lifted his face upward, wiping his face clean of the snot and tears but somehow not able to take away the pain. "I know this is all my fault. I know that, Sammy; I get it. And I'm so…" His voice cracked and he took a shuddering inhale. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm – "

"Don't cry, Dean." Sam's hands, no longer chubby with baby fat but still so small, reached up and wiped at his brother's cheek. "Please don't cry."

Dean gave a wet laugh. "You stop first, bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean poked Sam firmly in the stomach, causing him to retaliate. This led to more poking, which led to tickling, which turned into an all out tussle. For a moment, they could almost pretend things were their own special brand of normal.

Of course, when they settled on the floor, breath and laughter all used up, reality came settling in. Sam seemed content to flop with his head against Dean's stomach. This suited Dean just fine, since it allowed him to card his fingers through his little brother's hair.

"Hey."

Dean hummed in response.

"Would you mind… Could you sing to me? Like, like you did when I was a kid."

'You're still a kid,' Dean thought, but he held his tongue. "Yeah, but you might've bruised my ribs, there, so I can't tell ya how good my breath support'll be."

Sammy poked him in the ribs. "Please?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Dean closed his eyes, dredging up the words to his old lullaby. It had been years, but he just had to remember his father's voice in the dead of night, his mother's lips on his forehead...

"Hey, Jude…" he sang softly. "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…" He tucked a wayward lock of hair behind his brother's ear. "Remember to let her into your heart. Then you can start to make it better."

Sam sighed and seemed to settle further against him. Dean's heart clenched in his chest, and he almost couldn't start the second verse. He shoved through the pain and kept going – it was his little brother, after all. "Hey, Jude… Don't be afraid. You – "

The peacekeeper swung open the door. "Time to go," he told them in a calm, collected voice.

Dean swallowed. He wanted to cause a scene something awful, but he knew it was the last thing he needed. The last thing Sam needed. He sat up, carefully lifting his brother as he did so. Once he had him upright, Dean tugged him into an embrace. Just one last time. "You take care of Dad," he whispered.

"Okay."

"And you take care of Jo, a-and Ellen, too. They'll look after you."

Sam whimpered and clutched tighter. "Okay."

"Sammy," Dean begged.

The kid sniffled and finally pulled away, though his face was wet again. Dean didn't have time to wipe it clean, for this would be the last time he'd ever see his brother, the very last time he'd ever hold him or sing to him or –

"Time to go," the peacekeeper repeated. Dean really, really wanted to punch his lights out.

He was distracted from his violent thoughts by Sammy pulling something off his neck. Dean realized with a jolt that it was his necklace, the one that he'd given Sam all those years ago. Used to tell him it would keep the nightmares away if he wore it, protect him from the bad things, and Sammy hadn't removed it from his person since.

"Take it," Sam whispered. "Take it. You're allowed one item from home, so take it."

The peacekeeper started for them, looking ready to use any means necessary to pull Sam out of the room. Dean didn't need to see that.

"I'll take it, Sammy," he said quickly. "Just go." Dean gave him a light shove towards the door. "Go."

Sam nodded and squeezed his hand, dropping the amulet in the center of his palm. "I love you, Dean."

Dean bit hard enough into his lip to draw blood. They'd never said the actual words before. They'd never really needed to. But Sammy was out the door, now; Sammy was leaving. Dean was leaving. It was his last chance to say it – properly say it, force the words out if he had to, he just had to say it.

He swiped his tongue across his bloody lower lip. "Sammy, I lo– "

The peacekeeper slammed the door shut in his face.

That was it. That was goodbye. No matter how he fiddled with the door handle, he couldn't fling it open. He couldn't even shout the words, knew Sammy would already have disappeared down the hall.

Dean slumped against the hard wood, his breath tearing the inside of his throat apart. His hand slid open to reveal the small, golden amulet, the one that Sammy had always tucked into his shirts like it was his precious treasure. And he'd given it to Dean, and now Sam would never get it back. He'd never get his stupid necklace or his stupid brother back.

Dean curled onto the floor and cried helplessly into his knees. Screw his fucking resolution. Screw everyone. Screw Heaven and their fucking messed up games. Screw sitting in this empty room waiting to die.

"It's not fair," he whispered to no one. "It's just not fucking fair."