He's bruised, he can feel it, and he grunts again when he's shoved back against the wall, watching as the chains come free... And no, he's still not frightened. Concerned might be more accurate. Very, very aware that he might be about to die. Which isn't really so awful in itself, but... Neil. The girls.

And God, Dean.

But. Demons. Of course. And when the blackness washes the green out of Dean's eyes, eats up the whites, what he feels is profound recognition, and it's not just the party. No. It's the face he stared into in the ash, in the internal Hell that Babydoll took him into, and it's not the same, he knows that, but maybe it's a distant cousin. Alike enough for him to know. Part of him so tormented and ravaged and ruined that all it wants is to make everything around him bleed.

So again, he's almost smiling. Whatever happens now, he's not going to crawl in front of this thing.

"He didn't invite you in, did he?" The knife is on the bed, and Dean - the demon - is now between him and it. And would he, anyway? If it needed doing, you'd do it.

Yes.

"So, what, there a point to this? Or are you just gonna wax all rhapsodic about your origin issue?"