Dean pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, thankful at least, that Don Juan seemed to at least give up arguing with him.

Now Dean was shaky and worked up and he wanted a fucking drink, but he knew better. Because what would it help? He waited Don Juan out, pacing the room at large down by the end of the bed. Everything finally seemed to still and Dean had worn himself out with the pacing and checking on Don Juan's breathing to the point where when he finally sat down again, he actually drifted off into a fitful doze for an indeterminable amount of time.

There was a faint light spilling through the windows when something startled him awake, and his eyes immediately went to Don Juan to ensure he was still in fact, alive. Dean ran his hands over his face and up into his hair, feeling unsettled and jumpy and drained. He stood, straightening out stiff muscles from sleeping in the chair and went downstairs to make some coffee.