John's bewilderment shouldn't surprise him this much. It should've been obvious to him: why John was behaving as though this were a routine, unshared dream. Why John didn't wake as sharply as he did. Why he has been waiting, kind and patient, for Martin to make the first move. The obviousness of it now feels like a smoking gun evidencing Martin's brutishness, as if he has just seized upon malicious assumption on purpose.

"But—" He finally rolls onto his back, lowers his arm and looks up, meeting John's eyes even as his own sting with the threat of tears. When he speaks again his voice is even more hoarse than before, a faint, miserable, almost plaintive whisper: "But I saw you."

He's not stupid. He understands. He isn't even trying to argue, not really. His gaze slides away, his mouth hanging open slightly as he tries to pick his way through this fresh new wave of guilt and shame. It shouldn't be such a cold shock. He certainly didn't believe the John in the first part of the dream was his John. This is how dreams are meant to work, after all.

But the realization that he just cast John alongside all his worst monsters is somehow too great to bear, and a small, broken sob escapes him before he can stop it.

"I just dreamed it." His breath hitches and he raises his hand to cover his eyes. He doesn't turn over again, can't bear to turn away from John, especially now; but he wishes he could hide all the same. "I put you there. Jesus."