Ghost Hunting, task 3: Write about a place that makes someone feel uneasy.
Word Count: 767
"You know I hate surprises," Piers grumbles, half-tempted to remove the blindfold tied around face that obscures his vision.
"You hate everything," Dean counters before swearing softly as the car scrapes against a curb. Piers doesn't know how his boyfriend actually managed to get his license, but he knows enough about magic to have his suspicions.
Piers shrugs before stretching out his slender arms. "Not you," he says. "I actually love you."
He hears Dean chuckle, and it brings a smile to his face. Knowing that Dean is happy with his little surprise is enough to make Piers play along.
"Let's see… Right here!" Dean says, braking too suddenly and sending Piers bolting forward. "Sorry about that."
"Git."
Dean's door opens and closes. A moment later, Piers hears movement outside his door. "Don't worry," Dean assures him as he opens the door and guides Piers carefully along. "I haven't done anything dramatic. We don't own it yet, but it's perfect."
Piers chuckles. Their house hunting adventures have mostly lead to dead ends, but Dean sounds excited for this one, and Piers is intrigued. He dips his hand into his pocket, plucking a cigarette from the pack within. "Let's see, then."
The blindfold falls away, and Piers really wishes it hadn't. He knows this house. The weathered and chipped grey paint has been replaced with a warm and inviting yellow, and the lawn isn't overrun with weeds, but Piers could never forget this place. His stomach sours as his chest tightens, and he doubles over, wrapping his arms around himself.
Dean is there in an instant, holding him and telling him everything is going to be okay. "What's wrong?" he asks. "Talk to me?"
The garage hasn't been replaced. It's the very same place Piers had been forced to sleep one snowy, wintry night after he had wet the bed. He almost wonders how much of the inside has stayed the same. He falls forward, knees scraping roughly against the pavement.
"Piers?" Dean's hands are so warm and comforting around his shoulder. Piers wants to relax into the touch, but he is too tense.
Dean guides him to his feet, and Piers rests against the hood of the car. As a teenager, whenever he, Dudley, and their little gang would roam the streets, Piers had always found a way to carefully avoid this road. He wishes his luck could have held.
He glances down. His unlit cigarette is ruined against the pavement. The paper is torn and ripped, and thin, brown tobacco shreds spill from it. No matter. He fishes a fresh one from his pocket and tucks it between his lips, lighting it quickly. Within seconds, the nicotine works its magic, and he feels like maybe it's going to be okay now.
"I thought it was a nice house," Dean says apologetically.
"It is," Piers agrees, shuddering. "Unfortunately, it's the house I grew up in."
Understanding dawns on Dean's face. Piers hasn't spent much time waxing poetic about the abuse he had endured. Even now, well over a decade later, he still has trouble opening up and talking about his demons. But Dean knows enough. They've spent so many nights together, learning everything they can about one another and trying to close any gaps between them.
"Damn." Dean slumps beside him, resting his head against Piers' bony shoulder.
"It shouldn't hurt like this," Piers says softly. "Not after everything I've been through. But being here… I feel so uneasy."
He's just waiting for his mother to barge through the front door and tell him what he's done wrong and what terrible punishment awaits him. Maybe his father will step outside and look at him with those cold, distant brown eyes. Really, that would be the worst; he's always hated the apathy and abandonment more than the physical abuse and screaming.
"That isn't really something you can just get over," Dean says. "Maybe it will never leave you. Grief and pain are funny things, and you never know how long they'll stay or what they'll do."
Piers pushes himself up from the car and takes one final drag before dropping it to the pavement and crushing it beneath his shoe. "Let's get out of here."
Dean grins. "Good idea. I'm thinking maybe pick up some curry?" he suggests.
"Sounds great to me."
And as he climbs into the passenger seat, he takes one last look at the house that had been his greatest source of shame. He rests his hand against Dean's and looks forward again, thin lips quirking. That place can't hurt him anymore; he is free.