He had intended the act of tucking his head under the pillow as a dismissal; he thought Hudson had been poised to leave. He'd stood up and moved away from the chair and Don Juan had been desperately sure he was leaving. After Don Juan turned his back on him, though, he kept hearing him in the room. Not leaving, not shutting the door behind him, just... pacing. Don Juan listened to each step, feeling for a while that his own heart was beating to the same pattern as Hudson pacing the room. Don Juan had been petulant and fitful, accused him of not wanting to help, and Dean still wasn't leaving.

He hated him for that, briefly. Hated Dean for how his persistence made Don Juan feel about himself, because if Dean would just go then Don Juan could wallow in pity and pretend that he had been the grieved party in the conversation. With Hudson pacing the room, and sitting in the chair, offering him water, the truth — that Hudson had done nothing wrong, and Don Juan had single-handedly ruined everything, that nothing was going to work after this and it was all Don Juan's fucked up fault — was inescapable.

Hour passed. The trembling lessened. His head cleared. The terrible truth of the situation remained. Don Juan might have slept, but if he did his dreams were uncomfortably like waking. He stared at Hudson sleeping in the armchair until he couldn't stand it any more, then stared at the ceiling of the bedroom. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, sore, but unable to do anything about any of it. Eventually, much later, he heard Hudson move. He had closed his eyes — to shut out the light, not to sleep — but at the sound of Hudson walking to the door he opened them and pushed himself into a sitting position in the bed.

"Dean," he called, before Hudson could reach the door. "I'm here." Meaning: It's over.

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