❰❰ ୧ ⋅ ˚ ₊ ·┊ೃ ' 🏹 015.
BOHEMIAN ✩ ‧ ₊ ૪
❛ it was on fire! ━━ ❜

     "𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐌𝐀𝐍?" The question didn't seem the register in Dean and Bowie's brains until Sam had asked it again. He furrowed his brow at their distant expressions, eyes shifting to the— newly renovated— house, which was painted a light blue. The tree from his dream still standing, rope from an old tire swing snapped at the root. It stood so still that Sam felt like he was still dreaming.

     Bowie rubbed his fingers through Stevie's thick brown fur, the dog heaving its tongue to the side as he looked around— ironic because he couldn't see. Bowie's eyes, however, were strained on the bedroom window of what was an old nursery, his brain forcing his eyes to see a roaring fire in its place.

     "Let me get back to you on that," Dean responds, cutting the engine of the Impala. The brothers piled out of the car, and Dean frowned when he noticed Stevie wagging beside him on a red harness, "Dude, the dog stays in the car—"

     "Sure, Dean, let me put an old blind dog in an unfamiliar vehicle alone," Bowie sassed, followed by a soft eye roll, "Relax, he's not going to bite you."

      Stevie licks his nostril in reply. Dean huffs.

     The woman who opened the door was a blonde in her late twenties, a green v-necked t-shirt and low-rise jeans. Her eyes scanned the three men, dropping down to the dog before back at Bowie who stood in the center, "Yes?"

     "Hello, sorry to bother you, ma'am," Dean cuts in, his tone a mixture between nonchalant and firm, "But we're with the Federal—"

     "I'm Sam Winchester," The youngest chops in, motioning between the three, "And these are my older brothers, Dean and Bowie. Um, we used to live here," He shifted, "You know, we were just driving by, and wondering if we could see the old place."

     "Winchester," The woman repeats in thought, "That is so funny. I-I think I found some of your photos the other night."

     "You did?" They chorused.

     She hesitates, looking back into the house before opening the door wide, motioning for them to come inside. Bowie frowned. The woman was far too trusting. If he were in her position, and three grown men with a dog came knocking, he'd probably slam it shut.

     But, with a shared look, the brothers enter.

     Bowie swallowed thickly at how different the house looked now. The structure was the same but the wallpaper was different, and the furniture is moved around. A little boy with floppy blonde hair was jumping around in a large playpen in the open kitchen, begging his mother for juice.

     The second the little boy saw Stevie, his begging for juice had turned into excited pleas to pet the blind dog. Bowie happily walked over and sat the Labrador beside the playpen, the dog excited to entertain someone young.

     The little girl on the table stayed quiet. She was older by a few years, with low pigtails and a permanent resting face. She was doing homework on the table, eying the dog in controlled excitement.

     "That's Richie. He's kind of a juice junkie," The mother introduced, "But, hey, at least he won't get scurvy."

     "He's adorable," Bowie replies, giving the little boy a thumbs up— which he didn't return but the older man didn't mind.

     "Sari, this is Sam, Bowie, and Dean," She continued, "They used to live here."

     Sari smiled kindly, "Hi."

     "So, you just moved in?" Dean concluded.

     "Yeah, from Wichita," Jenny nods.

     "You got family here?"

     Dean's drilling questions seemed to make her hesitate, most likely from a bad time she didn't want to relive, "No, I just, uh...um—"

     "Needed a fresh start?" Bowie finished, his lips twisted tight in an understanding smile.

     She eased, "Yeah. So, new town, new job. I mean, as soon as I find one— new house!"

     "So, how are you liking it so far?"

     "Well, uh, no due respect to your childhood home, I mean, I'm sure you have lots of happy memories here—" Absolutely not. "But this place has its issues."

     "What do you mean?"

     "It's just getting old, you know? We've got flickering lights almost hourly," She explained.

     Sam and Bowie glance at each other.

