Fine, what? It took Don Juan a moment to realize what Hudson was doing. He hadn't gotten an immediate capitulation from Don Juan when he'd tried to kick him out, so now he was leaving?

"Where are you going?" Don Juan demanded, stepping forward to try and put himself between Dean and the floo. At this time of night and already drunk — he didn't know if he was more frustrated that Dean was running away or concerned about the circumstances. (Was it hypocritical of him to feel concern when he'd just told Hudson not to try and be his father?)

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"Anywhere but here," which meant Mae's house, but Don Juan didn't need to know that. He didn't have it in him to try and find anywhere else, not when he was so worked up. He could pass out in his sister's guest room, not talk about it, and then come home tomorrow.

"You should know what leaving looks like by now, you do it often enough." It came out more resigned than he meant it to, it was meant to sting, but lost some of the sharpness when he didn't really mean it. Asking for a night to himself, in which Don Juan had already missed more than half of it, really wasn't unreasonable and he wouldn't back down from it.

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Anywhere but here; anywhere but with you. This wasn't fair, Don Juan thought desperately. He hadn't done anything bad enough to deserve this reaction. He was late but he was here, and he wasn't high, and he wasn't even actually trying to stir up a fight, despite how Hudson kept frustrating him.

"How about you tell me what you want from me," he said. "Instead of making passive aggressive comments on your way out the door, huh? You want me to be here? Cause you couldn't handle me being here last time," he said, thinking of the last time he'd been here in 1888, when Hudson had left him. But this was supposed to be different. Hudson had said he could be patient. He'd said he would always be here... and now he was leaving.

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Dean hadn't exactly expected to be blocked from the fireplace and if he wanted, he could very easily displace Don Juan and move past him, but that felt like a step too far.

Of course then it was taken a step too far anyway, but not by him. "One time, the one time I put up resistance to you standing me up, again, and you're going to throw that in my face?" Dean had regretted it last time and he didn't want to repeat it this time, but his patience for this was draining slowly and he just needed some fucking time to himself. "I'm the one that's been here, every night, every missed set of plans before this," he was at a rolling boil now, the sense of resignation from a moment ago burned away by that one statement. "So I go out thinking it's happened again, because why wouldn't I? What past precedence do I have that you would only show up late and not at all?" It was always not at all, with some bullshit excuse that Dean accepted as the truth, even though he knew better, he just didn't want to upset the balance.

"Why were you late?" It better be a damn good reason; Dean would know if he was lying, he got lied to often enough.

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"I'm not throwing it in your face," Don Juan retorted. He was, a bit, but he also thought it was a relevant point — Hudson said he was always going to be here and he could be patient, and he said he didn't want to be lied to, but they had already tried that and it hadn't gone well. Don Juan had tried cutting back and being honest with Hudson about how it was going, and what he'd gotten for his trouble was left alone in an empty bed holding back tears, mere minutes after coming out of withdrawal. So it was all well and good for Hudson to say that Don Juan was wrong for dodging the issue and that he would prefer the real story, except that it wasn't true.

"You want to know why I was late?" he echoed back as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Sure, Dean. I was busy getting drunk, and then I was busy buying drugs," he said flippantly. "And I don't have them on me and I'm not high, so I really don't see how it's any of your business. In fact," he continued, picking up speed now. "Do you know how many times I've come here high since we started this up again? Zero. And how many times have you needed to come pull me out of somewhere? Zero. I've been cutting back for you and I do all this cloak and dagger bullshit so you can pretend it's not happening and you don't give me even a little credit."

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"Brava, you don't show up here, but then you don't show up at all for days at a time and I'm left wondering if you're dead in a ditch somewhere or avoiding me, or too high to even know where you are." It really wasn't any different. He just kept it away from the house, which really wasn't anything Dean needed around, but for fuck's sake, it wasn't any better than the last time he'd asked Don Juan to cut back. Dean wasn't an idiot, out of sight, out of mind did not apply here.

He'd known it too, somewhere in the back of his head, that Don Juan being late tonight was not just because of his brother's campaign event. Maybe that was why Dean had decided to go out in the end. If Don Juan had wanted, and he usually did, he could have skipped out as soon as possible. Instead he'd gotten drunk and then bought drugs and no doubt hid them somewhere and Dean was just supposed to be alright with this? "I don't pretend it's not happening," Dean exploded now, taking a step back as his hands curled into fists at his side. "I sit here and I worry and then when you finally show up at least alive, I can breathe again. But to pretend it's not happening is stupid, you and I both know that." Sure, it wasn't obvious, but the cloak and dagger bullshit shouldn't even be necessary. Dean just didn't want to start an argument every week when he was inevitably disappointed by a choice that Don Juan made. And it would be every week, if not every other day.

"You want credit? What the fuck do I get? What do I get out of this? I've been here, patient and trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and all I get is a cycle of being disappointed and you trying to make up for mistakes with little notes or grand gestures or a cute face. Real relationships do not work like this." He knew their situation wasn't normal, but it could be a hell of a lot better than this.

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The following 1 user Likes Dean Hudson's post:1 user Likes Dean Hudson's post
   Don Juan Dempsey

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Hudson worried about him when he was gone, but that was the whole point he was trying to get across. He didn't get that bad anymore, and that was directly because of Dean. He didn't see it because they never talked about it, but Don Juan had been cutting back significantly, if not in frequency than certainly in quantity. He had been trying to take care of things so that Dean didn't have to worry about him — but it was always for nothing, because Dean assumed the worst when he was gone. But Don Juan didn't say any of this, because suddenly Hudson was stepping back and his fists were balled and Don Juan was having trouble remembering when he'd last seen him this angry. What the fuck do I get? he asked and Don Juan thought you get me — but the voice of his internal monologue had gotten small, cowed by Dean's expression, and about to get smaller.

