Chapter One: Homecoming

If I thought the train ride from District Twelve to the Capitol was the longest journey of my life, I was wrong. Returning home without my brother was so much worse.

I had never felt so alone in my entire life.

Sam had always been by my side; my shadow and companion.

I didn't know what to do without my little brother to take care of. He was the reason I got up in the morning. He was the reason for everything I did. He was my responsibility.

And now he was gone.

How was I supposed to face my Dad without my brother? How would I face the Harvelles, little Joanna Beth?

As the train raced along the tracks, closer and closer to District Twelve, I wanted nothing more than for it to crash so that I wouldn't have to look at the disappointment in the faces of those I loved because I was the one who made it back.

I know now I was being selfish, ridiculous, but I couldn't help but imagine that I was the one who was supposed to have died in the Arena, that, all along, whomever had put our names in for the Games, had meant Sam to be victorious.

Thankfully, after offering the tea, Bobby stayed out of my compartment. I didn't care where he, or Sugar was, as long as they stayed away.

W

Hours passed but I barely noticed. All I could think about what my baby brother, replaying the last few minutes of the Games in my head, desperately trying to figure out if there had been anything I could have done differently to save him. It was far too late for that, I knew, but I couldn't help it. I was certain that if I had just done something differently, Sam would be alive.

I jumped when the compartment door slid open and banged into its frame.

"Sorry," Bobby murmured quietly, "Didn't mean to startle ya."

I shrugged, turning my face away from him.

"We're almost to Twelve," he told me, "We'll arrive in about a half-hour."

"Right," I responded because it was expected.

The door to the compartment slid shut again.

I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against the cold glass window.

W

I must have fallen asleep- for how long, I don't know- but the sudden shriek of the locomotive's wheels as they grinded against the tracks as it slowed down, approaching the station in District Twelve, jarred me in more ways than just physically.

Was I ready to face what would greet me out on the platform? Absolutely not.

I stared out the window, my heart hammering in my chest, as the grimy platform slid slowly into view.

My mouth opened in surprise. I had expected a crowd of neighbours- miners and merchants and their families- forced onto the platform by Peacekeepers to pretend that my return was some glorious victory.

Instead, the only living creature on the platform was a fat, glossy black raven that paused in tearing apart a piece of garbage to stare at the approaching train with its eyes like liquid coal.

The door to my compartment opened yet again and Bobby Singer was standing there.

"You ready?" he asked.

"No," I told him truthfully but stood anyway, suddenly not wanting to stay on the train any longer than I had to.

Bobby stepped back as I approached the doorway and allowed me to lead him towards the front of the train.

I kept my gaze purposefully straight ahead, not looking out any of the windows in the compartments we passed. Once we had reached the front of the train, I stopped. My hands were clammy with sweat and I was feeling slightly lightheaded.

"Open the door," Bobby whispered in my ear, still standing behind me.

I quickly blotted my palms on my pants and reached out, gripping the cool metal handle and shoved open the door. The platform was just as empty as before. The raven, startled, took flight, let out one rusty croak as it rose into the grey sky.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of my home District- soot and coal dust, a faint whiff of garbage coming from the Heap- and climbed down the three metal steps attached to the side of the train, just beneath the door, and onto the concrete platform.

"What do you say we go home?" Bobby stepped up beside me and placed his warm, calloused hand on my shoulder.

"But don't you-" I began, forgetting that now, as a victor of the Hunger Games, I would no longer live in the little make-shift house Dad, Sam and I had called home since the fire that tore through the Seam twelve years ago.

I would now be allowed to live in the Victors' Village with my family- which now included only my father- for the rest of my life.

A lump in my throat suddenly prevented me from speaking so I simply nodded. I followed Bobby as we walked silently away from the idling train and putting the Capitol out of my mind, at least for the time being.

W

A plain cinderblock wall about eight feet tall surrounded the Victors' Village, more so to keep people out than to keep them in. I guess the first President was concerned those who lived in the Seam would see the fancy houses of the Victors' Village and try to live in them.

There was an opening in the wall, a wrought-iron gate flung wide to admit entrance into the exclusive neighbourhood.

