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

-2-

They want to talk.  Alone.

I hope Sam can't hear the feverish pounding of my heart as I crouch down so I'm level with him.  "Hey, why don't you go feed Annie and Clementine?"  I really hope he can't see past my forced smile.  "I can take care of the rest of the food."

Much to my relief, Sam agrees with a chirp to his voice and another gleeful grin.  I give him a pat on the shoulder before he scampers off toward the back door and disappears outside.

With him out of the room, the air is so much more suffocating.  The full weight of the situation collapses down on me like a burning building.  I struggle to take in full breaths, fight to keep my hands steady as I rifle around in our dusty cabinets to look for bowls.  I'm well aware of my parents' eyes on the back of my head, but I can't bring myself to look at them.  I might lose what little composure I have left.

"Dean,"  my mother says again, more gently this time.  "Are you okay?"

I deliberately clatter the bowls together to mask my trembling inhale.  When I turn back around, I see nothing but their worried faces.  Worried about me and my crumbling poise.

"Fine,"  I manage to say.  All three of us know it's a lie.  "How's Sam?"

"He cried when you left this morning,"  my father says, "but he calmed down when he knew it was about time for you to come home."

Clattering the bowls together again would be too obvious.  I can't hide my distressed breaths this time.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"  my mother asks as I set the four bowls on the table, almost laughing at her proposal.

"What's there to talk about?"  I doubt they're falling for my poor attempt at a nonchalant reaction, but it's worth a shot.  "There's nothing we can do about it."

Both of them fall silent then, and the only sound we're left with is the monotonous humming of the lightbulb that hangs above the table.  It's driving me insane.  I want to scream.  I want to scream at the top of my lungs, "No, I'm not okay!  I'm terrified!  My life is in the hands of whoever draws the pieces of paper out of those glass balls!  Sam's life is in their hands, too!  He's only twelve, for God's sake!  And the worst part is that we can't do anything to stop it!  All because the sick and twisted people in the Capitol equate children murdering each other with entertainment!"

But I say nothing, because I know if I open my mouth, the tears I've been holding back since I returned home will shortly follow.

Without another word, my mother glides across the kitchen and tenderly wraps her arms around me, holding me close against her warm body.  I didn't realize how tense I'd been until I relax into her comforting embrace, listening to her heart beating against my ear and feeling her fingers massaging the stressed muscles between my shoulder blades.  Here, I feel safe, like I'm a little kid again constantly hounding her for love and attention.  I feel like her arms block out the dangers of the world.  I feel like nothing can get me when she's holding me tightly.

"Everything's gonna be okay, baby,"  she soothes, cradling my head and gently stroking my matted hair.  "Everything's gonna be okay."

I don't bother to stop the first tear that rolls down my cheek.

I'm not sure how long I stand there, melted into my mother's arms, noiselessly crying into her shirt, before my father hobbles over and clasps my shoulder.  His grip is strong, like an old harvester's, and he doesn't say a word, but his presence is consoling.  It only makes the tears flow out faster.

Who knows what could happen out there tomorrow?

When both of them finally release me, my face is flushed and stained with tears.  I can't stop trembling.  My stomach churns and my head spins just thinking about it all.  Not even the warmth and softness of my mother's hands as she reaches up to wipe the tears from my skin can ease my distress now.