He couldn't hide the hurt as Hudson continued. Little notes, grand gestures, or a cute face. It would have been hard to think of a more efficient way to dash his spirit, even if Hudson had been intentionally setting out to do it. Such a dismissive little laundry list. The message it conveyed: I see the things you bring to the table and they are not enough. I know what I get here and it's not enough. You are not enough.

"Guess I'm not cut out for a real relationship," he said, hollow.

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Dean could tell he'd gone too far, watching Don Juan's face fall. It was a stupid thing to say. He liked the little notes and Don Juan's cute face, but the grand gestures weren't necessary. He didn't even know what he was going for, only that he felt like something was missing. Something was always missing or being purposefully missed. Maybe it was him, after all.

The apology was on the tip of his tongue, but it stuck there. He was sorry, for what he said, but he still felt that it was true. They were just wildly different people, with wildly different lifestyles and no matter how hard they tried to make it work, maybe they just couldn't. He'd been trying to be patient and supportive and Don Juan was trying to cut back, but the expectations never lined up, one of them was always left wanting something more. They'd tried this twice now, and Dean had thought himself capable of doing things differently this time. Had thought he had figured out how to handle it, but Don Juan had put it clearly; maybe he couldn't handle him any better than last time. Maybe he really wasn't the right person for this, as much as he wanted to be.

"Maybe neither one of us are." Dean sighed heavily, anger draining from his limbs, hands releasing the tension as he flexed his fingers.

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Don Juan's whole body tightened. That was it, then. Don Juan wasn't enough; Hudson couldn't keep doing this. It had always been heading to this conclusion. Part of him had known it from the very beginning, and he'd even said it to Dean once: I want to believe this doesn't end with me hurting you. He'd always known it, though. Maybe that was why he tried all of the gestures and notes and things, this time around — preemptively trying to make up for the hurt he would cause when he left, giving Hudson something pleasant to look back on. A weekend in Paris, sailing at the Sanditon, teasing him endlessly about the orange scarf he'd never worn. See Hudson, look — it wasn't all bad.

It hurt to keep looking at him. Don Juan shifted his eyes up to the ceiling and took a shaky breath. He'd get through this, eventually. People had left him before. Dean had left him before. In the end it was always the same: just him and all the things that never changed.

"I would like," he started, going slow through the words to keep his voice from breaking. "For you to kiss me goodbye this time."

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Dean could feel the unfamiliar sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried, hadn't even after last time (though he'd come close), but this time felt different. They'd made it longer this time. It had been better. There were so many high points, but the lows always felt so low that he couldn't even feel like they balanced out.

Giving it all up still felt wrong.

They'd avoided the conversation for too long and now it hit a point of no return; Don Juan couldn't change his habits enough for Dean to be able to handle it.

The request seemed dangerous. They had always been able to simplify things when they got physical, but Dean had already said no once tonight and look where it had gotten them. Nodding, he closed the distance between them slowly, the familiar movement of one hand winding its way behind Don Juan, pulling him in close, just a fraction of a second before he closed his eyes and leaned in.

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Don Juan sank into Dean and kissed him like he was dying. A collapsing star burning brighter in its final moments. It was never going to be anyone else. Dean was the only person he'd ever cared about enough to try and change, and it hadn't been enough. He was never going to find something like this again.

Maybe the other lifetimes had been better.

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Dean was clinging to the remnants of everything he still wanted to say, letting them flow into the kiss as if it would fix anything. He couldn't fix this; he'd tried, they'd tried and somehow it still hadn't worked out. The failure felt worse this time, raw and ragged and all-encompassing.

His other hand and landed on Don Juan's cheek, and when he finally came up for air, he brushed his thumb gently alone the curve. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice catching. I wanted it to work, I thought we could do it. Dean hoped it was implied, because he would probably break down if he tried to say it.

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Don Juan drew in a long breath at Dean's apology. He pulled back, not because he wanted to but because he thought if he didn't do it now it would only become harder to separate from Dean later. He still had to put his fucking shoes on. He would have just left them behind and gone through the floo barefoot except that then Dean would have to decide what to do with them tomorrow, and that didn't feel fair.

"Let's don't," he said abruptly. He was already a mess and he was only going to be more of a mess if he let Dean continue on and forced himself to listen to it all and reciprocate. "The apologies, the regrets, everything. Let's skip it." It wasn't as though he didn't already know, anyway.

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It was a small relief, the suggestion. Dean didn't regret it, when things were good, they were so good. Maybe the lows were his fault, setting them up to fall short, the inability to put all of the pieces together so that they would stick. "Alright," he agreed. It wouldn't do them any good, things would just spiral and get worse than they already were. He was sorry for what he'd said; it was unfair and it was going to haunt him for a long time.

It took a lot of willpower to pull himself back when he already felt a gaping absence beneath his fingertips and in his chest. Without anything worthwhile to say, Dean felt the reality of everything settling into his bones, could feel the ache of it washing over him and the sting was back at his eyes. Unable to help himself, he leaned in one more time, a ghost of a kiss the last thing he could manage before he strode from the room.

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