្.˚⠀━━━⠀⠀ JOHN'S TRAINING!
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❛ BOHEMIAN ━━ BOOK ONE ❜
𑁍ࠬ¸𓍢 ━━ ❪ SUPERNATURAL ❫ ˖ ୧ 。
𓆸 ┊ ⠀CHAPTER TWELVE⠀┊ ❀
◟ ✦ THAT'S A BULLSEYE!❞
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*tw: mocking of sexual assault, victim blaming*

     RUNNING A HAND THROUGH HIS LOOSE CURLS BOWIE kicked open the motel room door with a blue lollipop between his teeth, the bags under his eyes so dark that one would mistake it for eyeshadow as he blinked away exhaustion and nodded at his brothers in mute greeting.

     Another day or scouring the web for a new case meant another day Bowie felt his immune system slowly shut down, but the man kept going with his ounces of energy drinks and shaky hands as he tried his hardest to keep afloat for the people who pushed his head underwater.

     "I got lunch," He announced through his lollipop, his voice thick with exhaustion as he juggled two bags of food in his hands and a vanilla folder in the other. He hands Sam one bag before roughly flinging the other at Dean, smirking smugly when it knocked him in the jaw.

     "Thanks, Bow," Sam responds idly, pushing the bag away from him as he glued his attention to his phone screen, "I think I've got something."

     "Me first," Bowie cuts in, slumping in the chair between his brothers and pushing the lollipop into his cheek. His tone sounded slightly urgent but his face was sunken, eyes reluctantly staring down at the folder in his hand. "I just got this back from the police department, told them I was a private detective working a case for some rich family up in Newport."

     Without another word, he places the folder on the table, reaching up to rub his thumb against his bottom lip anxiously as he narrows his eyes at the folder.

He didn't have to use words to convey that whatever was in this envelope gave him the shivers.

     And when Dean opened it, he knew why.

     "What? What is it?" Sam asked eagerly, pushing his phone away.

     It was a photo, blurred almost unrecognizable and taken from a gas station camera. With squinting eyes, you can see it was a man, dark brown hair and a tall built, his eyes expression sunken and stern.

John Winchester.

     "My APB flagged him at a gas station near Lawrence," Bowie explained, his leg bouncing under the table.

     "I can't believe you found him," Dean says breathlessly.

     "I didn't." Bowie corrects instantly, "He could be long gone, could've moved in any direction, all I know is that he was there yesterday, filling his tank."

     "At least we know he's alive," Sam spoke up, expression slightly grim. His eyes were shamelessly on Bowie, monitoring his reaction, "Are we gonna go after him?"

     "What kind of question is that?" Dean scoffs a little, "Of course we are. Good work, Bj," He grinned proudly, standing up and shrugging his leather jacket on, "I'll be back, gotta make a supply run before we hit the road."

     "Beer isn't supplies," Bowie mutters.

     "It is in my book," Dean winked, closing the door behind him.

     There was a long silence between the remaining brothers before Bowie pushed back the chair with a loud scrape against the wood and stood up, making his way to his bed stand.

     Sam watches silently as Bowie picked up the bundle of small knives. The brunette looked at them with a stoned face, curling the handle into his fist in thought. Sam flinched when Bowie threw the knife before either of them could blink, the sharp end slamming into the black circle on the motel wall.

     He started doing this since the case in Toledo, like he was training for something that was never coming. Rigid and paranoid.

     "You're twitching again," Sam says lowly.

     "What's that?" He questioned, looking back.

     "I said, you're twitching again." Sam repeats louder, a simple observation, "You've also been training more. . . I hear you doing those knuckle push-up's at like four in the morning."

     "Gotta stay in shape right?" Bowie asked rhetorically, slamming another knife into the wall with a low grunt, "That's a bullseye."

     Sam frowned, not knowing what else to say. He once felt as though he knew his big brother like the back of his hand. His nervous ticks, his fears, his likes. Sam remembered telling Bowie everything as a child, even stupid things, like his imaginary friend. He trusted him that much.

     But now they were older, without each other for six years, it was inevitable that things would change but this felt different. Sam felt like he didn't even know his brother. It made him unable to tell him things. It made him feel like Bowie would snap any second.

     What if all Sam ended up doing was putting more pressure on Bowie? Eggshells.

     "I won't blame you. . ." Sam began cautiously, "If you leave after we find Dad," He scoffs a little, "Hell, I wouldn't even blame you if you punched him in the jaw."

