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

-29-

We're not extremely low on food, but our supply could be better, too.  We only have a small amount of each item.  We'll need to be careful and ration it out properly if we want to avoid a trip through the dense and dangerous rainforest in the near future.  For now, I think camping out underneath this rocky canopy, hiding by the outcrop, and filling up our water bottle in the river whenever it's necessary is our best bet.  We aren't completely concealed, but it would take someone a long while to see us under here in the shadows.  That would be just enough time for us to make an escape if need be.

I'm far from hungry—almost dying seemed to strip me of my appetite—but I know I should eat something.  Both of us should.  We need to recover the precious strength we lost over the last hour or so.  I take out three crackers, good for a queasy stomach, and hold them out toward Cas.  I'm discouraged but not entirely surprised when he doesn't even seem to notice me.

"Cas,"  I say softly.  I nudge his arm with my knuckles.

He blinks.  It's like he's snapping out of a trance.  With a timid hand, he takes the crackers from me, but he doesn't move to eat them.  I barely hear him mumble a thanks as he returns to his detached torpor.

I can't help but think about, with dejection, the time when we'd just been reaped for the Games.  The days where he hardly uttered a single word to me, let alone glanced in my direction.  We've come a long, long way since then, but now, as I watch him absentmindedly scratch at the crackers in his hand, scarcely speaking, it almost feels like we're back to square one.  And I don't want that.  I want my Cas back, the one who laughs at my stupid jokes and is too sweet for his own good.  But how do I do that without reopening those wounds I said I wasn't going to disturb?

I'm getting frustrated.  Not with him.  No, never with him.  I'm mad at myself for not knowing how to help him when he's clearly devastated and traumatized by today's terrible events.  Do I strike up a lighthearted conversation?  Do I crack another silly joke and hope he smiles or even laughs?  Do I let him brood and allow time to chip away at his distress?  My mother always told me that time heals all wounds whenever I was upset about something.  Although it was difficult to hear in the moment, after a while, I realized she was right.  Some wounds heal in a matter of days.  Others can take years, and even then it might not completely get better.  Maybe Cas just needs a little bit more time than I anticipated.

Then again, do wounds inflicted by the Hunger Games ever really heal?

I grab the empty water bottle and crawl out from underneath the rocky canopy before my thoughts overwhelm me.  I stop to listen for a brief moment, and when I only hear the nearby birds and insects and the gurgling of the river, I continue forward and kneel down at the edge of the stream.  I fill the bottle to the brim and squeeze a few drops of iodine into it when I return to the outcrop.  Now we play the torturous waiting game.

As I eat the last two crackers in the sleeve—Cas hasn't even looked at his—my mind begins to wander again before I can stop it in its tracks.  Are those lethal mutts still out there, searching for us so they can finish the job?  I'd like to think it's doubtful.  Muttations are ridiculously intelligent and sometimes Gamemaker-controlled.  If they were hunting us, they surely would've found us by now, even after we jumped off the cliff and drifted downstream.  Maybe the Gamemakers finally took them out of the arena.  They certainly gave us a good scare and the audience a thrilling show.  Maybe we won't have to worry about them anymore.  One can hope, right?

When enough time passes, I hand the water bottle to Cas and tell him to drink.  Much to my relief, he doesn't hesitate to swallow a few generous gulps.  Then, even better, he eats the crackers I gave him a while ago.  He's still ashen and looks like he hasn't slept in years, of course, but at least he's making an effort to move around and take care of himself.  We're making progress, little by little.