Promises of a Sacrificial Lamb |Destiel x The Hunger Games|

-2-

Carrying a steaming pot of stew and a small bag full of bread and a can of beans all the way from the market back to my home is a task in itself.  I managed to cool off while I was trading in my ticket, but by the time I approach the back door, I'm sweating buckets again.  I hope we have enough spare water for me to rinse off with.  I feel disgusting.

Annie and Clementine, our two beautiful black and white cows that my father bought when he was still in charge of the granary, raise their heads as I draw near.  They don't have the largest or most luxurious pen, but we gave them as much room as they needed.  Besides, they're not very fussy, and they absolutely adore Sam.  Maybe he can make his living off milking cows instead of liquefying under the sun in the wheat fields.  He already sells some of their milk in the market, but we do end up keeping most of it for ourselves.  We need it right now.

"Hey, Annie,"  I greet as the smaller of the two cows ambles over to the edge of the pen.  She sticks her nose over the fence to sniff at the steaming pot, but I hold it away from her.  "No lamb stew for you, girl.  I don't think you'd like the taste of it."

As if she understood my words, Annie snorts and steps back further into the pen, joining Clementine at the trough that needs to be refilled.  Maybe Sam will want to do that job today.

I barely have a chance to open the door and drop off the food in the dim kitchen before I hear a frantic pitter pattering of footsteps across the creaky old floors.  I turn around just in time for my little brother's tiny arms to fling themselves around my stomach.

"Dean!  You're back!"  Sam exclaims, his voice muffled by my damp shirt.  He doesn't seem to mind, though.

I can't help but laugh at his deathlike grip.  He's strong when he wants to be.  "I am,"  I say with a smile as I tousle his disheveled hair, "and I brought back some goodies.  Wanna see?"

The eagerness that shines in his wide eyes is brighter than the scorching sun outside, and it only increases when he sees the pot of lamb stew.  It's been a while since we've had hot, fresh stew; the smell of it alone is enough to make my mouth water.

I watch carefully as he offers to cut up the loaves of bread and get them ready for supper.  He doesn't seem too distraught about tomorrow, at least not that I can tell on the outside.  He's smiling, laughing, asking me how I managed to get so much extra food, acting like tomorrow isn't even going affect us at all.  Either he's doing an excellent job of hiding it, or he genuinely isn't afraid of the possibility of something going horribly wrong at the reaping.

Whatever the case, I can't complain.  I was concerned he was going to be worried sick, which he may still be, but I'll take what I can get right now.  If we can eat a peaceful supper without fretting too much about tomorrow's events, I'll be happy enough.

My mother wanders into the kitchen next, closely followed by my father whose cane threatens to put a hole in the floorboards with every heavy, lopsided step he takes.  They seem pleased with what I've brought home and thank me for my efforts, but I know the looks on their faces.  They're just as afraid and paranoid as I am.

I can't even imagine what it must be like to have children in this world, where every year for seven years they're practically waiting in line like livestock to a slaughterhouse.  Safe most years, but there's always a chance for their name to get called, and then it's over, just like that.  How do my parents and all the other parents across Panem do it?  I don't understand.

"Dean,"  my mother says.  The rigid tone in her voice and the expression on her face is as clear as day, and it's with an aching chest that I realize my father is mirroring her guise.  I know what that means.