     Bowie didn't respond, focusing on his throwing as he pinched his lips together at Sam's words.

     "Do you think you'll go back? Try for another position at that Art College again once we find him?" Sam pressed.

     He lets out a small huff, "Why are you asking me shit like that?"

     "Because you deserve to go back."

     "Why? So one of you can show up at my doorstep in another six years begging me to help you with something else?" He snaps a little.

     Sam frowned, "I wasn't the one who chased you down, in case you forgot."

     Bowie swallowed thickly, "This was never about finding John for me, okay? When Dean first came to me, he told me we were close to finding Mom's killer," He explained, "I guess the thought of killing that fucker once and for all was bigger than my inner child getting some revenge against John."

     Sam mutely agrees, "And after that?" He questioned lightly, "After we kill that thing."

     Bowie thought long and hard, squeezing the knife in his hands, "After that, I'm gonna get on my knees and pray I have the strength not to shoot your daddy between his eyes, for your sake and his."

     The knife slams into the wall.

1997 —

          HIS FINGER HOVERS OVER THE TRIGGER with one eye closed, narrowed in on the faded blue bullseye spray-painted on a single tree in Bobby Singer's scrapyard. Sixteen-year-old Bowie inhaled a deep breath of March air, and with a single exhale, releases the arrow from the crossbow, the sharp end missing the bark by just a few inches.

     The teenager faltered instantly, "Damnit."

     "Good job, Bow," said Bobby, reaching up to squeeze the boy's shoulder, as he signed out the praise lazily, "You're getting better."

     Bowie smiled as best as he could, four fingers to his chin and down to sign 'thank you', feeling dishearted as he stared at the tree.

     Sam looked up from his schoolwork on the back porch, giving his brother a thumbs-up when he looked his way before going back to his math.

     "I suck," Bowie says bluntly, his arms falling to the sides, "I can barely hear anything. I can't do anything."

     "Stop feelin' sorry for yourself like a crybaby," Bobby says firmly, though his tone was clearly nurturing, "Smartest damn kid I know, don't need to hear a thing."

     To that, Bowie smiled.

     "Besides, Doc says your hearing could get better over time," Bobby reminded, raising his voice a little more as he motioned to the hearing aids, "It's only been a few months, still gotta long way to go." He took the crossbow, "You have a steady hand, just need to learn how to use it."

     Bowie sighed, "I wanna go again."

     Bobby slapped his hand away, "After school, today's your last day before break. We can do this all week if you want."

     Bowie rolled his eyes a little, a grin forming on his face when Bobby tugged him into his side, wrapping an arm around his neck and digging his knuckles into Bowie's loose curls.

     "Let's get, boy!" Bobby yells to Sam, who instantly gathered his things, "Don't want you two any more than I need ya."

     Sam shoves his thinks into his backpack, before throwing it over his shoulder and rushing to catch up with them. Bowie's hand had barely touched the handle when the familiar rumble of the Impala was close enough for him to hear. 

     "Balls," Bobby muttered to himself, re-closing the door and leaning his hip against it, arms crossed over his chest.

     Bowie often wondered how Bobby Singer could put up with John's bullshit. The constant attitude, the cold-hearted persona, not to mention randomly dumping his kids on Bobby's doorstep more than he should before taking off. If Bowie was Bobby, he would've killed the man already.

     But maybe that was just the boy's personal vendetta.

     Truth was, Bobby only put up with John for the boys. And if you came across any Hunter who knew Bobby Singer — which was almost all of them — then they could confirm that the Bowie Winchester were his. Plain and simple.

     "Hey, dad," Sam greeted, tone distant as he shifted his eyes between Bowie and Bobby.

     "Sammy," John smiled warmly, turning to Dean and jerking his head toward Bobby's car, "Get to school," He orders.

     Eighteen-year-old Dean frowned, "But. .we just came back from hunting, I'm tired—"

     John clenched his jaw. That alone was enough for Dean to pinch his lips together in submission.

     "Yes sir," He stated, moving toward the car.

     Bowie let out a breath when the interaction was over, opening the car door.

     "Not you."

     The words were clear, firm and loud enough for Bowie to stop dead in his movements. His brown eyes lifted to Bobby in a panic, hoping that he was talking to Sam. But, his brother was already in the backseat, reading a book.

     "Huh?" Seemed to be the only thing Bowie could manage as he looked to John.

