Warnings: mention of past gay-bullying, mention of past physical violence

Chapter 5: Worth fighting for

There was an unusual amount of people in the backstage, fans who had won VIP accesses, reporters, intruders and people Sam didn't even wanted to know who they were. He had took refuge on the scene one hour before the opening of the hall's gates to supervise his drums' assembly while disturbing Madison the best he could.

"The Floor Toms in the order !"

"They are in order !"

"Just wanted to be sure you're following." He teased.

She had an incensed sigh and threw him a fastening piece to the face, slowly enough so he could catch it and play with it for a moment before handing it back.

"Don't you have anything else to do ?" She mumbled. She was sitting on the floor, assembling the cymbals' telescopic stand.

"I do, but I don't want to." He sighed while sitting beside her. "They're twelve thousand over there and at least ten thousand will ask questions about my tattoos."

"Shouldn't have done them on visible areas if you didn't want to talk about it." She said.

He smiled. "The most important aren't visible."

Madison looked at him puzzled, obviously wondering where he managed to hide his tattoos under his too big tank top. He was smiling with all his dimples. From each side of the straps she saw the beginning of the calligraphy which went along his collarbone as a pectoral and ended in the heart of two sunflowers on his left shoulder. By the too large hem, she could make out the head of the phoenix on his hip and a piece of the wolf on his back when he was moving.

"Well played, now I'm curious. Where are they ?"

"Ah ah !" He did while shaking his head and a forefinger in front of her. "No questions !"

"You wanted me to ask you the question."

"Nope." He got up on his knees so he was a bit taller than she was while sitting and leaned toward her ear. "I wanted you to ask the question to yourself."

He had the pleasure to see her lower her eyes, embarrassed. She mumbled an insult before going back to work while he got up on his feet, proud of himself. The backstage weren't calmer than when he had left them and inevitably, being close to six foot high wasn't helpful to weave in and out discreetly anywhere. Bobby addressed him a severe look so he would sit on a couch between the other members of the band to answer to one, two or ten interviews before going on the scene. It was something that he didn't particularly like, especially because he had to stay still, sitting and smiling to people he had absolutely no desire to charm.

One of the reporters seemed different, and the questions she asked confirmed Sam's feeling. To his utter astonishment she neither addressed to him or Dean, but directly to Charlie and Kevin. Other surprise, she didn't asked them what it was like to be "The Group Girl" (Charlie was extremely grateful to her for that) nor if Kevin felt at home in the group considering his ethnic origins (everyone was extremely grateful to her for that). Instead, she asked why he had joined the group. The three others looked at him, they knew how the things had happened. But not really why. Kevin seemed embarrassed for a while, then leaned toward the reporter, elbows on the knees, hands crossed and looked at her as if he was about to reveal an important secret to her, which was certainly the case.

"I had almost dropped the music." He started.

##

Three years ago.

"Hey... How are you ?"

Kevin leaned against the back of his chair, sighing, his phone settled between his shoulder and his ear, head craned in a painful angle.

"I'm fine. How are you ?"

"You're lying." Said Channing's voice on the other end.

"How would you know that ?"

"I get to know you pretty well, after all this time."

He smiled, eyes into space. He could imagine her sitting at her desk like him, facing a pile of lessons, books open before her, the other closed with pens as bookmarks, and a collection of multicolored highlighters within reach.

"Did you play today ?" She asked again. He sighed and ran his free hand through his hair.

"I didn't." He answered. He turned his chair until being able to see the case of the cello left at its place near the closet. "No time with exams approaching."

"You work too much Kevin."

"Or not enough ... I've really no time to waste on that if I want to be admitted to Princeton."

There was a little gap at the other end of the line and then "Remind me why you're keen to go to Princeton so much ?"

"Because that's where the charming princes are trained." He replied in the tone of pleasantry. Channing chuckled, it was an old joke between them. For as long as they had known each other (and it had been quite a while now), he hadn't hide his ambition to go to Princeton, like his father. She had never hidden that she found the University of Michigan well enough for her. "After all, a degree is a degree and we live in a world where you have more chance to earn your living by being a plumber than a lawyer."