     "Oh, that's too bad," says Dean, "What else?"

     "Well, sinks backed up. There's rats in the basement," She hesitated, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to complain—"

     "Don't be sorry," Bowie cuts in, "Everyone has standards right? You're obviously worried for the safety of your kids, we get it." The woman eased instantly at his words, smiling wide, "Have you seen the rats? Or just heard the scratching..."

     "Just the scratching, actually..."

     "Mom?" Sari mutters, "Ask them if it was here when they lived here."

     Bowie's chest tightened, "What?"

    "The thing in my closet."

     Bowie's hand guided, rule number 3 of monster hunting; if a child says they saw something in the house, it means there's something in the house.

     "Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets," The mother responds, turning to them, "Right?" She turns to them.

     "Right, no, of course not," Sam nods.

     "She had a nightmare the other night," She explained.

     "I wasn't dreaming!" Sari insisted, "It came into my bedroom, and it was on fire!"

     Bowie felt his breakfast coming up, "We need to leave, I uh, have to—" He points to the door, hardly able to say goodbye as he rushed out of the house.

     Sam grabbed onto Stevie's leash, the duo just existing when Bowie doubled over and hurled in a bush near the car. They wince.

     "You okay?" Dean asked him, awkwardly patting his back as Bowie continued to puke his nerves out, "Erm, guess not—"

     "You hear that?" Sam asked them in panic, "A figure on fire!"

     Dean sighed, continuing to unhelpfully rub Bowie's back, "And that women, Jenny, that was the women in your dreams?"

     "Yeah! And you both heard what she was talking about, scratching, flickering lights? Both signs of a malevolent spirit—"

     "Everyone shut up for like five seconds?" Bowie grabbed at his forehead, wiping his mouth with his sleeve as he stood straighter, "Okay? Let me think!" He huffed, starting to pace in front of the Impala.

     They watched him for a second, waiting patiently like obedient children. Then, Bowie stopped his pacing, running a hand through his hair to lease his nerves.

     "There's clearly something in that house, and it ties to us," He says calmly, motioning between the three of them, "Jenny said she found our old photos the other night, most likely the same night that Sam had his dream. Sari said the figure was on fire, and... well Mom—"

     "Don't finish that," Dean snapped, rounding to Sam, "I'm just freaked out your weirdo visions are coming true!"

     "Forget about that for a minute," Sam waved off, "The thing in that house, do you think it's the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?"

     "I don't know!" Dean throws his hands up.

     "Well, I mean, has it come back or has it been there the whole time?" Sam pressed.

     "Or maybe he's something else entirely, Sam! We don't know yet," Dean huffed.

     "Those people are in danger, Dean! We have to get them out of that house," He firms.

     "Okay, Sam, listen," Bowie grabs his shoulder, "You need to calm down, we will get them out—"

     "No, I mean now!" Sam pressed, slapping his hand away from his shoulder.

     Bowie grabs his head again, feeling a migraine form, a low ringing in his ears that made him want to claw his hearing aids out.

     Dean rears his head, frustrated, "And how are you gonna do that? Huh? You got a story she's gonna believe?"

     Bowie's breathing goes unsteady.

     "Then what are we supposed to do?!"

     "Get in the fucking car!" Bowie snapped out so loud both brothers flinched. He points firmly to the Impala, his face so red he could feel his face sweating, "Both of you! Now!" He orders them both.

     In shock at his outburst, the brothers quickly pile into the car without another word.

     Bowie sighed softly. The migraine had lessened, the ringing gone.

     He was not okay.

𖤐┊

     "𝐖𝐄 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐔𝐓," dean felt the need to remind his brothers even hours later, leaning against the Impala in the middle of a gas station as he pumped his car with a full tank of gas. Bowie rolled his neck out the window, eyes clothes as he tried to gather himself in the backseat, Stevie resting on his chest, "That's all. You know, if this was any other kind of job, what would we do?"