     The man exhaled through his nose, "You're sixteen, that's when Dean started his real training, that's when you'll start too. Let's go."

     "I got school," Bowie excused. His Art teacher said he could bring a small canvas home over break if he came in today, "C-Can't it be after that?"

     Dean's eyes widened at the question.

     "No," John says simply, "Now."

     "I can pick up his training," Bobby finally speaks up, having enough of watching the scene unfold, "Have nothin' better to do."

     "I got it," John snaps a little, motioning to the car as he opened the driver's door, "Come on, won't ask you again."

     Bowie swallowed thickly, keeping his head down as he shuffled to the Impala. He missed the pitied expression Bobby threw his way. Glad he didn't have to endure the worried expression on Sam's face, or the stone-cold one in Dean's, who looked like he was going to be sick watching  Bowie enter the passengers seat and slam the door closed.

     "Is he gonna die?" Sam whispered, watching the Impala skid out of the lot.

     "Bow's gonna be just fine," Bobby assures firmly.

     "For the most part," Dean adds.

2005 —

     THE BROTHERS STOPPED AT A GAS STATION on their way out of town. Bowie hung his head out of the backseat, soaking up the sun with sunglasses over his eyes as Dean filled up the tank, Sam on his phone with a deep frown. Driving to Lawrence was probably the last thing Bowie wasn't to do. Not because of what was there, but because of the long hours it took to get there.

     Bowie admits he gets car sick sometimes.

     "I figure we can hit Lawerence by Lunch tomorrow, maybe," Dean announced, "I'll drive fast."

     "Don't drive fast," Bowie debunked idly.

     Noticing Sam wasn't paying attention, Dean sticks his head through the passenger, "Sam wears women's underwear."

     "I've been listening, just busy," Sam responds.

     "Busy doing what?"

     "Reading e-mails."

     "E-mails from who?" Dean pressed.

     "I don't know, Dean," Bowie pushes the glasses down to the bridge of his nose, "Maybe human beings who care about him enough to e-mail him."

     "Who cares about him besides us?" Dean motions between them, not ever realizing how insensitive he sounds.

     "They're from my friends at Stanford," Sam corrects.

     Dean looked amused, "You're kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?"

     Bowie frowned, realizing he didn't have friends in College worth keeping in contact with. Just Katherine. In fact, it was only Katherine.

     "Why not?" Sam asked.

     Dean closes the gas cap and says, "Well, what exactly do you tell them? You know, about where you been, what you've been doing?"

     "I tell them I'm on a road trip with my big brothers," Sam shrugged, "I tell them I needed some time off after Jess."

     "So, you lie to them." Dean concluded.

     Bowie smirked, "You'd know all about lying, wouldn't you Dean?"

     The eldest slacks his expression, "How many times do I have to apologize to you?"

     "Until you die." Bowie answered.

     "I don't lie to them, I just don't tell them everything," Sam explained.

     Bowie scoffs, "Yeah, that's called lying."

     Sam rounded to face him, "Who's side are you on right now?"

     Bowie pushed the glasses back up to his eyes, getting comfortable again, "My side. The unproblematic, attractive side."

     Sam scoffs, "Keep dreaming."

     "Hey, man, look, we get it." Dean motions between him and Bowie, "Telling them the truth is far worse."

     "So what am I supposed to do? Just cut everybody out of my life?" Sam clenched his jaw. Dean shrugged as a response, "You're serious?"

     "Look, it sucks. But in a job like this, you can't get close to people, period." Dean responds.

     "You're kinda anti-social, you know that?"

     "Yeah, whatever." Dean shrugged.

     Bowie frowned, "Don't listen to him, Sam. I think it's kinda cool you keep in touch, shows you still got connections, unlike Darth Vader on steroids over there," He jerks his thumb to Dean.

     "What'd you say?" Dean frowns, popping his head back in the car.

     Bowie does multiple ASL movements, a smile on his face as he signed, 'I said you were so ugly when you were born that the doctor put tinted windows on your incubator.'

     Dean's frowned shifted into pure confusion, turning to Sam, "What did he say?"

     Sam, who didn't know sign-language, nor was he paying attention, says, "He just agreed with everything you said."

     Dean smiled smugly, "Thanks, Bowie."

     Bowie grinned back, giving a thumbs-up.

     "Oh, god." Sam says suddenly.

     "What?" Dean and Bowie asked in unison.

     "This e-mail from this girl, Rebecca Warren, one of those friends of mine—"

     "She hot?"

