Author's Note: So, this took me way too long to write. It's been almost a month since my last update. You would think that, after such a long time, I would have a really long chapter for you guys. You would be wrong.

Basically, the past month has been really rough for a variety of reasons, and I haven't had the time, energy, or motivation to write. Or do anything else, actually. But all of that is getting a lot better now, and I plan to keep up with the bi-weekly update schedule that I was initially intending on enforcing. Hopefully, there won't even be two weeks between updates. It all depends on how my studying goes. Med school is a bitch.

Anyway, please forgive me for the long wait and the comparative shortness of the chapter. I hope that you all enjoy it. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! It keeps me motivated. (Thanks again to Anna for her never-ceasing assistance. You're brilliant, darling.)

—

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.

—

Unsurprisingly, the food doesn't disappoint. Jo is eating slowly, either savoring the food or making an effort to keep herself from getting sick later, but Dean can't possibly care less about stuff like that at this point. All that he knows is that there's actual food on the table in front of him. Food. The stuff that the mayor gets to eat. Probably way better than what the mayor gets to eat. And there's so much of it. Stew, beef steaks, salad, rolls, fruit, cheese, and—glory of glories—apple pie.

Dean's had pie exactly once in his life. It's a fuzzy memory, but it's one that he hangs on to as tightly as possible. About a week before his mom got sick, she brought an apple pie home from the baker's. She said that it was a special treat for her special boys—a congratulation from the baker on the new baby. It was too much, John said. Too generous. Didn't make sense. But Mary shushed him and met no resistance when she handed Dean a generous slice. Dean remembers exactly two details about that moment: the pie was so hot, so fresh, that it burned his fingers, and Mary's face was very pale.

Sometimes, he wonders what would've happened if they had discovered the illness sooner. Even just a few days sooner. It might've made a difference. The apothecaries would disagree, but Dean can't help but hold on to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they could have saved her. If he had spoken up. If he had said something. Daddy, something's wrong with mommy.

But he didn't. He didn't, mommy died, daddy drank, and Sammy grew up without either of them. And without pie.

Dean stuffs another forkful in his mouth and lets his taste buds drown out his thoughts.

"You might want to slow down, there, son."

"Or at least breathe between bites," Jo adds. "You're going to suffocate before we get to the Capitol."

"Ha, ha, very funny." If a piece of crust lodges itself in Dean's throat, no one's the wiser. A good throat-clearing is all that it takes to get his windpipe back to working order. "You've barely eaten anything. Watching your figure?"

Jo kicks him in the shin and Dean grunts. If she keeps kicking like that, she'll make it through the arena, no problem. He's pretty sure that he hears Bobby whisper "idjits" under his breath, and he actually feels his heart swell a bit at that. It's comforting to know that, even like this, even knowing that their time is limited, they can still maintain a certain level of normalcy. Could be denial, but Dean likes to think that it's because they have a bond—one that can't be broken by shitty circumstances.

"Well." Dean jumps a little, surprised because he almost forgot that Crowley has been sitting at the foot of the table the whole time. The weird little man seems to be able to blend into the background when he wants to. It's unsettling. "Since no one felt the need to wash up before supper, might I suggest that you do so before bed? Washing...dirt from the sheets is a very nasty business."

"Then it must take ages to mop up your slime, huh?"

The response was automatic. Dean hardly takes in what came out of his mouth until a few seconds after the words have been lingering in the air. Jo looks like she's doing everything that she can to keep from bursting into laughter, while Bobby looks equal parts shocked and proud. Crowley looks almost pleased, which takes all of the air out of Dean's sails.

"I do believe we've got ourselves a fighter this year, Singer."

"Two of 'em." There's only pride in Bobby's eyes now. "We've got two of 'em."

As much as Dean wants to spite Crowley—he's never wanted to spite anyone more—he can't resist the pull of the shower. He's never taken a shower before; the second that the hot water hits his shoulders, he realizes how much he's been missing. He can feel the tension draining out of his too-taut muscles and he wishes that he could live in there. Dirt and remnants of coal dust circle the drain, blackening the water. That morning, he washed himself as thoroughly as he could, but armed only with a dirty sponge and a bucket of cold water, there was only so much that he could do. This is much better. Much better.