It didn't really agree but the argument made sense and they had quarrel enough about it to know that it was not worth getting angry.

"Would you play a piece for me ? Geography will drive me crazy by the end of the day otherwise."

He glanced at his own revisions. The exams were approaching at an alarming rate, it seemed that the time took pleasure to scroll faster every day. But ten minutes more or less would certainly not change anything. He stood up, stretching his aching legs from having remained seated for too long and took the cello from its case.

He had begun to play it because of her entering middle school. They were friends and she spoke of the orchestra with such passion that he had decided to try it.

Kevin had always been a smart kid, probably a little too much, and gifted. He had quickly assimilated the piano and found it almost too easy, too commonplace, ordinary. However, cello...

The instrument was almost as tall as he, massive and surprisingly light considering its size. Its four strings could produce strangely organic sounds of which he felt the vibrations along his hands and in his chest when he was playing.

He sat back on his office chair after having put the phone on speaker and tested a few chords, thinking about what he could play to Channing. The sound wouldn't be as good as if she was in the room with him, but it would be nice anyway. Kevin was determined and never did anything by half. He had spent months playing tirelessly to have sufficient mastery of his instrument before relaxing his fingers became calloused because of the strings. He hadn't really stopped since. Sometimes studies and stress made him forget what he felt when he played. Then he rested the pike of the instrument on the board devoted to this use, bow on the strings, closed his eyes and remembered.

He began to play one of Channing's favorite tunes, a concerto by Vivaldi whose score gave the impression of a spring wind. The instrument was vibrating against his shoulder as he left the music clear his head of his worries. It took him a long time before identifying the intruder sound that disturbed his ear, a piano that had joined him. He smiled slightly and tuned his playing to Channing's until their scores were complementary per the end of the song.

He picked his phone, still holding his instrument.

"Ready to resume geo ?" He asked. He could almost hear her shake her head.

"Another piece ?"

"One, then we really have to work."

"I'll work twice as hard." She promised. He knew she was crossing her fingers behind her back.

##

Princeton was not what Kevin had imagined. He had expected the difficulty of the courses, he had expected the demanding teachers and homework that would fall on them in steady rain. He hadn't expected the other side of the Ivy League. He hadn't thought about the rich students who'd come passing the time while waiting for their parents to make a fairly substantial donation to the university to buy their diplomas. He hadn't imagined staying awake all night not to work but because his barrack room neighbors were partying. He hadn't expected to find himself so alone that it seemed, for the first time in his life, that he was the ugly duckling from the story. But he had worked so hard to get there, his mother had sacrificed so much to pay for his education that he couldn't give up now.

His cello rarely left from its case now, too many things to study, not enough time to play. With the lack of practice he lost his touch a little more each day and dared less to approach the instrument that his roommate sometimes openly mocked.

"Couldn't have learned to play an instrument for real men, asian boy ?"

A year went by in this way. He made few friends and yet not very good ones. College wasn't at all like he had imagined it. When he returned in Wisconsin for the spring holidays, he saw Channing and their old friends with a pleasure that he hadn't felt for months.

The cello came out of its case and neither his mother nor Channing only made the slightest allusion to his obvious lack of practice. It wasn't that fun to play from now on. It was hurting his fingers, ears and heart.

His eyes and mind focused on his studies, on moving one step after another, day after day, and the cello remained in the Wisconsin abandoned on his bed.

In June that year, the admission lists for the second year didn't contain any Kevin Tran.

For the first time, Kevin wasn't the best. The dream he had pursued for so long was cracking under his feet and the first person he had the courage to talk about it was Channing.

Wisconsin was gray and rainy when he returned head down and tail between legs. His mother made him sit at the big table in the dining room. "Now what ?"

##

Kevin looked up the journalist who was taking conscientious notes.

"She said, "Now what?" and I had no answer. Not a single dream to pursue, no purpose, no ambition."

"What did you do then?"

"I had almost dropped the music. And that was the only thing I had left. So I took a single ride to LA."

He glanced at Dean and Sam. "And it worked. I didn't even have a dream anymore, and it came true anyway."