     Bowie deadpans, "Seriously, Dean? Shut up."

     "I went to school with her and her brother Zach. She says Zach's been charged with murder," Sam explained, "He's been arrested for killing his girlfriend, Rebecca says he didn't do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case."

     "Dude, what kinda people you hanging out with?" Dean frowned.

     Bowie leaned over the bench seat, looking serious as he removed his glasses, "Samuel, do you do drugs with these people?" He accused.

     Sam rolled his eyes, "No, mom." He snipped sarcastically, "Look, I know Zach. He's no killer."

     "Yeah, well, maybe you know Zach as well as he knows you," Dean states.

     Sam frowned at that, "They're in St. Louis. We're going."

     Dean scoffs, "Look, sorry about your buddy, okay? But this does not sound like our kind of problem."

     "It is our problem, they're my friends." Sam says firmly.

     Bowie pinched his lips together in thought.

     "St. Louis is four-hundred miles behind us, Sam. We need to find Dad, this is our lead—"

     "I think we should go," Bowie cuts in, turning to his big brother with a sucked-in smile, "Come on, you know Sam's just as stubborn as me, and I want to help, too. Looking for John can wait."

     Dean clenched his jaw, rounding the corner and getting into the driver's seat with the slam of the door. He turns around to face him, "For the record, I know you're doing this to get out of finding, Dad."

     Bowie shrugged nonchalantly.

     Dean roughly pulls out of the parking lot.

1997 —

THE CAR WAS SUFFOCATINGLY QUIET for Bowie as they drove down the streets of South Dakota. He nervously tapped his finger against his cargo pants, glancing at John in the corner of his eye, holding his breath every time the man moved his hands against the wheel.

John made no conversation, didn't say a word, didn't look his way. The boy preferred that, but it still didn't make him any less uneasy.

     Things got worse after Motel 8. After telling John and Dean what had happened only to be shut down every time it was mentioned. They called him a liar. An attention seeker. 'You wanna act like a victim boy, I'll show you a victim!'

     After that Bowie never told a soul, scared to be labeled something he's not, scared of the backlash, scared nobody would ever believe him all because his own family didn't.

To make matters worse, it had been hardly a year since John blew Bowie's hearing with the warning shots of his pistol. It had been probably the only time he had seen the made falter in regret, showing he had a soul behind those rough eyes. A twisted soul, but one nonetheless.

In his way of apology, John had ordered Dean to take him to the emergency, where the newly eighteen year old was forced to sit and wait with him while the doctors stopped the bleeding in his ears. Besides that, Bowie was on his own with the situation.

Until Bobby got word of the situation and marched down to their motel room to scream John's head in, holding a shotgun to his chest as he ordered Bowie to grab his things.

Bobby paid out of pocket for hearing therapy, and his hearing aids. Let him crash on the couch and taught him some basic sign language. It was Rufus who was surprisingly fluent in ASL and taught the boy everything he knew — and every curse word that wasn't even in the books.

It wasn't until recently did John show up again, Sam and Dean trailing behind him as the adults argued in Bobby's study with the doors closed.

To that day, Bowie didn't know what was said. But Bobby didn't win. Which was probably why the boy was sitting there now, wishing he could roll out of the car and into the highway.

In hopes to ease his mind, Bowie began to hum the chores of 'Hey, Jude' nice and low, or as low as he thought he was humming. He didn't remember much of his mother, being only two when she died, but if there was one thing that was burned in his brain it was that Beatles song.

If Mary Winchester sang that song to calm him down, then it would do just fine for him now.

John said nothing, gripping the steering wheel tightly as he tried to block the face of his dead wife from his brain, glancing narrowly at the child beside him. He hated that Bowie looked like Mary. A carbon copy of his later lover if it wasn't for the brunette hair and eyes.

Bowie had her loose curls, her birthmark on his cheek, her eyebrows, her damn smirk. He had her attitude, and her strength, and if John closed his eyes, Bowie's laugh mirrored hers in a way that made his stomach churn. It was like God had played him by taking away Mary and leaving him with a son that wasn't even his own.

It should've known better than the let Mary convince him to give the boy his last name, out of marriage rights and because having the biological father's last name was out of the question— because she didn't know what it was. But, John obligated.

Why? Because John didn't always hate Bowie. He was, of course, just a little boy. He couldn't exactly blame him for being born. It was only until Bowie got older and started acting more like his mother did it really start to boil his blood.