After finally dragging himself away from the steamy comfort, Dean rummages through the chest of drawers in his room, not surprised to find a wide variety of clothing for both day and night. He feels a sudden rush of anger, because this is how they live in the Capitol—apple pie, showers, more clothes than they can possibly wear. While they stuff themselves like pigs and stay warm and comfortable inside their climate-controlled houses, the people in District 12—and, likely, most of the other districts—starve and freeze and die. Every day.

It does occur to him to protest, to stick with his own clothes, but he remembers that he has to play along. The game's on their terms, not his. If he wants to make it even a few days, he's got to be a good sport. For Sam. And he can do anything for Sam.

So he pulls on a pair of the least silky night pants that he can find and slips a T-shirt that smells distinctly of soap over his head. He's tired—exhausted, actually—but he's too jittery to sleep. It's ridiculous to think that, only this morning, he was home with Sam, eating a special reaping day breakfast. He'd give up all of the food and showers in the world to be back there right now. He'd give up anything.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and he opens it for a sniffling Jo. Her eyes are glassy and her voice is shaky. "Dean, I... Can I..."

"Yeah. Yeah, Jo."

Jo sits at the foot of his bed, knees pulled up to her chest, and Dean sits down next to her. Her hair is wet, plastered to the back of her neck and soaking through her grey nightshirt. As much as Dean enjoyed his shower, he knows that it must've been even nicer for her to finally get all of that hair clean.

"Dean, can you promise me something?"

Dean's all out of promises, but Jo doesn't need to know that. She looks so small like that, curled up into a ball, soggy and shivering. She's only thirteen—same age as Sam. Dean forgets that sometimes. She's always been so outspoken. Stubborn, lively. Strong. Way too strong for her age. But that happens a lot in the Seam. Kids grow up too fast. Dean has never wanted that for Sam, but he can't do anything to stop it anymore. Sam's got to take care of himself now.

"'Course I can."

"If you can win...do it."

What she's asking couldn't be more obvious. Dean's made a lot of promises that he probably won't be able to keep, but this... This is something that he can't promise—not even without the intention to keep it. Not even to make her feel better. Because she's telling him that, if it comes down to the two of them, she wants him to win, and that's something that he can't hear.

"Sorry, kiddo. No can do."

Jo looks irritated, but under that irritation is a desperation that's impossible to miss. "Why not?"

For a moment, Dean wonders if he should tell Jo the truth. Lying's gotten so easy—almost natural. But this is Jo and there isn't much of a reason to keep anything from her. Or maybe that's the exhaustion talking. "Because I already made a promise to your mom that I'm going to look out for you, and I don't like breaking my word."

"My mom..." Jo swallows, eyes impossibly wide. "She... She went to see you? She made you promise that?"

"Hey, she didn't make me promise anything." It's true; nobody makes Dean do anything. Well, almost nobody. Someone's sure as hell going to shove him in that arena and make him fight for his life, but that's still on his terms, right? He made the choice to volunteer. He'll make choices about who and when to kill. He can even choose to die if he wants to. And he has the right to decide that he will never, ever hurt Jo. "She just asked me to look out for you. That's what moms do."

Jo shakes her head, staring down at the floor as she hugs her knees even more tightly. "She shouldn't have done that. You've got enough to worry about."

"Like you don't? Last I checked, we were in the same boat."

"You know that's not true. You..." Jo trails off, brow furrowed, and Dean knows that she's trying to decide if she should continue or keep her mouth shut. She's chewing at her bottom lip so furiously that it's only a matter of time before she starts bleeding, and Dean doesn't need her bleeding all over the sheets. Not that he wouldn't like to stick it to the pricks who think that sleeping on silk is functional; it's just that he's honestly looking forward to having a clean bed for once, regardless of the reason why he has the option, in the first place. Can't blame a kid from the Seam for wanting a little comfort, right

He rests a hand on her shoulder—lightly, barely touching, but enough to remind her that he's there with her, and if she can't talk to him, who can she talk to? And when she finally lifts her head, she looks at him like she's apologizing. "You have Sam."

"Sam's gonna be okay." Dean's saying that more for himself than for Jo. He puts conviction behind his words because he has to be right. Sam's gonna be okay because Sam has to be okay. "And you have your mom. So we're even."

