Dean was tired to the bone and far removed from the life he'd known at home, but it came back to him swiftly, that defiant rumble in his chest that accompanied the need to turn the hunter into the hunted, even if it wore his father's face. It was a game, a deadly one, but it wasn't a demon, wasn't Azazel this time, bleeding Dean out while wearing his father's skin, and he could do this, live through this. They all could.

"It's my father," he said simply, and even were it not, Dean had rolled the turn. It was his responsibility, and if Trixa didn't agree, well. He'd just have to get there first. "We need to keep playing," he said louder. "That's the only way this ends."