God, if there was one person that boiled John Winchester's blood it was Bowie fucking Winchester.

"We're here." John announced, pulling the keys out the ignition and instantly getting out of the front seat.

Reluctantly, Bowie slide out of the car and looked around. They were parked in the middle of a shipment crater, big enough to house a home. The crater was turned into an odd looking garage, in the middle of nowhere.

He didn't feel John coming up behind him until the man reached up and tugged out his left hearing aid with a soft pop.

"Hey!" Bowie snapped in a panic, turning around and cupping his ear that had gone statically quiet, "What are you doing?"

"You don't need these to train," John holds it up, "If it gets worse, and you lose your hearing forever, you need to know how to operate without listening. It's a perceptual learning style. Used it in the Marines," He explained.

     Bowie frowns, "I thought you were training me like a hunter, not a damn war soldier."

     The man holds out his hand for the other hearing aid, "There's no difference. You learn this way or you die. Monsters ain't gonna stop to sign their insults."

     The teenager swallowed thickly, pulling his other hearing aid off and roughly handing it back to John. The world around him went quiet and he hated it.

     "Now, I want you to go into that garage and wait for me while I get our gear," John orders, "Understand me?"

     Bowie's eyes flickered between his lips and his eyes before giving a hesitated nod.

     John rounded behind the car and out of sight. With a deep huff, Bowie trudged towards the crater, pulling the heavy lever on the door up and stepping into the darkness. From the dim light of the day, he could see the garage was a lot bigger on the inside, with metal shelves of tools and a beat-up jeep in the center. 

     Other things and large objects were scattered around the place, and for a second Bowie wonders what the hell John had planned for him in here.

     His question was answered when the light from the door began to fade. Bowie turned around just quick enough to see John close the door behind Bowie, the slamming metal was the only thing the boy could hear as he's swallowed in the darkness.

     Alone.

     "John?" Bowie called cautiously, a panic starting to rise in his chest as he ran up and slammed his fist once against the metal door, "Hey! John! What the hell—" He cut himself off by slamming his fists again.

     No response. Even if there was a response, he couldn't hear him from behind the door.

     "John!" Bowie's voice cracked, "John, let me out! Let me out! Please!" He slammed his whole body against the door, "Help!" He yelled to anyone now, "Help!"

     This was only the start of something much worse.

2005 —

     A BLONDE WOMAN IN A GREEN TOP opens the door with a surprised smile. She looked to Sam mostly, her eyes scanning between the brothers. Sam and Dean stood side by side together, while Bowie leaned against the woman's porch wall, arms crossed over his chest as he flashed the woman a lazy smile.

     "Oh my god, Sam!" She greets.

     "Well, if it isn't little Becky." He teased back.

     She rolls her eyes, "You know what you can do with that 'little Becky' crap." She scoffed, pulling the older man into a tight hug.

     "I got your e-mail."

     "I didn't think that you would come here," She admits.

     "Dean," The eldest cuts in to introduce, "Eldest brother of the boy band."

     "Hi," She greets, turning her gaze behind Dean and to Bowie, "You must be Bowmen, Sam talks about you a lot." 

     The man rejects her handshake at the mood of not wanting to touching, "He must talk about me a lot if you remembered my name, amiright?"

     Sam grimaced in embarrassment, "We're here to help, whatever we can do."

     At that, she invited them inside.

     They ended up in the kitchen, crowded around the counter island as they watched Rebecca move around, filling them in about where her parents were and why she was staying in their house.

     Bowie's eyes landed on the cat that jumped on the countertop, an orange tabby who made a lazy zig-line toward him, her chin raised high like she was superior to him as she flicked her orange tail. Bowie instantly sneezed.

     "Do you guys want a beer or something?"

     "Oh yea—"

     "No," Sam cuts Dean off, turning back to his friend, "So, tell us what happened."

     While Rebecca explained what had happened to her brother and his girlfriend, Bowie tried his best to listen. The tabby was pawing at his hand on the counter now, and he thought if he gave it a quick par and pushed it away it would leave him, but it just wanted more.

     ". . .and the police they should up, and. . ."

     "Leave me alone," Bowie says through his teeth, holding in a sneeze, "You're so cute but leave."

     The tabby meowed, flicking her tail against his irritated skin.

     ". . .they have a video from across the street. It shows Zach coming home at 10:30. Emily was killed some time after that, but I swear he was here with me until at least after midnight!"

