❛ PAST COMES KNOCKING ❜
・₊˚៹ . ❪ bohemian — act one ❫ ˖ ₊˚.⋆ 。✧˖°
࿐⠀┊ ⠀PROLOGUE⠀┊ 🏹🎨👻
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THE AFTERNOON WAS GLOOMY and spread thick was a heavy rain, causing the sky to gray and the pavement to slick with dew. The atmosphere gave off the feeling of dread and blandness as the people on the streets hurried to their destinations in a monotonous routine. They all seemed the same, with their dark toned clothes and their sunken faces, either on their phones or their heads hung low under a black umbrella like a moving black and white painting.

On the corner between Morton and Lennard street, sat a little slice of light in the form of an apartment building. It was tall, all brick with over twenty open windows, and looked like a rejected structure to a fire station. And on the fifth floor, three doors down was the source of that light.

The sound of Carmen Suite No. 2 echoed loudly through Bowie Winchester's studio apartment from an old rusty record player, the window slightly ajar for the world to hear. His eyes, which were a soft brown, strained in focus on the canvas in front of him. The paintbrush clasped tightly between his paint-stained fingers pressed softly on the cotton.

     He tugged slightly at his bright green shirt, coating it with blue paint. He hummed to the music, his bare feet tapping against the vibrations that bounced from the vinyl to the wood. His brow creasing in annoyance when he couldn't hear the lower notes, and with a sigh, he reached up and raised the volume on his left hearing aid before doing the same to the right.

A pitched, seagull-like bark made the man jump, the paint on his brush slipping out of its penciled lines and making him mutter a curse, "Relax, Stevie!" He glared.

     Ironically, his dog — an brown Labrador with a single white spot just above his snout — was blind. His neighbor had found him wandering and thought, 'who best to take care of a disabled dog than a disabled man?' slightly insensitive but one look at the dog and Bowie had fallen in love. Hence the name Stevie, after the blind singer he loved to listen to.

     The Labrador barked again, his voice carrying over the loud music. He watched as the dog turned his head toward the door and it was then Bowie had realized someone was pounding on his front door.

     "Shit." He winced. He placed the paintbrush softly on the easel and rushing toward the window to remove the needle from the vinyl, causing an abrupt stop. The pounding echoed again, "I-I'm coming! One sec!" He shouts.

     The person pounds the door again, and with a frustrated huff Bowie grabs the handle and throws the door open.

     "I said one se— oh, it's you." He pauses.

"Oh, no shit. Who else do you know?" The girl responds, holding a laundry basket close to her hip. She blew at the feathered blonde fringe that hung just below her brow, raising a singular dark eyebrows at him. "Dude, I appreciate Moonlight Sonata as the next girl but I have a Chem exam in the morning."

"It's actually not Moonlight Sonata, it's—"

Her baby blue eyes narrowed, "Either way, I can't hear it over my Bob Seger!"

"Sorry, Kathrine Louise," He responds, reaching up to rub his left eye with his paint-stained fingers, smearing a bit of blue just above his cheek. "I didn't think it was that loud this time—"

"It's always that loud." Then, a big smile began to form on her heart-shaped lips, which were stained a bright red. Kathrine shoves her hand into her laundry basket, and pulls out a bottle of wine, "Old Man Robbie, you know the one with the missing leg, gave me this on my way up," She gives it a shake, "Want some?"

     Bowie furrows his brow, "Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" He asked her, an amused smile forming on his face.

     "My ears were threatened," Kathrine responds dryly, making him roll his eyes. "I believe I earned this."

     "For doing absolutely nothing," He adds.

     "Doing nothing is doing something." She corrects, "Do you want some or not?"

     "I don't drink," He replied lightly.

     Kathrine falters a bit, the smile turning more into a grimace. "Oh, right. Sorry." She gives a shrug, "Eh, more for me."

     There was a silence between them, and Bowie didn't know if the conversation ended or she wanted him to pick up another one. The young man bit the inside of his cheek before saying, "I'm finishing up a new piece. . .maybe'll go for a lot on eBay."

Kathrine hummed, "I'll be the judge of that." She says, pushing passed him into his apartment and handing off her laundry basket to him.

Bowie chuckled, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He watches as Kathrine stood in front of his easel with her fist under her chin, he was easer to know what she thought but her poker face gave nothing away. She was a Hunter after all, being emotionless when needed was apart of the job description — not that he couldn't either, then again, Bowie hadn't hunted since he was eighteen.

