The first thing Dean did when the countdown ran out was grab a backpack and the set of throwing knives resting near the edge of the Cornucopia. He didn’t spare a thought for the kid who got in his way - couldn’t have been older than thirteen, damn it all. A kid who didn’t have an older brother to watch out for him.
Dean wasn’t heartless. Stopping to dwell on it, though, would see him killed too and that wasn’t going to happen. If he was dead, then Sam was just as good as. Dean was the one who looked after him, raised him, kept him safe and fed.
Dean could hear the fighting behind him as he ran for the woods. He wondered how many would be dead by that night’s tally. Two? Twenty? The more dead, the sooner the Games would be over.
John Winchester was a force before he died and in her prime, before starvation took her like it did most in District 12, Mary Campbell had no equal. He was their son. He had their stubborn drive and the same ruthless will to fight and protect his family.
Dean would do as he always did; push on. Survive.
He found himself a nook between a rock and a hill, out of the way and good for cover. As he gathered moss and twigs to disguised his shelter, Dean turned his eyes, knowing the cameras would be on him by now as everything settled for the first night in the arena.
His head held high and putting forth as much confidence as he could muster, he spoke out without thought to Sponsors or gamblers or the Capitol. Dean’s only concern was for the one person in this whole forsaken world who needed him to believe.
“I’m coming home, Sammy.”