     Bowie is physically pained from holding in his sneeze in the background of this conversation, glaring at the feline. Why did cute fluffy cats have to be the reincarnations of Satan?

     "You know what you're doing you—" Bowie sneezed loudly, causing everyone to stare at him, "—evil skank," He finished, eyes going wide.

     Rebecca frowned in confusion, "Did you just call my cat an evil skank?"

     "Uh, no?"

     "You know," Sam cuts in quickly, "Maybe we could see the crime scene, Zach's house."

     "We could?" Dean asked.

     "Why? What could you do?"

     "Well, me, not much," Sam's eyes fleet between his brother's, "But Dean and Bowie are cops."

     Bowie's eyebrows raised, "Huh—?"

     "Detectives, actually," Dean cues the lie.

     "Really? Where?" Rebecca asked.

    "Bisbee, Arizona." He says, "But we're off duty now."

     "You guys are so nice to offer but I just don't know."

     Bowie narrowed in on the cat again, "I will skin you alive if you come near me," He warned lowly, leaning down to eye-level with the animal.

     In response, the tabby liked Bowie's nose.

     ". . .now we have to find a way to prove that he's innocent."

     Rebecca nods, "Okay, I'm gonna get my keys."

     Bowie quickly stands up, "And a Tylenol while you're up there maybe?" He paused, "Or an epiPen—"

     "I'll see what I have," She smiled.

     Dean whistled lowly when the girl was out of sight, "Oh yeah, man, you're a real straight shooter with your friends."

     Bowie crossed his arms, "Yeah. Me? A cop? Man, fuck cops, don't associate me with that!"

     Sam rolled his eyes, "Look, Zach and Becky need our help."

     "I just don't think this is our kind of problem."

     "Two places at once? We've looked into less."

     "Guys," Bowie says suddenly, "I think my eye is swelling."

1997 —

     BOWIE WANTED TO BANG HIS HEAD against the nearest wall until his brain turned to mush and forgot he was deaf so he could magically hear again. The silence was too loud for him, and the darkness made his head spin. It wasn't until two lights in the corner turned on did Bowie realize he was crying against the door, looking up from his hands and shielding his eyes from the light.

"Can you hear me?"

John's voice blared through the speakers on the ceiling, booming so loud Bowie had to cover his ears from the sensitivity. He nods, not knowing if John could see him or not.

"Good," He says. "A few ex-marine buddies of mine set this up for me. Didn't ask too many questions, I like that about soldiers. Don't ask, just do." There was a pause, "Take off your shoes."

Bowie instantly paled. The idea of taking off any parts of his clothing made his skin crawl.

"Bowie, if you cant hear with your ears, you need to hear with your feet. It'll be a piece of cake with practice, understand?"

He didn't.

"I said, do you understand?" He firmed.

"Yes, Sir." Bowie bellowed through the air. With a clenched jaw, he stood up and kicked off his shoes, not caring where they landed as he removed his socks, too.

He felt uncomfortable with the cold metal against his bare feet, but said nothing as he waited for instructions. Bowie wished more than anything that he went to school.

"Good," He announced, "Now the rest is natural instinct. Focus on every sense but your ears." There was a long pause, "Good luck."

Bowie furrowed his brows.

What's that supposed to mean?

     The sound of a blaring alarm still haunts Bowie to the very day, the chains of something being released, the sound of snarling that followed.

     In seconds, Bowie was sent crashing down to the floor, the face of a woman above him with sharp, pointed, retractable teeth that emerge from her gums, her skin pale and her irises a dark yellow color.

     Vampire.

     But not just any vampire. One that hasn't turned, one that was out for its first kill.

     Bowie let out a horrified scream, the only thing keeping the creature for biting him was the shoulders he was pushing back, but it only worked so much before she dug her disgusting sharp claws into his wrists.

     Quickly, he throws the creature off of him, still screaming and shaking as he stumbled away from her, "Get me out of here! Hey!" He screamed at the monitor, rounding the ugly old jeep to get away from the woman.

     She was deprived of blood, no wonder she was acting so rabid, John must've kept her starved on purpose.

     "Hey! Hey, listen to me!" He tried to reason with her, "I-I can help you, okay? You still have time before you change— listen to me!"

     She couldn't, her eyes burning with tears as she fought every urge to kill the younger boy. But it was a natural instinct, "I'm sorry," She responds.