Bobby and I stepped through the gate and I stared at the mansions- twelve in total; six on either side of the cracked, potholed road- looming over us. They all looked fairly similar; they were large and grandiose, made of white marble, real glass windowpanes, and copper shingles on the roofs.

"Which one is yours?" I asked Bobby, trying to see if I could tell which house looked the most lived in.

"Why don't we go see yours?" my Mentor asked and I followed him wordlessly, in a state of shock.

Somehow Bobby must have been told which mansion was mine, as he moved purposefully down the road and into the yard of a mansion that had a metal number 5 on the door.

Bobby stopped at the bottom of the steps leading up to the mansion and motioned for me to go first. I did, feeling as though I was in some kind of a dream. I imagined that soon I would wake up in my own bed, the mattress lumpy and the blanket scratchy, the familiar coziness of our little shack around me.

I raised a hand to knock on the door.

"Go on in," Bobby called, "It's your house."

I hesitated, then lowered my hand to the doorknob instead. The handle turned easily beneath my sweaty palm and the door opened smoothly, silently.

The first thing I saw was a long, narrow foyer, the walls an off-white colour, the floors paneled in long strips of pine. Beside the door was a pair of scuffed, muddy boots I didn't immediately recognize.

Bobby stepped inside right after me and closed the door. I gaped. The house appeared to be illuminated by wall sconces but instead of open flames, light bulbs- something I had only ever seen in the Capitol- cast a steady, yellow glow.

"Hello?" I called out. Bobby game me a gentle shove and I took a couple of steps forward.

"Is anyone here?" I called again, slightly louder this time.

I felt oddly, like I was intruding. I didn't want to go further into the house.

I heard thudding footsteps sound from deeper inside the mansion, coming closer and closer. I grew tense, my brain telling me to run, and I half-turned towards Bobby.

"Dean!"

That voice; that gruff, sometimes stern but always loving, voice I had known since I was a baby.

I turned away from Bobby and stared at my father.

He didn't smile when he saw me. He simply stared, wide-eyed, as though he was the one in a dream.

"Dean," he spoke again, softly, this time.

"Dad," I replied and felt the lump grow in my throat again, tears sting my eyes.

Suddenly I was running, not away from my father but towards him. I grabbed the front of his shirt and buried my face against the soft fabric. I breathed in his scent; sweat and coal dust and felt the tears escape my eyes and leak down my cheeks. But I didn't care; I pressed my face into my father's chest and cried.

I felt strong arms wrap around my shoulders and squeeze, warm drops of water pattered onto my hair. My Dad too, was crying.

We stood like that for a long time, somehow sorrowful and cheerful at the same time.

Then, Dad pulled me back, held me at arm's length.

"You've changed," he told me after peering at me for a long moment, "I don't know how, but you have."

I didn't say anything. I was taking in the sight of my father. He had changed as well. He looked thinner, almost gaunt, and I was sure his hair had more grey in it now than it had before Sam and I had been named Tributes. How long ago had that been? I didn't even know how much time had passed since the Reaping.

"Are you hungry?" Dad asked, finally releasing me though reluctantly.

I had been so nervous about coming home that I hadn't noticed how hungry I was; suddenly I was ravenous.

"Yes," I told my Dad and he smiled slightly.

"You can come too," Dad called behind me, to Bobby, "Ellen's made enough to feed and army of Peacekeepers."

"Ellen's here?" I asked, surprised.

Dad nodded.

"Who else?"

"William and Joanna Beth," he told me.

I looked at him questioningly.

"They wanted to be here when you came home."

I nodded and followed my Dad down the foyer and directly into the large, warm kitchen.

"DEAN!" a girl screamed my name and suddenly I was holding Joanna Beth as she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me with all her little girl strength.

I stared past the towheaded child at the kitchen. The floors were made of smooth, interlocking black stone and the walls were the same off-white as the walls of the foyer. There was a large wooden table in the center of the room and a huge hearth with a raging fire at the far end of the rectangular room. The longer sides of the room had cupboards and counters for preparing and storing food and cooking instruments. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a large pantry.

Ellen was hovering over a cast-iron pot hanging above the flames, stirring something inside it. William was sitting at the table, a cup in one hand.

Once Joanna Beth had released me and returned to the hearth, taking the spoon from Ellen, the girl's mother approached me with tears in her eyes.

