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“Hey, Brock!” Dean rushed toward him, a whole pile of script pages clutched in his hand. “Dean,” Brock said. He rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “The play looks…quiet.”Dean grinned. “It’s supposed to be! The Story of a Quiet Boy’s filled with all of the stuff I’ve been going through the past few years.”“I wouldn’t call anything you’ve been going through the past few years ‘quiet’,” said Brock. “Where do you want me to sit?”“Front row!” Dean said. And that’s where Brock sat, watching with a certain quiet pride throughout the show, getting doused in showers of confetti and glitter as they rained down to further explain not-quite-Dean’s emotions. Hank showed up, and Doc was somewhere backstage in the wings, but Brock’s approval was important. Dean said as much at the afterparty.“Thanks,” Brock said, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. He eyeballed the guy playing him, with his fake muscles and enormous blond mullet. “Y’mind if I give the guy playing me some notes? He’s just too whiny! I don’t whine! ““Sure! Just don’t make him cry too much.”“Right.”He smiled. “Brock!”“I won’t make him cry at all, okay?”Dean grinned. “I’m just glad you liked it.”“Dean, you’ve got a lot of talent. I’d never fall asleep in one of your shows,” he said. “Though I’d put a couple more glitter explosions in the first act. Shake people up.”“Good idea,” he said, and the warmth of Brock’s praise rolled over him.