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

-5-

An uneasy silence fills the air as our surly mentor Bobby Singer picks out his lunch and Rowena merely watches him out of the corners of her eyes, as if she's just waiting for him to say or do something ill-mannered.  Meanwhile, Castiel still hasn't budged, and I quietly try to eat my own food, fearful of disrupting the silence that's so thick you could cut it with a butter knife.  Things sure are going swimmingly for us this afternoon.

Finally, as he snatches a piece of toast and coats it with dark jam, Bobby Singer raises his head to glance between Castiel and me, his gaze unreadable.  "So, who are the two unlucky ones this year?"  Even his voice is as gruff as his appearance.

It takes me a moment to realize he's asking us for our names, and for some odd reason, I'm so nervous I'm stumbling over my own words.  "I'm, uh, Dean Winchester,"  I tell him.  His stare is uncomfortably scrutinizing.  "I work in the, uh, wheat fields back home."

"Good."  His response is so sudden and near-positive that I'm taken aback.  "You must be strong or good with sickles, or both.  Both would be preferable.  We can work with that."

It's hard for me to swallow an anxious but rather intrigued laugh when Rowena flashes me a reassuring grin.  If the man who once won the Hunger Games already has faith in me—even if it's just the tiniest spark—then I'm happy.  Slowly, my confidence starts to return.

At least it did, until I notice Bobby watching Castiel with his unreadable but undoubtedly crotchety expression.  Castiel is as still as a statue, and quite frankly, I'm not even sure if he noticed Bobby's appearance at all.  Has he even blinked?

"What about you, son?"  Bobby asks, his brows furrowing at Castiel's refusal to move.  "You gonna answer me, or are you just gonna sit there and wallow in self-pity?"

"Hey,"  I snap at our mentor without even stopping to think about the repercussions.  "Go easy on him.  It's been a hard day."

Great.  Now everyone is staring at me.  Even Castiel has broken his rigid posture to turn his head, but only ever so slightly.  Rowena mostly looks horrified, like I've just committed treason, but she doesn't concern me.  Bobby Singer's dangerously narrowed eyes, on the other hand, do concern me.

I might not even make it to the Games.  Our mentor might kill me right here, right now.

But then, much to my surprise and overwhelming relief, our surly mentor merely cracks a smile.  "I like your spunk, kid,"  he tells me.  "We'll put that to good use.  Make sure everyone knows not to mess with you."

Rowena is back to grinning at me, as if nothing ever happened.  I wonder if she gets whiplash from changing her emotions so much.

The attention is back on quiet Castiel, though, since he still hasn't introduced himself completely.  Part of me wants to do it for him, but I'm not sure if Bobby will appreciate that one.  Defending people is one thing, but taking total control of the situation is probably crossing a line, no matter how badly I want to.  My fellow tribute looks too afraid to even raise his head and look across the table.

Eventually, he draws a trembling breath and forces himself to sit up in his chair.  Still, he struggles to fully meet our mentor's eyes.  "Castiel Novak,"  he murmurs, barely audible over the sound of the train.  I can't quite explain why it hurts when I realize it's only the second time I've ever heard him speak.  "I work in the fields, too."

"Ah, I got two field workers this year,"  Bobby remarks, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.  "Not bad.  Not bad.  Anything else I should know?"

I doubt Castiel is going to talk again.  It doesn't look like he even has the strength for it.  So instead, I try to speak for the both of us, despite the fact that I still know next to nothing about him.