Maybe they're not exactly even, but they're close enough. Ellen has nothing aside from her daughter, and that has to be clawing at the back of Jo's mind. They've both got people who need them. They're both under pressure. They're both falling apart, but Jo's doing so more visibly, and Dean figures that he can be strong enough for the both of them.

When Jo opens her mouth to talk again, Dean decides that he doesn't want to give her the chance, so he leans forward, far into her personal space, nose nearly bumping her cheek. Her breath hitches, and that almost—almost—makes him feel guilty about poking her sharply in the side, right in the spot that he knows is particularly sensitive. He made that discovery when she was seven and had a penchant for stepping on his toes to get his attention. One day, he grabbed her by the shoulders and poked her repeatedly; she squealed and thrashed until he hit that one spot, and then there was murder in her tiny little eyes. Sort of like the murder there now, but now is a lot more hilarious, for some reason.

Jo reels back and punches Dean square in the shoulder, and Dean would be surprised by how well she can punch if he didn't already know that she's deceptively strong. "Fuck you."

"That's rude."

"Fuck you kindly." Jo's sugar-sweet smile sells it.

Dean can't help but grin as he nudges her shoulder with his elbow. "With that attitude, you won't have to worry about a thing." He knows that, if he lets too much time pass before saying something else, Jo's going to slip right back into overthinking things, so he grabs the remote for the flatscreen television and hits the power button. A sharp glow fills the room as the machine whirs to life. "Why don't we check out the competition?"

It's not the best idea that he's ever had. Far from it. But he has to do something, and there's not much else to do. Besides, if he can get Jo's attention off of him and onto other people, she'll be more focused, and that's what they both need. Their personal troubles can wait. Right now, they need to prepare themselves for the unthinkable. Even if they don't make it to the end, Dean'll be damned if they go out first. Jo might not want to strategize; Dean doesn't really want to, either, but they don't have much of a choice.

So they sit—Dean scooting back against the headboard and Jo still sticking to her corner of the bed—and watch the recordings of the other districts' reapings. Dean keeps an eye out for anything that might be revealing or out of the ordinary, but everything seems pretty much the same as every other year. There are the usual suspects from Districts 1 and 2. Shiny, a little plump, and all smiles from District 1—although the male tribute is a little shorter than usual and has a goofy grin that would make him seem pretty harmless if he wasn't a career. The tributes from District 2 look just as vicious as ever; they're lean and pointy-faced and look like it would be their absolute pleasure to rip out someone's guts with their bare hands.

District 4's offered up a little kid—hell, he can't be older than twelve—and a blonde girl who couldn't look more terrified if she tried. There's a smoking hot redhead from District 10 paired up with a droopy-eyed, likely older guy with almost impossibly perfect posture. Dean wouldn't usually notice, but it seriously looks like the guy's got a board in his back. District 11's got an unusually shrewd-looking male tribute, who looks out of place standing next to his kind-faced, curly-haired, highly attractive fellow tribute. Dean doesn't even want to start thinking about what those beautiful women are going to look like in a few days' time. He doesn't want to start thinking about what he's going to look like in a few days' time.

When they finally begin drifting off, lulled by the glow of the screen and the murmuring drone of the looping footage, Dean lightly runs his fingers through Jo's hair. She's curled up next to his legs, almost like a cat—although her snoring is absolutely nothing like a cat. Who knew that such a loud, abrasive sound could come out of such a small slip of a thing?

Dean falls asleep thinking of cats and redheads and apple pie.

—

When he sits down at the table for breakfast, Dean can't hold back a groan. The food smells fantastic—probably even better than dinner last night—but he ate far too much far too quickly, and now his body is protesting. Violently. After years of barely eating anything, it makes sense that such rich food would settle like a freaking rock in his stomach. He barely managed to keep everything inside inside when he dragged himself to the shower and threw on some clean clothes. Now, though, with the scent of scrambled eggs and pastries directly attacking his insides, he's not so sure that he's going to win the war.

Jo doesn't even try to conceal her smirk and Dean would kick her under the table if he wasn't so adverse to kicking girls. Even though she didn't get much sleep last night, she looks refreshed and alert. And that's just annoying.

Now she's smearing some kind of jam on a piece of painfully aromatic toast, and she makes an appreciative sound as she sinks her teeth into it—smacking her lips like it's the most delicious thing that she's ever tasted in her life. It's probably not far from the truth, but she's doing it on purpose and Dean's starting to rethink his policy on striking women.