"Well..?" He finally asked, pushing off the door and placing the basket on his counter.

The canvas was of a woman, holding a child in her arms. The faces itself were blurred and undefined, but the intense details around it made up for it. The woman was young, blonde and — although void of facial expression — had a comforting nature to her. The child, merely the age of three, was looking up at her. The different shades of blue swirled around them, creating a summertime feel.

A smile forms on Kathrine's lips, and she turned around to face him, "It's amazing, Bow, really." She says, "My mommy issues are kicking in just looking at it. What inspired you?"

Bowie's face tugs down unnoticeably, but he appeared more accepting than sad. "My mom's death day is next Monday," He tells her, "November second. I don't know, just felt the need to draw it, take my feelings out."

"That why the faces aren't painted?"

"Yeah, can't exactly remember her face anymore." He shrugged. "My, uh, my step-dad never gave me any photos or anything so overtime I just sorta, forgot."

Kathrine sighed, moving to grab her basket, "You're one hell of a sad story, you know that?" Whether it was a rhetorical question, Bowie couldn't bring himself to respond. Kathrine rubs Stevie behind the ear, and said, "Halloween's tomorrow, wanna shut in and watch Hocus Pocus? I'll buy the candy, you order the take-out?"

Bowie grinned, "Like we've been doing every year for the past, what? Three years? I wouldn't miss it."

Kathrine gives a firm nod, "Good." She goes to leave, but turns around last minute and says, "Oh, and Bow?" He hums, "If I hear you play that Plague music one more time this weekend, I'll shoot you with my rifle."

He grimaced, "Yeah, noted."

With that, Kathrine Louise was gone, and Bowie was standing in the middle of his studio apartment. The man glanced at his Canvas again, a sad smile tugging on his lips.

Within the hour, Bowie was venturing down the staircase, jiggling his keys in his hands. He forgot to check the mail again, and it was only a matter of time before the Art Institute he went to College for would write back to him about taking a position at the school. He had been pushing to teach Art there, after his interview ( which he thought went surprisingly well.) all that was left to do was wait.

His pace slowed when he saw an elderly woman standing at the main entrance, shaking a bag of cat food with a disapproving frown, "Figaro! Figaro!" She shouts in a raspy cry, "Dinner!"

     "Afternoon, Mrs. Adler." He greets, giving a soft salute her way as he walked under the dry gable where the mailboxes stood. The woman had been his upstairs neighbor for as long as he's lived there ━━ which was six years and counting. "Rain's beautiful around this time, don't you think?"

     Her blue eyes widened in relief behind her half-moon spectacles when she saw him, placing the bag on the ground with a wide smile, "Oh! Boomie you're here!"

     Bowie smiled brightly, "How many times do I have to tell you, Mrs. Adler, my name is Bowie. Bow-ie," He emphasized the letters, giving a small chuckle. "Figaro got lose again?"

     "Oh, you know," She sulked, rubbing at her temple. "I keep forgetting to shut my window and he runs right out the fire escape," She shakes the bag again.

     Bowie shook his head, ridding the rain from his hair that fell from the hole in the gable, moving away as it dripped onto the pavement, "He'll turn up, he always does." He assured, "Mail man come by yet? I'm expecting a letter."

     "Oh, no." She shook her head quickly, looking offended at the thought of the mail being late. "Always late, never on time!" She reminds him, "Never."

     Bowie nods, opening his box anyway just to be sure. "Aw, that's all right." He sighed, rubbing at his eye with a soft yawn, "It'll come sooner or later. Goodnight, Mrs. Adler, I'll send Figaro your way if I see him." He gives her a smile, and turned toward the stairs.

     Mrs. Adler gasped suddenly, eyes shining with a memory, "Oh, Boomie, I almost forgot to say!" The young man, already three steps up, turned to face her with an amused smile, "I saw a man today, young and handsome."

     He chuckled, "That so?"

     "Oh yes, but he was looking for you."

     His smile dropped, an streak of panic going up his spine. Her words alone made his eyes shift back and forth, the feeling of being watched creeping around his brain. Bowie shifted his stance, "You sure it was me?" He asked.

     The woman gave a firm nod, "Yes, you! Came by an hour or so ago, asking for your name, which apartment you lived in, all that," She listed slowly, "It was around the time you went out to buy you groceries. I tried to tell him you wouldn't be back for hours. Said he knew you from a long time ago. He a friend of yours?"