     In efforts to get away, Bowie ran deeper into the long crate, toward the rows of tall metal shelves and into the darkness.

     "Fuck, fuck." He cursed, trying to calm his breathing as he leaned against one of the shelves. He closed his eyes, hoping when he opened them he was back home with Bobby, shooting arrows.

     His panic didn't allow him to ear the vampire coming up on the other side of the shelf and sticking its hands through it, her strong arm wrapping around his neck and pulling him into the metal.

     "I'm sorry!" She said through sharp teeth, "I have to do this! I'm so. . .hungry!"

     Bowie began to choke and stammer out for help, begging, pleading for John to let him out. But, nothing was said over the speakers.

     In that split second, Bowie Winchester learned that the only person who could ever help him, was himself.

     With an intake of determined air, Bowie dug his fingers into the woman's thin skin before biting down against her flesh. The vampire screamed as he pushed down, loosing her grip on him just enough for him to escape.

     He knew from Bobby and Rufus that beheading a vampire could kill one. So, he started to rummage through the items on the shelves, looking for something sharp. But, he couldn't.

     John removed all traces of something sharp.

     At some point in his efforts of dodging the vampire, they had come face-to-face across each other, standing on either sides of a long metal shelf. The vampire breathed rigidly, toying with him the way he expected her to.

     He stood still, knowing she'd run any second. Bowie needed to time it perfectly.

     And just like he guessed, she charged forward. And just like he planned, he used all of his strength to pull the shelf down. The metal pipes began to tumble down, pinning the vampire between two shelves.

     "John!" He banged against the door, "John, damnit, let me go you sick fuck!"

     In that moment, for once in his life, Bowie had taken John Winchester's advice.

     He heard the loud thumping of shoes vibrate across the floor and into his skin like a stick to a drum. The sound of the vampire's snarls echoing off the walls and into his body.

     It was all only a split second, but he had never heard it all so clearly, even without hearing it.

     Bowie reaches across the nearest table and grabs a wrench, turning around and slamming it so hard against the vampire's head that it stumbled back, bleeding at the temple.

     In an angry rage toward John, toward his life, toward himself, Bowie ran forward with a raw scream, slamming the wrench again. And again.

     "Thank you," She found the words.

     But even when he had gotten on top of the creature, he didn't stop banging the wrench into her head until blood began to cake his hands and stain his t-shirt. Bowie didn't care how human she looked, every slam embedded a sob in his throat until he's vision blurred.

     The vampire's head was caved in, unrecognizable from the person she once was. But he didn't stop, he keep going until his knuckles rawed and his heart burned.

     "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate you!" He screamed, crying his eyes out as he slowed to a stop, still kneeling over the woman, "I hate you! I hate you!"

     He didn't notice John standing across from him. He didn't notice the door open wide. He didn't care. Bowie didn't care anymore.

     In that moment, Bowie Winchester prayed for forgiveness to a God that never answered his call. He prayed that the monster he murdered in cold-blood had been spared at the gates for being turned just for this sick experiment. He prayed that he was next.

     "That's a bullseye," Said John.

     A box with his hearing aids had been dropped in front of him, John, unable to form words as Bowie tried to compose himself.

     "We start again tomorrow," Was all the man had said, turning around to leave.

     He was left alone.

2005 —

     IT WAS A SHAPESHIFTER AND BOWIE NEVER FELT SO STUPID. He sat tired to a chair in Rebecca's apartment, Sam tied across from him and the shapeshifter, now in the form of Dean, moved around them slowly like pray. It had caused them a lot of trouble with the law, making Dean a wanted man for kicks before shapeshifting into Rebecca just to get the pair off suspicion.

     God, he should've seen it coming.

     His whole body felt like it was on fire from hot rage, wanting nothing more than to tear the shifter apart.

     "What are you gonna do to us?" Sam asked.

     "I'm not gonna do anything," They replied, "Dean will though," It rummages through the kitchen.

     "They'll never catch him, I'll make sure of it," Bowie responds through clenched teeth.

     "Oh, it doesn't matter," Their irises flickered white, "Murder in the first of his own brothers. He'll be hunter the rest of his life." He picks up the sharpest knife from the bundle, rounding in on Sam specifically.

     That alone made Bowie's heart leap in panic, he needed to get the creatures attention away from his little brother. He was loosing control over the situation and the whole thing was making him restless.

     "Must be sad," He speaks up, acting nonchalant, "Spending your whole life being someone else, you have no personality."

