He hadn't even made it across the room before he was yanked back. His entire body stiffened, already sore from the uncomfortable sleep in the chair, but now he was mostly filled with dread. In his pacing, Dean had come to a decision; he wouldn't survive this again. Don Juan may have made the decision however long ago it was to break his promise, but Dean ultimately had to be the one to follow through. It was one simple boundary and he knew Don Juan had been trying, it had been going better, but this, this was too much.

Steeling himself, he turned, but didn't leave the doorway, positioned there, like he knew that once one of them left this room, that it would never be the same again.

There was nothing to do but to chew on the inside of his cheek, stalling the inevitable. "I'm glad you're alright." He managed, voice tight, brows furrowed. Dean was grateful for that. This was going to be excruciatingly painful as it was, but at least they would both get a chance to try again after this, just in different directions. Dean had the time, overnight to think this through and he just couldn't see any other way.

"I've got all of your things," he motioned to the little pile at the end of the bed. Not that Don Juan was coherent, there wasn't any reason to prolong this.