     His frown deepened. Bowie didn't have friends — besides Kathrine but that was a given. Not that he couldn't easily make them but because he didn't want them. Meeting knew people meant being asked questions, where are you from? what do you do? any family?

     Bowie didn't feel like lying through his teeth about it all. Besides, who had time for friends when you spent six years focusing solemnly on Art. It was all he ever needed.

     "Mrs. Adler.." He says lowly, "What did this man look like?"

     She furrowed her brow, "What man?"

     "The man you were just talking about, that man." He watched her face twist together in confusion, trying to gather the memory that she had forgotten. Bowie sighed again, and gave her a gentle smile, "Aw, Nevermind. Just— don't stay out too late, okay?"

     The woman smiled again, "Oh, all right, Boomie, goodnight to you!" She turned back to the rainy afternoon, and shook the back again with a disapproving eye, "Figaro! Dinner!"

     As Bowie ventured up the never ending staircase to his fifth floor apartment, a nervous feeling washed over him. Said he knew you from a long time ago. But Bowie was certain that anyone from his past didn't have a clue where he was ━━ he made sure of it the second he left at the fresh age of eighteen.

     He cut all ties when he moved across Kansas.

     And truthfully, he couldn't think of a single person he once knew that even cared enough to look for him. Six years worth of peace proved that. Had it been Bobby? He thought to himself.

     Bobby Singer had been the only person he bothered to call every now and then ━━ and Mrs. Adler old enough to consider anyone a young man.

     Bowie hasn't pushed away the worry of the mystery man, even when he reached his front door. He made sure to re-salt every window, he made sure to go over the devil's trap under his welcome mat, he checked every hidden sigil and every locked window.

     "Living with paranoid bastards did me some good," He muttered to himself, locking his front door with a satisfied nod. "Hey, Stevie!" He shouts, causing the blind dog to look up in the other direction. He holds in a chuckle, "Try to keep your seagull nosies to a minimum tonight, all right?"

     He gave a scratchy, wincing bark in response.

——••——
••——••

     BOWIE DIDN'T KNOW WHEN he fell asleep, but somewhere between watching MTV reruns and sketching his newest piece, the charcoal had slipped from his fingers and his eyes began to close. It felt like barely a minute, like he had just blinked once and before he knew it he was shooting up from the couch with a throaty scream and a sweaty panic.

His hands clasps around his neck, then his wrist like he was expecting another hand to be there. Bowie relaxed instantly when he realized it was just his own hands. Just his. Bowie slammed his eyes shut, gathering his thoughts and calming his breathing.

His eyes shift left at the lump at the end of the couch, where Stevie slept without a stir, "At least I know your place." He muttered, pulling the quilt off his chest and getting to his feet, giving a shiver.

Bowie stumbled toward the bathroom, turning on the sink and closing his eyes to splash his face with cold water, rubbing the rest through his hair. A clash of thunder booms, making Bowie flinch. His mind was clearing, his thoughts no longer scattered once he'd calm down.

     A loud pounding on the door made Bowie freeze, a nervous chill ran up his spine, and without hesitation he reached under the sink and pulls out his Beretta, clicking it off safety and slowly making his way out of the bathroom.

The banging continued. It was then Bowie cursed his door for not having a peep-hole, and with a steady breath he pulled the door open.

Out of all the people Bowie Winchester expected to be standing at his door; vengeful demons, vampires, hell even a long lost bio-dad, the last person he'd ever expect was—

"Dean?" He falters, the gun in his hand never wavering. Dean, who was seconds from leaving, turns back around, and Bowie finds himself gripping the handle.

Bowie examined him, comparing the way Dean looked now to how he remembered him. Then again, six years made a noticeable difference. His face was more angular, his eyes an even brighter green than Bowie remembered. His hair was shorter, spiker, and he wore a familiar leather jacket that was most likely from the boy's father — John.

His heart squeezed for a second. Bowie foolishly thought that maybe, just maybe, Dean had come to see him, that after six years he had actually bothered to check on him.

"What're you—"

"Dad's missing." Dean said quickly, his face blank and his voice firm. He looked at Bowie as if he expected his brother to be just as worried as him, "I need your help."

Bowie's walls instantly rise again, and with a deep scoff he says, "That so?"

     "Yeah, are you gonna help?"

     "No."

     He slams the door.

and so it begins. . .

———

KATHRINE LOUISE by Hassie Harrison