Sixteen was a weird age, he recalled. He remembered having so much confidence when performing, he always felt belonged up there, on stage, on a platform, on a soapbox, whatever, just give him a step to climb on, that little height, that levity to separate him from the crowd and get people’s attention to him, because hey, there’s a kid with a mic standing on a shoebox, what’s he up to, that little fella? And he’ll sing his heart out, sing it the only way he knew how, from the very core of his soul, because those words that stretched into sentences and intricately spawned into lyrics? Those aren’t just words, they tell endless stories, of one’s sufferings and loneliness, of joy and freedom, of adventures and surprises, and he, this little boy who was often bullied in school and deemed an outcast by many, was the storyteller. A good storyteller invokes emotions from his listeners, and that was exactly what he did, every single damn time.

Yet he remembered being unsure of himself, the lack of confidence that often drowned his own beliefs of what he could do. He remembered days spent in front of a live studio audience, sitting on the couch and facing strangers that kept throwing questions their way and he hated it, hate it with a passion when he heard his name being called, singled out from his pack, that one syllable Nick. Ooh he hated it.

Despite that, he also remembered the four guys around him, constantly surrounding him, physically letting him know that he was never alone, that they have trust in him to say the right things, to just go for it. He remembered Brian, always whispering in his ears and making light of the situation when he couldn’t find the right words, assisting him without being so obvious about it. He remembered AJ always jumping in to the mic, always saying something stupid and random when his nerves failed him (and AJ will remind him of these ‘favours’ for hours after it happened). He remembered Howie and his winks, his sideway glances, the ghost of a smile that swept by his lips, those looks, always telling him without saying a word, that everything’s all right, that the world will not end if he slipped, to just take it by the horns and talk (of course they never let him lived it down and still pull out the ‘resign’ card on his ass every chance they got).

And then there was Kevin. He would always look at him, even when his own gaze was fixed to his shoes, he could feel it, that Kevin look, the one that seemed to burn through all obstacles and straight to his eyes, like a proud father who couldn’t have been happier than to see his son being asked a question and then had a microphone shoved in his face. And when that didn’t help, when his nerves was too fried to even feel those eyes looking at him, pushing him gently to go on, he’d feel that strong grip of his hand on his shoulder, and sometimes the palm of his hands on his back, away from the screen, but it was there, rubbing small circles, calming him down, while his strong voice stole away the uncomfortable silence, engaging whomever to his attention, giving him that little spot to hide for a while, to get himself together, before he’d feel two pats on his shoulder and Kevin looking back at him, smiling, his eyes telling him I’ve got you kid, go on, don’t be afraid, and he’d smirk and he’d answer the damn question.

When he got older, when he was bolder at answering questions that kept firing at him like speeding bullets, he could still feel their presence around him, even when they were not physically there with him, he could feel them, could hear them telling him you go Nicky, we’ve got your back.

Nick decided, as he let Sam Winchester explained his way calmly to his friends about the whole vision thing, about the hunt, about kids like him, about his mom, about fucking demons, that Dean Winchester was Sam’s Brian, AJ, Howie and Kevin, rolled into one. His support, that pillar of strength that never wavered, tested and challenged through time, probably the only reason why he was still even doing what he was doing, it all came down to big brother Dean.

His posture was relaxed, body leaned all the way in the chair so a part of him was slightly behind Sam’s shoulder, he’d steal glances at his friends, probably reading their facial expressions and figuring out if they were buying into what his little (but not so little) brother was talking about. Then there were the looks he gave Sam, the one that was searching for any signs of distress when talks turned about how their mother had died (four year old big brother rescuing baby brother out of a burning house? Big time hero in little brother’s book for sure) and how his girlfriend had became a victim too. And he thought he saw a glimpse of what an unguarded Dean would look like when Brian had asked about their demon hunter Dad.

“Oh, he passed away too,” Sam said, almost too calmly. “Died on a hunt.”

“I’m sorry, I-”

“No, it’s okay. You wouldn’t have known.”

Silence ensued again, for what felt like forever to him, and it was deafening.

“Look, no offence to you both, but this is really hard to swallow right now,” Howie said, breaking the silence. “But what are you saying exactly? That Nick’s like you? One of the kids?”

“All of the kids that we’ve come into contact with from either my visions or by chance, they have similar backgrounds to me and each have their own…abilities,” Sam explained.

He decided he liked Sam. For one thing, he’s the only guy in this room he could talk to without having to look down just to see eye to eye. Ever since Kevin left, he felt like a giant amongst hobbits. Plus he has visions too, perhaps they could one day sit down and swap visions and drink whiskey together and Sam could show him some moves to avoid hitting the ground every time he has attacks of the visions and maybe he could teach Sam the dance moves to – well, maybe not. Maybe he’d keep the band’s identity a secret for now. He imagined Dean would freak out twice as bad as how the guys reacted to the whole hunting demons stuff if he knew he was willingly helping a Backstreet Boy.

“But Nick’s mother didn’t die from a fire when he was six months old,” Brian pointed out.

“And if he’s really like you, he’d be stuck trying to explain the deaths of a lot of girls,” AJ deadpanned.

He frowned and Sam just looked sympathetic, but the rest of them, those traitors he had regarded as his friends, and Dean, stoic, I don’t laugh ever Dean, were smirking, grinning even, and really, it wasn’t even a little funny.

“I think the Demon only kills women who could love kids like us unconditionally. I think they see them as a threat or something. I don’t think they’d care about random women I slept with.”

And what was that? What had he just said? Now he’s talking demons? Was he even supposed to be surprised by this? Wasn’t it him who used to bore Kevin with talks about aliens and wanting to go hunting for them? Hunting. Huh.

“There’s still a question about your mom still alive and kicking Nick.”

His gaze went to Brian and he smiled, because come on, after more than ten years, Brian should have known better, but it wasn’t like it’s his fault, Brian’s family wasn’t fucked up like his.

“Like I said, women who love us unconditionally. We have no immediate worry about my mom burning up on a ceiling, trust me.”

And then the awkwardness came back but he wasn’t about to let it go on for too long. He needed answers, like where he should fucking go from there on out? Should he start worrying about some demon going all out to find his ass?

“Anyway, they’re telling the truth.” He directed this to his brothers, looking back at them the way they had always look at him when they meant business, the one that said I’m not fucking around right now.

Then he turned to Sam and Dean Winchester, the two strangers that were fast becoming his allies, people he believed he could trust. His gaze fell on Dean and he acknowledged the sincerity there, the one hidden behind the well guarded mask of indifference, and then moved on to Sam, and this time his gaze lingered. “My vision last night, it was about you both.”