     Sam, who stood on the other side of the car for some fresh air, tapped his fingers against the hood with a sharp exhale, "We'd try to figure out what we were dealing with," He answered reluctantly, "We'd dig into the history of the house."

     "Exactly, except this time we already know what happened," Dean says.

     "Not exactly," Bowie reminds, opening one of his eyes to stare up at Dean, "I mean, think about it, we don't actually know what happened after that fire. We were all young, how much could we possibly remember that wasn't told to us? How much do you actually remember there, De?"

     "About that night?" He frowned, "Not much. I remember the fire. . .the heat," He shook the feeling away, "Then I carried you out the front door."

     Sam stands straighter, "You did?"

     "Yeah, well, you never knew that?"

     "No. . ." He admits.

     "Well, you know dad's story as well as I do," Dean reminds, "Mom was—was on the ceiling, and whatever put her there was long fone by the time dad found her."

     Bowie frowns, straining his memories. He was only two— it's not his fault that he can't remember every detail about that night. But deep down he felt like he was missing something like he had seen something he wasn't supposed to and he can't put his finger on it.

     Why didn't John tell them that Bowie was in the nursery, too?

     "And he never had a theory about what did it?" Sam questioned.

     "If he did, he never told us," Bowie muttered bitterly.

     Dean scoffed in agreement, "God knows we asked him enough times."

     "Okay," Sam sighed, "So if we're gonna figure out what's going on now, we have to figure out what happened back then, see if it's the same thing."

     "Yeah, talk to dad's friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time," Dean agrees, glancing down at Bowie and thumping his forehead with his knuckles, "You're the tracker, where should we start first?"

     He reached up and rubbed his temple with a scold, "Well, if anyone could stand John for more than a second, I'd say start with his old friends, I mean he's bound to tell them something. They might remember how John acted after the incident. It's a start. God knows if they're still in this town."

     "Does this feel like a regular case to you?" Sam asked.

     Dean hesitates, and Bowie doesn't bother to respond.

     "I'll be right back," Dean clears his throat, and moves off the car, "I got to go to the bathroom."

     Before either of them could respond, Dean had gone around the gas station. Sam furrowed his brows, giving Bowie a knowing look.

𖤐┊

     "𝐒𝐎, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑," Dean motioned around the auto repair shop with a grim-like expression, stepping over the pile of metal as he followed a man through the open building, "You used to own this garage together?" He questioned.

Bowie and Sam followed closely beside Dean.

"Yeah, we used to, a long time ago," The man chuckled at the memory, "Matter of fact, must be twenty years since John disappeared," He recalls, "So, why are the cops interested all of a sudden?"

Bowie shrugged nonchalantly, forcing a kind smile on his face, "You know our system, cracking open old cases for the heck of it. This one's been unsolved for too long, don't you think?"

The man hummed in agreement, "Uh-huh. Well, what do you want to know about John?"

"Whatever you remember," Dean says, "Whatever sticks out in your mind."

He thought for a moment, "He was a stubborn bastard, I remember that. And, uh, oh whatever the game, he hated to lose. It was that whole Marine thing," He says fondly, a smile on his face that made Bowie's stomach twist into knots, "But uh, he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids."

"But that was before the fire," Sam cuts in.

"That's right..."

"He ever talk about that night?" Sam pressed.

The man shook his head, "No, not at first. I think he was in shock."

"I mean, anyone would be," Bowie reminds, "But, I'm sure eventually he said something...right?"

"Oh, he wasn't thinking straight. He said, he said something caused that fire and killed Mary."

"Did he ever say what did it?"

He shook his head, "Nothing did it, it was an accident. An electrical short in the ceiling or walls or something. I begged him to get some help, but..."

"But what?" Dean pressed.

"Oh, it just got worse and worse," He recalls, "He started reading these strange old books. He started going to see this Palm reader in town."

"Palm reader? You have a name?"

Like Bowie expected, the man didn't have a name.

