Word Count: 313
They sit together beneath the stars. Piers can hardly believe Dean is back; after months of being missing, Dean appeared on Piers' doorstep, tired and bruised and lost. Piers had wanted to ask, but he had just stepped aside and let Dean back into his life, like he hadn't spent nearly a year panicking, desperate for things to go back to normal.
Now they're outside together, watching the stars. Piers tucks a cigarette between his lips and lights it, the fire briefly illuminating everything
"Still addicted," Dean notes.
Piers shrugs. "There are worse habits out there," he says. "Like disappearing without a word and staying gone for months."
"I did what I had to do."
Piers doesn't understand that. Nothing about Dean's disappearance made sense at all. His mother never answered any of Piers' questions, never raised any concern that her son was gone. Piers doubts Dean will answer his questions now either.
"Scale of one to ten," Dean says softly, "how much do you hate me?"
Piers groans. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and taps his thumb against the filter. Ash drifts to the ground as he returns the filter to his lips and inhales, his dark eyes fixed upon the twinkling stars overhead.
"I don't hate you," he says at last, breathing out a cloud of smoke. "I was worried. That's all. I missed you like crazy, and now that you're back… I know things aren't going to be all shiny and perfect, but… I want answers, Dean."
Silence hangs between them. After several moments, Dean nods. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
More silence. Piers feels the faintest hint of uncertainty creep into his soul. He swallows dryly.
Whatever Dean says won't matter. They will figure it out. He has to believe that.
"Okay," Dean says, taking Piers' hand. "No more secrets."
And so it feels like a new beginning somehow.