     The creature wearing his brother's face, tilts its head, "What's that supposed to mean?"

     Bowie shrugged, "I don't know, I guess I'm just saying if I was born as ugly and disgusting as you, I'd want to change the way I'd look too. After a while, you gotta admit, you're tacky."

     The Shifter clenched it's jaw, pointing the sharp end of the knife between Bowie's eyes, "You should hear what your brother Dean really thinks about you," He says, "Shapeshifters can access thoughts, memories."

     Bowie smirked a little, "Oh, sweetheart, don't try to manipulate a manipulator, I was trained by the biggest one of them all."

     It hummed, "Yeah?" He looked him over, "You're a real strong guy, you don't seem like the type to get r*ped in a motel 8, I mean, come on, two guys? That's weak of you not to fight back. Dean thinks so."

     "No he doesn't!" Sam snapped.

     It was true, if there was one thing Dean Winchester thought of Bowie, weak wasn't one of them. Hell, he thought Bowie was the strongest person he knew.

     The man's eyes burned with raging tears. It was one thing to say it, it was another thing to wear your brother's face when you did, "I'm going to fucking kill you, show you exactly how strong I am," Bowie responded lowly, his hands giving a twitch from its rope.

     The creature chuckled, moving away, "Yeah, sure. You know, I must say, I will be sorry to lose this skin, your brother's got a lot a good qualities."

     Bowie watched as the creature slammed a knife into the pool table, close enough to him. He glanced at Sam, waiting for the okay.

     The second his little brother gave a firm nod, Bowie waited until Sam kicked the creature away before backflipping up from the ground and grabbing the knife from the pool table.

     With a single swipe of the sharp blade, Bowie was free. He slashed the weapon toward the Shifter. It dodged. Bowie fakes left and slashed right, cutting the creature across the cheek.

     Bowie spins back for hardly a second, cutting Sam loose with another swipe before jabbing the knife forward. It was like a dance between the boy and the monster as the both dodged and jabbed at each other.

     Sam watched in horror from the corner, still nursing the headache from being slammed into the corner top. The only problem was that he wasn't scared of the Shifter.

     He was scared of Bowie.

     "Come on!" Bowie bellowed, his body physically shaking as stabbed the knife into the Shifters shoulder.

     The creature slammed its whole head into Bowie's, causing him to stumble just enough for the Shifter to slam his back into a bookshelf.

     Sam runs forward, punching, kicking, dodging, almost getting the upper-hand if it wasn't for the Shifters unnatural strength.

     Bowie watched in a daze as the Shifter began to choke Sam from above, pressing its palms into Sam's neck until his face turned a shade of red.

     After that, Bowie mentally blacked out. He raised to his feet and threw himself against the creature, off of his little brother and slammed its fist into its face. The fact that it wore his brother's face didn't stop Bowie from slamming its knuckles into its skull.

     "Bowie! Bowie stop!" Sam choked out, trying to catch his breath, "Bowie you know it won't kill him what are you doing?!"

     Dean had entered the room, Rebecca hot on his tail as he watched the scene unfold with wide eyes.

     "Fucking dick!" Bowie screamed, the skin on his knuckles splitting open as he continued.

     If he thought for more than a second, he would've realized it was impossible to cave a creatures head in with just the sheer strength of his hand. He would've realized the spark of his irises that was fueled by pure hot rage.

     Bowie would've realized just how savaged hunting made him.

     He was covered in blood by the time Dean had snapped out of his shocked daze, holding up his gun and shooting the creature at the side with silver bullets, too close to Bowie if he wasn't such a good aim.

     The silver killed the creature instantly, and Bowie had stopped.

     With rigid breath, he slowly stood up, blood dripping from his hands as he slowly locked eyes with each of his brothers, his chest quickly rising and falling. The room was so quiet, breathing was the only noise as the brothers stared at each other.

     Bowie reaches up to wipe his nose with his wrist, his eyes swelling up with hot tears at the realization of his actions as he numbly walked toward the front, ignoring Rebecca's flinch.

     "I'm gonna go wait in the car," He whispered softly.

     "Alright," Dean says calmly, controlling his worry, "Do you need anything? Are you hur—"

     The door slammed shut before Dean could finish, leaving the three people stunned.

[ this chapter messed me up— at least we know a bit of the training style john did :) also this narrowed out to 6,883 words ]

comment on this chapter for motivation, I love your remarks and feedback throughout the book <3