"It's so good to see you again," she hugged me and kissed my cheek tenderly.

She said nothing about Sam, none of them did. I sat down at the table across from my father and accepted a cup of white liquor.

I had never had alcohol before and was surprised my father was allowing me to have it but when I questioned him he looked me right in the eye and told me I was man enough to drink with him and William.

I brought the cup to my lips and took a sip. The smell of it was bitter and the taste was sharp, almost acidic. It burned against my tongue but I swallowed, and it seemed to burn down my throat too. I didn't drink anymore.

Soon dinner was ready; a bland soup made of pheasant, greens and seasoned with salt and hard, slightly stale rolls. After all the rich and fatty foods I had eaten in the Capitol, I appreciate the simple fare of District Twelve. This was the food I had grown up with, the food I ate when I was happy or sad, healthy or sick and I couldn't get enough. I was hesitant at first to ask for more, but when Ellen saw me eyeing the pot, she herself took my bowl and filled it again. Slightly embarrassed, I muttered my thanks before eating my second bowl of soup with the same gusto as the first.

After dinner, the Harvelles left, heading back to Seam and their own tiny house; which left only Bobby and my Dad and me.

I excused myself from the table, having the feeling that the two men would want to talk alone- and I didn't feel much like contributing to the conversation anyway- and so I explored the mansion.

There were four bedrooms our new house- each one large than our old shack- an office, a study, a living room with a fireplace almost as big as the one in the kitchen, and a basement I guessed was for storing extra items not being used by whomever lived there before us.

After I had explored and examined all the rooms save the basement, I returned to the kitchen to find my Dad sitting alone.

"Where's Bobby?" I asked.

"He went home," Dad said and drank deeply from his cup.

"Come," he told me as he sat the cup down on the table a little harder than he had intended, liquor sloshing over the rim, "Sit."

I sat across from my Dad. I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and I wondered just how much alcohol he had drank this evening.

"I'm so glad you're back," Dad told me, "So glad."

I offered up a small smile. I was feeling slightly uneasy about this. Although my father did have a temper, he was never violent with me or Sam or our mother. He might shout and stomp around in his big bulky boots, he may throw things around the room or even punch a wall but he would never hit one of us. But that had been before the Hunger Games had taken Sam away.

"Did he…" Dad began but then stopped, his face suddenly screwing up as though he were trying not to cry, "Did he suffer?"

I knew exactly what Dad was talking about and, although I hated myself for it, I lied.

"No," I assured him, "He didn't suffer."

Dad nodded and finished the last of his drink and stood.

"I'm sure you're tired," he said.

Not really but I told him I was.

"Why don't we both call it a night?" Dad suggested and I stood, following him towards the bedrooms.

"I brought our things from our house," Dad explained, "I put yours and… and your brother's in one room."

"Okay," I told him. I had seen our meager belongings sitting side-by-side on one of the beds when I had explored the bedrooms.

"I wasn't sure which…" Dad began but shook his head, "Never mind."

I said nothing but took my leave and went to the bedroom where my Dad had left my belongings. There was a switch on the wall beside the doorway and when I flicked it upwards the sconces on the walls lit up. I closed the door behind me and walked over to the bed.

Sitting down, I picked up the burlap bag that held all of Sam's worldly possessions: a large chunk of quartz rock, a couple pennies turned green with oxidization, a toy bear that was missing its buttons eyes and was stuffed with straw, and of course, his clothes.

I picked up the bear. Dad had found it years ago in the Heap- tossed aside by a merchant family perhaps- and had brought it home to Sam when he was still toddling around. The toy had been more or less forgotten in recent years, crammed into the crevice between Sam's bed and the wall, but when he had been small it had been his constant companion.

Holding the soft, worn toy in my hands, I couldn't help but think about Sam, especially in his final moments. I pressed the bear's soft belly to my face and took a deep breath. It still smelt like Sam, even after so long. I lowered the toy and lay down on my side on the bed, not bothering to move the burlap bags that held my things and my late brother's. I barely noticed how soft the mattress was, how crisp the sheets were and closed my eyes, hugging the bear to my chest and fell into an exhausted slumber.

Author's Note:

Fanfic title comes from a song by Kansas.

Chapter title comes from a Josh Ritter song of the same name.

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