"Rough night?" Bobby's eating what looks like the best bacon in the world, but at least he's not flaunting it. Doesn't stop Dean's stomach from flip-flopping again, though.

"Yeah, well, unless I was hallucinating, there was something blonde and scrawny in my bed keeping me from getting a good night's sleep."

Bobby's eyebrows shoot up and Jo's mouth falls open. Dean might not be able to kick her in the shin, but he can at least catch her off-guard. It's good enough for the moment.

"I-it wasn't like that!" Jo sputters, red-faced. "It wasn't." She looks a little betrayed—just a little—but it's only Bobby, and there's no reason to keep anything from him. That doesn't stop her from glaring daggers through Dean's skull, but, hey, it was worth it.

In fact, he feels good enough to reach for a breakfast roll. If he eats slowly, he might be able to keep it down.

Bobby shakes his head. "I'm gettin' too old for this." But there's fondness in his tone, and if Dean's not mistaken, Bobby seems pleased by the fact that they haven't completely lost their spirit. It's a struggle, but, for the time being, they have each other, so why not joke around?

Dean pops a chunk of the roll into his mouth and chews lazily. "I hope you're not too old to give us some pointers. That's what you mentor guys do, right?"

"That's what we're supposed to do, yeah."

During the slightly uncomfortable silence that follows, Dean wonders of Bobby ever had any handups with giving advice to the previous tributes. The whole thing is more than a little surreal. They're sitting in a train that's shooting off like a bullet toward the Capitol, a place that they would never usually visit—a place that most people have only ever seen on television. They're cleaner than they've ever been in their lives, dressed in clothes that would cost more than they would make in a few months, eating food that would cost more than they would make in their lives. And they're eating so much of it that Dean finds himself disgusted—and not just because of his inability to digest all of it.

He has no illusions about what's going on. They're being fattened up for the slaughterhouse. The Capitol wants them to look fat and happy before sending them off to tear each other into fat, happy ribbons. Bobby can't be too enthusiastic about helping because he knows what that help means. He knows better than anyone.

And that's why they need him more than ever.

"Goes without sayin' that you don't wanna eat too much here. It's fine the first day or two, but you're not gonna be eatin' like this in the area. You might not be eatin' at all. Lucky for us, you're used to that."

Jo shoots Dean a smug look because she's just that kind of brat and Dean chooses to ignore it because he's obviously the bigger person. It's true, though. If anyone's used to going days without food, it's the two of them. Nobody from District 12 trains for the Games, and the lack of food turns into a lack of strength that puts them at an immediate disadvantage, but Dean views it as preconditioning. Might as well look on the bright side.

"And Dean." Bobby's looking stern now, and Dean knows that means nothing good. "No matter what happens, no matter what anybody says, if you've got nothin' nice to say, don't say anything at all. Do you understand?"

"Translation for the mentor-speak?"

"Don't be a smartass, smartass."

Dean grins and swallows the rest of the roll. "Yes, sir."

He knows what Bobby's trying to tell him. He has to be likable. He has to smile and wave for the cameras and bullshit his way through interviews. Otherwise, nobody's going to cheer for him. Dean's not stupid. He understands this crap. Jo does, too. The game started the moment they were reaped. What they do now is just as important to their survival as what they do in the arena—just less urgent. And with fewer knives.

"Well, well, well. Bony, bonier, and...drunkest." Crowley slips into an armchair near the table, propping his feet up on a coffee table. "Up bright and early, I see."

It's almost funny to watch Bobby and Jo's eyes narrow simultaneously. Crowley ignores them entirely and pours himself a glass of something amber-colored that likely has a staggeringly high alcohol content. Now that Dean thinks about it, it's rare to see Crowley without a glass of some kind of booze or another. He probably thinks that he's some kind of connoisseur or something, but Dean's positive that he's just a pompous ass.

"Looks like you're the only one drinking," Jo retorts. Someone with less balls—'cause, chick or not, Jo's got some serious balls—might shrink away from the stare that Crowley levels at her, but she stares right back, not giving an inch. She's her mother's daughter, that girl.

