There was a moment where Dean didn't react and Don Juan thought, despairing, he hates it. Maybe he should have floated the idea past him first. He'd been thinking about it long enough, just hadn't gotten himself together enough to pull the trigger. For a while it had seemed too big a thing for their barely-renewed relationship to hold. Sentimentality he hadn't earned yet. He still wasn't sure he had, but he also wasn't sure at this rate that he ever really would.

When Dean still didn't speak an even worse thought occurred to him: he'd gotten it wrong. The wrong word or the wrong spelling. Impossible, because he'd committed the words to memory long ago and then he'd spent a full day between bouts of withdrawal digging through his room to find Dean's original letters from all those years ago.

But then Dean kissed him, so forcefully that Don Juan couldn't help but let out a muffled but pleased noise of surprise.

"I can stay tonight," he breathed when Dean eventually pulled his lips off his. "I said I couldn't because I couldn't think of an excuse to keep my shirt on."

---