Dean's eyes are, in fact, there to meet Felix's when he finally looks up again. He's not trying to add pressure, not really, not anymore than he always is with his constant, silent narrative of stay, I want you to stay. He just... can't not.

Dean licks his lips, not unaware of the tense turn the conversation has taken, and it's the instincts he's learned as a hunter as much as his inherent reaction to Felix that tells him to back off some; it's not fair, and it's not right. He can't win this way. Sam, John, they've already proven to Dean that he doesn't have what it takes to get what he wants through sheer force of will, not with people he loves, not with Felix, who is every bit as strong willed as any Winchester. Furthermore, he doesn't have the right to get what he wants at any cost.

Still. "It's a good thought," he says, and he can't help, either, the grateful note to it. That he had it at all. That Dean recognizes it for the concession it is. His hands on the table have closed to loose fists, and he bounces one knuckle anxiously to the beat of the foot that's started to bounce under the table, too. He can't do anything about the first thing, the second is conditional, but the third and the thought itself? "It just needs some... adjusting. Anything I know, anything I can do, it's yours. If you want it. Whatever you want."

Even if that whatever is for him to shut up and leave off it. Dean can mean it. He can.