Dean had stopped thinking, and he knew how destructive that could be in the Games. While the tiniest bit of rational thought screamed from his faraway subconscious that he needed to stop and think, he suppressed it. Instead, he listened to the primal, physical, natural desire that was fresh in his mind and on his hands: bloodlust. Dean was no longer preoccupied by the guilt that had previously plagued him, for this time he had killed someone who deserved to die.

And he wanted to do it again.

His headlamp bobbed up and down as he, blinded by rage, sprinted after Michael. The bulkier tribute was slower than usual due to his injury, so it didn't take much running for Dean to be on his tail.

Then he was directly behind him.

He was tackling him to the ground.

Dean's cracked, dry hands ached as they drove repeatedly into Michael's body. Meeting flesh, then blood, then bone, Dean's hands acted without forethought. The sound of his fists against the bloody, beaten boy resonated throughout the cave. Occasionally mixed in, Michael would scream or utter some pathetic plea, but Dean couldn't hear him.

He was gone.

There was nothing but silence.

Realizing what he had done, Dean sprang away from the body. A panic flooded throughout his veins as he backed down the cavern. Stopping only for a second, Dean snatched one of the masks Michael had dropped as he fled.

Before Dean's full conscience could fully recognize what he had just done, an ear-shattering alarm rang and the walls began to fall around him. Unsure whether or not he was hallucinating, Dean fell to his knees.

"Attention tributes!" a voice protruded from the alarm, and in a second Dean could tell it was Carver's. A bit of his mind began to believe that it wasn't a hallucination.

"The chemical levels in the arena are off the charts and rising! Only a handful of tributes have managed to acquire masks, and in the coming minutes you will need them! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Dean looked down at his hands, his lamp beginning to slide down his dampened forehead. Clasped in his white-knuckled fists were two masks, one for him and one for Castiel. Memories of Castiel flooded back as Dean began to really come down from his adrenaline high.

Castiel needed his help.

In seconds, Dean was back by Castiel's side. The boy was still crumpled on the ground, but his eyes were open and blinking rapidly.

"Dean. Dean there was a voice and it came out of nowhere," Castiel seemed shocked and dumbfounded.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean responded, smirking slightly. "Take this and put it on."

Handing Castiel the mask, Dean couldn't help but feel a bit better. He and Castiel had basically made the final three. Only one other mask had managed to escape the former Careers, so the other tributes would soon be dead. Even though he knew there'd have to be a victor, the thought made Dean happy.

Castiel could win this.

"Dean," Castiel muttered hesitantly, "I don't think this is how this mask is supposed to function."

Cutting his elation short, Castiel extended the arm that held his mask. At first, nothing seemed wrong with the black plastic contraption, but then he saw it. Parts of the filter had been hacked and sliced so that it just barely clung to the central mask. The mask was completely useless.

Quickly, Dean looked down at his own mask. Where Castiel's was completely shredded, his was smooth and unmarred.

Michael kill count was about to rise once more.

.o0o.

Pulling her tightly curled blonde hair up in a bun, Poplar watched the four other tributes fight.

As a moderately skilled tribute of average age from a generally unsuccessful district, Poplar knew the other tributes weren't worrying about her. Sure, she had made it this far, but she was completely aware that the others didn't believe it was because of her ability.

She knew it was because of her stealth.

Poplar made a living as a petty thief. For as long as she could remember, she had stolen anything she wanted. Only once had she been caught, but with her soft, feminine face and ability to cry on command, she had never suffered any punishment.

Now, in the middle of a panic and fear driven scenario, she would have to make her sneakiest theft yet.

Her eyes clung to the masks woven around Michael's arms. If she could grab one without being caught, she may be able to survive another day, but if she could not, then she would face the ultimate punishment for failure.

Death.

Mere seconds after it seemed like Michael was going to kill the smaller boy, the career Dean turned on him. Michael quickly fled, and with him went the masks.

Poplar's heart lept.

Her eyes, however, stayed focused. She watched as Michael pulled out a particularly large serrated knife and swung it at the masks. Through most of them, the knife instantly sliced the mask's cheap plastic to pieces. On one of them, though, it sliced through the strap.

Poplar nearly gasped as the mask clattered to the floor, but her adrenaline reached its all-time high as Dean simply ran past it.

He was fueled by rage, but Popular knew she was better than that. She was the one that would steal a mask without confrontation.

In fact, this theft would be her easiest yet, for no one would be there to defend or protect it. Snatching the mask off of the ground, Poplar could hear the cheerful cries of the Capitol citizens.

.o0o.

Sam felt groggy as he backed away from the corpse. In his hands, he held the mask. While this mask would insure his survival, no part of him wanted it. Unlike when he had killed Angus, he felt true guilt now. Yardley hadn't attacked him or threatened him or fallen on his weapon. Instead, his hands had moved to kill Yardley.

His mind and his hands were the culprit.

Somewhere deep in his mind, Sam knew that Yardley had to die. All but one of them was going to die, it was unchangeable fact. And yet right now, Sam felt real, overwhelming guilt.

Before Sam could suffer a truly traumatizing breakdown, he heard it. Like the sound of a fire extinguisher, an audible substance was suddenly blasting into the tight cavern. In an instant, Sam could feel a sickeningly cold substance's slimy film gather around his ankles.

His hands still shaking, Sam fumbled to get the mask secured on his face. Within seconds, the gaseous substance was gathering around his face. Breathing deeply, Sam reminded himself that he could breathe. For a moment, it was a relief.

After that moment passed, he allowed himself to cry.

.o0o.

"Here, take mine," Dean said without hesitation, shoving the functional mask into Castiel's hands. This was the best possible path; he could die without having to force Castiel to physically take his life.

"Dean, that is absurd," Castiel's gruff voice was even lower, his throat still swelling from Michael's grip. "If I were to win the Hunger Games, it'd be a statistical anomaly."

"Take it!" Dean was losing his patience. "I remember you talking about your sister, and I remember how you looked at Claire. You're a good person, a good person needs to win."

Castiel looked down at the gravel. Dean couldn't tell what was going on behind his huge blue eyes, but he was instantly saddened by it.

"Dean, looking at this logically you cannot possibly conclude that I will make it out of here alive. I am not going to be able to kill anyone," Castiel paused for a second, recognizing Dean's growing frown but not understanding it's significance.

"I know you can. Winning this requires it, and that doesn't make you a bad person. Win this, Dean, and show that to your district. Show them a victor can be good."

And then, as Castiel finished speaking, a gaseous fog as thick and grey as a stormcloud surged into the space.

"It's your choice, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, maintaining his heart wrenching stare.

Dean took back the mask, never breaking eye contact. Silently, he slipped it onto his face and brought his hands to encase the younger tribute's.

"I'll choose right, Cas," he said, struggling to maintain his composure. "I'll choose right."

Like a million dark graveyard flowers, the thick gas blanketed the boy. As Dean felt his hand spasm and still, he didn't let go.

Dean would never truly let go of the boy from District 5.

.o0o.

Somewhere down the path, Michael woke to the sharp pangs of pain as they crept through his shattered nose and into his unsuspecting lungs. Instantaneously, his hand flung to his arm. Closest to his body remained the one mask he had intentionally spared. He slid it effortlessly up onto his beaten face and laughed a bloody laugh.

The others probably thought him dead, but a career like him would never die like that.

Forget career, Michael thought. I am the victor.

In the distance, a young girl's scream shattered the calming ooze of the poisonous fog.

Michael was prepared for the climax that was about to come.