The journalists were all looking at him, some with a skeptical smile.

"Did you just invented all of this ?" Sam asked with a huge smile.

Kevin winked at him "Maybe."

"Or maybe he's telling the truth." Charlie intervened.

"In any case it's a beautiful story, can I tell it to my kids someday ?" Dean laughed.

"You aren't likely to..." A kick in the ankles silenced Sam. "Whatever" He grunted retracting his legs as far away as possible from his brother. He smiled to reporters to distract them while ignoring Dean's annoyed look.

Leaving the lodge that served as a press room, Charlie retained Kevin's arm. They waited for all journalists to be out of earshot before speaking.

"The girl who made you take the cello up again, does she know ?"

"That I'm part of a band ?"

"No, that you're in love with her."

Kevin choked on his saliva and stared at her with wide eyes. He felt Sam pass an arm around his shoulders and lean on him.

"Where would you see that ?" He mumbled.

"It is rather obvious given the way you talk about her !"

"I am not..."

"Oh yes you are." Dean intervened.

"And certainly for a long time." Sam added. Kevin pulled his arm away, annoyed and embarrassed. The three others were still staring at him. The backstage neon gave them an oddly pale and sallow complexion, made their piercing shine. They were waiting for an answer.

"Since I was twelve and till today." He sighed, knowing they would not let him in peace before they get their answer.

"And you never told her ?" Dean asked, perplexed. Kevin shook his head. It was that or shrug, he couldn't do both at the same time.

"Tell her you're in a band. It always work." Sam said, leaning back on the wall.

Kevin shook his head again. "It works for you because you have extremely low standards. Channing doesn't care if I'm in a band or in the streets. She's my friend."

Sam made a rude comment that he didn't listen. That night, the sound of the cello had a particular taste and Kevin couldn't help smiling during the whole concert and even long after.

##

Castiel noticed the bruise only long after returning home when he met by chance his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He decided to ignore it.

It was part of the things he had decided not to worry about. Do not worry, do not panic. Do not remember that this was how everything had started.

He returned to work on Monday morning. A few rare colleagues noticed the new addition to his tattoo on which he still passed healing cream on a regular basis. He plunged back with satisfaction in the alignment of figures of the balance sheet of the company for which he worked. Invoices and expense justifications started to arrive on his desk with a reassuring regularity.

It was a different life than being on the road with Free Will. Having Dean on the phone every night was nothing like his presence and Castiel would have lied if he had said that he didn't miss the singer. But no one asked him the question because nobody knew and it suited him perfectly. He loved the order and immutability of the figures who lined up on his computer. He loved the regularity of his life every day, get up every morning, have breakfast, work until evening, sometimes go out for a drink with colleagues and avoid embarrassing questions "So Castiel, do you see anyone at the moment ?"

"In a way."

Then he returned home, dined waiting for Dean's call then fell asleep again, all smile. It was regular, serene, reassuring. Very different from the disjointed life he led when he was following them on tour or simply when Free Will was in California, Dean paying him a visit most of the time at the most improbable moments.

The two aspects of his life complemented each other curiously well and Castiel was pleased to enjoy his regained tranquility for a few weeks.

Then he could no longer ignore the bruise. The bruises, actually. He bruised every time he bumped somewhere. One on the hip, thanks to the door handle. One on the shoulder, thanks to the can of food that had struck him two days before, falling off the shelf. Several on the legs for which he accused the coffee table, his desk or God knew what.

He might have continued to pretend not to see them if he hadn't had a sudden high fever over it. He could feel it without even checking his temperature. His eyes and cheeks were burning, his voice was hoarser than usual, and one night he woke up in a sweat, the covers rejected so far from the bed he thought he had had nightmares.

Working days seemed longer to him, more toilsome and appetite was already lacking. This was how, exactly how everything had started in his teens.

He looked at the tattoo that passed his sleeve. The eight egrets that were flying away from the dandelion. Eight years of remission.

When later that night, Dean called, the voice joyful and excited like every time he made a good show, Castiel told him neither about the bruises nor about fever. He curled up in bed and listened to his lover telling his day without saying a word.