But, he was a tracker for a reason and with a quick skim through the phone books Bowie had found the address of a Missouri Mosley. Dean joked about giving him a bone for his good work. Long after that, the brothers could be seen huddled in small chairs in a small gift-shop in town, Stevie between Dean's legs as they waited for Missouri to be done with her recent client.

     "Don't you worry about a thing!" An older woman with dark brown hair and skin walked out of the back room, ushering a gentlemen with a smile on her face, "Your wife is crazy about you."

     Bowie tilts his head at her words, clearly reading the lies straight off her tongue. He was proven right when the door closed behind the man, Missouri leaning against the frame with a shake of her head.

     "Poor bastard. His women is cold-bangin' the Gardener," She admits, chuckling to herself.

     Bowie's smirk widened, "Why didn't you tell him?"

     "People don't come here for the truth, they come for good news!" She reminds, "Well? Sam, Dean, Bohemian come on already. I ain't got all day!"

     The brothers glance at each other, then scrambled after the women.

     "Well, let me look at you!" She chuckled, admiring them, "Oh, you boys grew up handsome," She points to Dean, "And you were one goofy-looking kid, too." She reached up and squeezed Bowie's cheek, "Not you, though, you were always a little heart throbber."

     Bowie grinned proudly, looking to Dean.

     "Sam," She grabbed his hand, a small frown forming on her face, "Oh, honey. I'm sorry about your girlfriend, and your father? He's missing?"

     "How'd you know all that?" Sam accused.

     "What part of Palm Reader do you not get?" Bowie muttered to him.

     Missouri nods, "You were just thinking it, just now."

     "Well, where is he? Is he okay?" Dean asked eagerly.

     "Palm reader, not fortune teller," Bowie says.

     "I don't know," She says.

     "Don't know? You're supposed to be a psychic, right?" Dean pressed.

     Her expression hardens, "Boy, you see me sawing some bony tramp in half? You think I'm a Magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can't just pull facts out of thin air! Sit."

     Bowie and Sam chuckle at Dean's shocked expression, listening to Missouri before she threw another fit at them.

     "Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I'm gonna whack you with a soon!" She warns Dean.

     "I didn't do anything!" He says like a child.

     "Well, you were thinking about it."

     Bowie grinned, "What am I thinking about?"

     Missouri frowns, "I don't know," She admits, looking him over cautiously, "Hm, ain't that odd? I can't get a single thing off you." He mirrored her expression instantly.

     "So, uh, our dad. When did you first meet him?"

     Sam's change of the subject didn't stop Bowie from leaning back in his seat with a deep frown. What did Missouri mean? How was he different?

     "He came in for a reading a few days after the fire," She recalls, "I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say, I drew back the curtains for him."

     Yeah, thanks for that. Bowie thought.

     "What about the fire?" Dean questioned, looking more reluctant with each word he spoke, "Do you know about what killed our mom?"

     "A little..." She turns her eyes away, "Your daddy took me to your house. He was hopping I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing."

     "Did you?"

     She shook her head, "I don't know, but it was evil."

     Bowie swallowed thickly, "Well, then you're going to hate what we're about to say next."

     Missouri frowned, "You think something's back in that house?"

     "Definitely."

     "I don't understand. I haven't been back inside, but I've been keeping an eye on the place," She says, "It's been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it acting up now?"

     "I don't know," Sam says, "But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house? All happening at once, it just feels like something's starting."

     Bowie watched Missouri's expression closely. He didn't need to be a psychic to read social cues and there was something about her body language that screamed 'LAIR' in bold letters.

He could see it in the way her brow twitched, her eyes diverted, even the way she spoke to them— faking confusion when the questions got too deep.

     His eyebrows furrowed. She knew something.

     "Well, that's a comforting thought," Dean responds, shaking his head. His eyes drift to Bowie, "Are we sure this is the best idea?"

     Bowie didn't tear his eyes away from Missouri, "No. This is a horrible idea."