Dean ran, one clumsy, lurching footfall after the other, Britta's fist in his sleeve and dragging him along. That hadn't been a warning shot. His father never bothered. That was a kill shot, and the only reason he wasn't dead was because Britta had shoved him out of the way.

"S'not really him," he muttered, low and desperate even to his own ears, but it might as well have been someone else talking for all that he could stop it. "Just the game, it's - it's like this in the movie. It's not him."

And even so Dean wanted to turn on his heel, to run as fast and as hard back to where Trixa stood, to save her, maybe, but to save him first.