if sam winchester were held together literally by only duct tape and safety pins inside he would still give them away freely to anyone who might need them
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see him, the blood drained from his face, hands clenched in fists at his sides, walking with stiff, small steps up towards the stage, passing me, and I see the back of his shirt has become untucked and hangs out over his pants. It’s this detail, the untucked shirt forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.
"Sam!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Sammy!" I don’t need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach him just as he is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push him behind me.
"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"