"Cas... You're all right ?" Finally asked the singer.

Castiel nodded, knowing full well that Dean would not see him.

"Sing something to me please." He didn't add that he wouldn't manage to fall asleep without it. Dean knew. There was a moment of silence on the other end, then the noises and static on the line became more audible when Dean put the speaker on and retrieved his guitar. First there were only little hesitant chords, then gradually a melody that Castiel didn't know. It was gentle, played by one guitar but no doubt that with the addition of drums, bass, and cello it would seem more rousing. For now it was a lullaby that suited him. He closed his eyes, the phone jammed between his ear and the pillow. He didn't put the speaker on as if let the sound spread in the room would weaken the content, as if it was a secret that might be unveiled.

"There's monsters under my bed

Dad gave me a gun to get rid of them

Salt on my window keeps demons away

I ride, Death by my side, everyday."

Castiel felt a huge sob shake his chest and stuck in his throat. He smothered it by biting his fist until the pain made his eyes swollen with tears. The very soft music seemed to wrap around him like his lover's arms during bad days. But there was nothing other than the blanket over his shoulders and he was acutely aware of his own solitude.

"But remember who is the real enemy,

It's not the nightmare that keeps you up at night,

It's the nightmare that lies inside of me

Far away from my reach, far away from my sight"

One thing Castiel had often heard around him in concert, it was the way people were deeply touched by the lyrics of the group. Or other songs. He firmly believed that there was for every human being a song which spoke to them so much, so deeply that she could change their lives.

How did Dean managed to choose everytime exactly the right song to calm his fears, to lull him to sleep, to wake him up ? He didn't know and didn't want to ask the question.

"Every monster can be killed,

But there is no monster as fierce as your own hate,

The worse enemy you'll have to fight is in your head,

I know every monster can be killed

But sometimes, a gun won't get rid of them."

Castiel smiled and sniffed. He had like a big lump in the breast and didn't know if it was love, relief or panic.

"You're crying ? Hey it wasn't meant to make you cry !" Dean said at the other end of the line. He had that slightly worried and annoyed tone that he always had when he expected an unpleasant criticism. Castiel rolled onto his back the phone in hand and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"No, I'm not crying." He lied. He was curiously good at lying.

"Liar."

Maybe not this good, in the end.

"I miss you." Castiel said to drift the conversation.

"I hope so."

They hung up shortly after but Castiel stayed a long time looking at the screen of his phone. There was a photo he had took of Dean, backlit. He was from back, and was barely recognizable, but the photo both overexposed and in the shadows showed something of the singer that Castiel was one of the few to know. He gazed at the screen even after it had turned black until his eyes burned from fever and tiredness. He remembered without really know where it came from a phrase he had told to Dean a few week earlier. Just after Kate's death. "That's something worth fighting for."

He pushed a key to bring the phone back to life and composed the number he still knew by heart years after even if he only saw his attending doctor once a year for an usual follow-up care.

"Doctor Talbot ? I think I have a problem." He said with his husky voice.

He pressed the phone in his hand repeating to himself in a loop "Worth fighting for, worth fighting for."

He didn't realized that he was shaking and that panic tears had started running along his nose while he curled up on himself in his bed.

##

Dean was sharing his hotel room with Sam that night. His younger brother hadn't made a single sound when he had played a song for Castiel. He had intended to slip away when the singer had got his guitar out but had sited on the bed at his brother's sign. They had lived, just the two of them for years, then Castiel had joined their lives and it had never been a problem for the drummer. They were a family, a clan, and Sam was one of the few rare person in the world to whom Dean didn't hide anything. So a simple phone call, a sweet song for his lover, it wasn't the kind of things he felt the need to hide. It was a shared intimacy which constituted what was the closest of a home for them lately. Sam has stayed quiet during the whole song, listening to it certainly as much as Castiel. When he hung up, Dean stayed leaned above his guitar, thoughtful.

"Why did you left ?" Sam asked. The other turned his eyes toward him, he looked tired and took a while to understand the question.

"Someone had to watch over you."

"No Dean, the true reason."

