Dean felt as though his attempt to lighten the mood had missed the mark. The silence stretched on for a moment and Dean worried he'd said something upsetting. He'd always thought himself good with words, good enough to make a living out of them, in different languages, but he always seemed to bungle things when it came to Don Juan. That idiocy rearing its ugly head here and there to remind him just how stupid he could be some times, unintentionally.

"What's that look for?" He asked gently, turning his hand over to meet Don Juan's, fingertips dancing along skin as they made contact. He set his wine aside with his bandaged hand and put it gently atop the hand on his arm. "I thought it would help with the trial or maybe if she comes to live with you." Dean didn't know what the likelihood of any of this would, but his intentions were just that; practical, maybe bordering on optimistic. He still didn't know where he stood on the whole thing, nor did he know what sort of impact it would have in the long run. He was someone who grew up with a father he barely connected with, he had to assume the chance of a decent relationship was better than nothing at all?