The natural resting state of Crowley's face must be smugness incarnate, because Dean can't remember seeing him looking unsettled or even displeased at any of the reapings or other televised events. But, for split second, there was a flicker of something that passed over his face. Jo must've ruffled his feathers a bit. The urge to pat her on the back and congratulate her suddenly overshadows his desire to take out her kneecaps.

After that split second, though, Crowley's back to his resting state. "I've got nothing to prove, princess. Unlike your boy over there. Not the best track-record, eh, Singer?"

"This ain't about track-records or proving some kind of point, Crowley."

"Of course it isn't. This time, it's personal—which makes it so much more interesting." Crowley's flippancy makes Dean bristle, but he shouldn't expect anything less from a Capitol douchebag. The Games are nothing more than sport to them. Entertainment. "So I figure I'll sit back and enjoy the show."

Bobby rolls his eyes and gives Dean the impression that this isn't an uncommon thing. It didn't really hit Dean before now that the two of them go through the same routine every year. Take the tributes to the Capitol, try to give the tributes advice, then watch the tributes die. Year after year after year. While it's worn on Bobby, it's probably bored Crowley to tears. Nearly, anyway. Dean finds it hard to believe that Crowley would ever cry. Does he even possess tear ducts like a normal human?

"Might as well get used to it," Bobby mutters. "He's a real ray of sunshine."

"And you're a bonafide saint, Singer."

Jo nearly hits the ceiling as everything goes dark. There are still a few dim lights shining in the car, so Dean can see Jo gripping the edge of the table so hard that her knuckles have to be turning white; he can also see Crowley's eyes glinting in the semi-dark, and it's not doing anything to make the guy seem more human. Dean figures that they've hit the mountain tunnels. Everyone knows that they're the only way into the Capitol, but knowing that didn't make the sudden day-to-night transition any less surprising.

"Almost there." Bobby squints at Jo, whose eyes are still darting around the car like she's expecting something to jump out of the shadows. "You okay, kid?"

"Y-yeah." Jo swallows hard and sinks a little lower in her chair. "Just. Don't like tunnels."

There's a sharp pain in Dean's chest at that. Jo's mentioned her hatred of tunnels once before. They remind her of mineshafts, and it's a pretty logical correlation. Losing his dad was hard, but Jo took her dad's death even harder. Bill was a good guy—a good husband and a good father. Dean remembers a time when John was like that, too, but it was so long ago. When the explosion happened, Dean already had been taking care of the family for years. Dean doesn't blame him. He doesn't. But he does wish that things could have been different.

She doesn't stop holding her breath until they finally pull out of the tunnel, and then her sigh of relief is audible. Dean blinks against the sunlight that floods back into the car; it takes a good minute or two before his eyes can focus on the scenery. The pull to the window is practically magnetic and Dean doesn't bother resisting it. Jo isn't far behind, and Bobby joins them, too, even though he's been here plenty of times already.

Sure, he's seen the Capitol on TV before, but that was nothing compared to seeing it in person. It's...kind of breathtaking, actually. Everything seems to sparkle and he's never seen so many bright colors in one place at one time. The pinks and blues and yellows are almost more blinding than the sunlight. Judging by the people that come into focus as they draw closer to the station, it's probably illegal in the Capitol to wear fewer than four different colors at any given time. Dean can't claim to be a fashion expert, but he's pretty certain that some shades of green and pink shouldn't go together—and also that nobody's skin should be dark blue. It's a freak show, but everyone's going to be staring at him and Jo like they're the freaks. With their blonde and brown hair and pale skin that shows too many bones, they're the odd ones out.

"Well." Bobby pats Dean on the shoulder and gives Jo an affectionate nudge. "We've reached 'civilization.' It's your show, now, kids."

People are pointing and staring now; Dean's sure that his smile shows more nervousness than it should. He grabs for Jo's hand, and she doesn't seem upset by it this time. In fact, she seems almost grateful. Together, they smile and wave at the strange people in the strange city who seem so happy to see them. It's stupid. A little cruel. The two of them will be treated like celebrities for a little while, and those people will view it as some kind of favor. One long last meal.

The train pulls into the station, crowd disappearing from sight, and Dean gives Jo's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. He turns, and Crowley is less than a foot away—far too close for comfort—with a toothy grin that might be agreeable on a friendlier face.

"Welcome to the Capitol, loves. Time to make you two presentable."