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

-4-

Immediately following the conclusion of the reaping—which was mostly just Rowena expressing her excitement and then being shot down by the district's silence and unenthusiasm—Castiel and I are whisked away into the Justice Building.  Neither of us has a chance to say anything to one another before we're split up and shoved into separate rooms, the places we have an hour to say our farewells to our loved ones in.

The door slams shut behind me, and I'm left alone in blissful silence.  It's a rather fancy room, adorned with soft rugs and leather furniture and an ancient but beautiful chandelier.  It's certainly more luxurious than my house and probably any place in District 9.  There's a fuzzy blanket draped across one of the couches, too, and as I wait for that door to open again, I run my trembling fingers through it in a feeble attempt to calm myself down.

I know what I've gotten myself into, but that doesn't make it any easier to digest.  I'm absolutely terrified of what's to come.

Sam is the first to barge into the quiet room, shortly followed by my parents.  We're given a three minute warning, but I don't think anyone heard it.  Sam, his face stained with tears and his chest heaving with frantic breaths, launches himself into my arms and squeezes me so tightly I can hardly breathe myself.

I can't cry.  I just can't.  I have to be strong for him.  I have to be strong for the cameras that are bound to be swarming the train station in an hour.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I crouch down so I'm level with him, just like I always do at home.  I tell him to not take any tesserae.  It's not worth the risk.  I tell him to try working in the fields in a few years, but never stop using Annie and Clementine's milk to make extra money.  He's good with animals.  Maybe he can make his living doing something like that.

But I don't think he's listening to me.  He hasn't stopped crying since he came into the room.  "You have to come back,"  he snivels in between distraught sobs.  "You have to win."

He has to know there's a slim chance of that happening.  All of the tributes are going to be boys.  Boys who are a lot bigger and stronger than I am.  Boys from wealthier districts who have been training their entire lives to participate in the Games.  Boys who can throw a spear straight through your heart without even blinking or breaking a sweat.  I've seen that happen.  I'm not flimsy or weak in the slightest, but I know I won't even be able to compete with the rest of them.  I'll just be one of their first targets, a small farm boy from District 9 who's never been in a fight in his life.

"You're really strong,"  my little brother goes on, tears spilling from his puffy eyes.

There's nothing I can do but indulge his hopes.  I can't bear to see him cry any more.  "Yes, I am,"  I say with the most encouraging smile I can put on.  Every word hurts more than the last.  "I bet I'll be the strongest one there."

He hugs me again, his arms wrapped around my neck, and I hold him close, relishing every single moment.  I try not to think about how it could be the last time I see him.

"Please just try to win, Dean."

Even though I doubt my chances, I don't want to dampen Sam's spirits any more than they already are.  I promise him I will, and I intend to try as hard as I possibly can.  For him.

My mother is already crying long before I reach out and pull her into my arms.  It takes all of my willpower to suppress my own tears as she trembles in my embrace, squeezes the life out of me, leans back to plant a kiss on my cheek.  She holds my face, her touch soft and delicate and comforting, and presses her forehead against mine.  She tells me she loves me, and I tell her I love her, too.