Dean's hand drifted to Don Juan's hips more naturally and more gently than he'd been gripping the countertop. None of these statements were making him any less anxious. He needed Don Juan to see just how badly it fucked him up, having to pull him from that house and not knowing what it was he'd taken or how much or what it was going to do to him in the long run.

Not even the use of his first name had really gotten through to him. Dean's face crumpled a little. "You couldn't even stand up straight. What if somebody took advantage of that?" Dean didn't want to go to Azkaban for murder, because that's what would happen. Nobody touched what was his without consequences. Dean felt exposed and vulnerable, nerves frayed and near snapping. "It's too much," his tone was pathetically pleading, grip tightening at the thoughts running rampant in his head. There were too many what ifs and unknowns for him to ever feel comfortable with this.