It was a question he posed regularly for years without getting a satisfactory answer. But tonight there was something different in the air, a little more confessions, a little less restraint. Something favorable to secrets.

"Josh." Dean replied after a moment, his back to his brother, watching the parking lot through the window just to not meet his gaze.

"Josh. I'm supposed to consider this a sufficient answer ?"

Dean sighed again, unable to develop, waiting for Sam to do what he did best : take the hint.

"...Dad knew for him and you ?" Sam asked softly.

"There wasn't anything between us."

"Like it'd stop him." Sam gritted. "He's obstinate, I guess once the idea crossed his mind he stuck to it."

Dean nodded.

"What happened ?"

"I never knew. Never really wanted to actually. But Josh ended up at the hospital with a missing tooth and two broken ribs. A few fingers, too. When I came back Dad barely looked up from the TV. He said that was what happened to boys like him. I assume that for him it was very clear that it also meant the boys like me."

Sam smiled without joy, it was a stretching of the corners of the mouth just marking his contempt and lack of surprise. "He didn't exactly use those words, did he ?"

Dean didn't need to answer, they were both here the day of the last confrontation between Sam and their father, they both knew exactly which words John could use to talk about his own sons.

"What happened next ?"

"What you'd want me to have done ? I never knew if it was dad or his friends who had done it, and I couldn't really explain to Josh what had happened."

"So you left."

Dean nodded.

"Does Cas know that ?" Sam asked again by lying on his bed, one arm under his head, turned to his brother. He had only removed his jacket and his shoes, and his tattoos put a touch of strange color on the grey bedspread.

Dean acquiesced. "He asked about the guns."

Sam nodded. Dean was referring to his very first tattoo, the one that was still under a large bandage when he had broken into his apartment at Stanford years earlier, scaring Jessica and nearly being thrown through the window by his little brother. It wasn't really a week that he liked to remember, but tonight, things were a little different. Something in the air maybe, or perhaps because the two of them were alone for the first time in several days. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and let his thoughts take him back to the night he had seen Dean, two years after slamming the door of their home. Two years without news almost. A phone call at Christmas or at their birthday, a card at the new year, and often, the feeling of recognizing Dean in a silhouette on campus, in a move, or the smell of an old leather jacket in a amphitheater.

Then one night, Jessica had awakened suddenly swearing that there was someone in the apartment and Sam had hit on an intruder before this one starts to grumble "Damn Sammy it's me !".

No one called him Sammy other than his brother and his father. Maybe because he had not really the stature or the size of someone who's given a diminutive or nickname. Maybe also because the last guy who had tried it had coughed blood for several days thereafter.

Of the first night they had spent together, Sam remembered very little. He had asked Dean why he had finally left from home and his brother had evaded the question. Now he knew. He also understood the tattoo, now, years later. Two pistols, their barrels crossed, disappearing in a flowerbed of roses in the small of the back of his brother. Sam had made fun of the location, calling it his "tramp stamp" until it was no longer funny, and Dean had always just smiled, shrugging. His tattoos had all deeper meanings than Sam's. But this one was special. There had to be a reason why the two weapons were different, a Colt and a Beretta, one bearing the word "Ask" and the other "Tell". By themselves the two words had clearly enough indicated to Sam the meaning of the tattoo and he hadn't asked further questions. Their father had been part of the Marines, and the law of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" had almost always been displayed in letters of fire above their door in Kansas.

"When you left home, you came directly to Palo Alto, right ?"

Dean nodded, puzzled. Sam and him talked rarely about this time, because it always led to a memory that neither of them wanted to occur to them.

"Why ?"

The singer shook his head. He had never really raised the question himself. It had always been clear that he had needed someone at that moment. Not to listen to him complain, not to help in anything, just a loving presence. His father was no longer part of the reassuring presences in his life long since. Sam was all that remained. Even if they hadn't seen each other for years, even if he had no idea how he would be received.

"I had nowhere else to go." He said finally by putting down the guitar against the bedside table. Sam nodded slowly. They didn't say anything more afterwards and fell asleep one after the other, having reached their maximum capacity of confession.