❰❰ ୧ ⋅ ˚ ₊ ·┊ೃ ' 🏹 017.
BOHEMIAN ✩ ‧ ₊ ૪
❛ Dad treated him like
another hunt! ━━ ❜

     𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 and it wasn't subtle anymore, the feeling in his chest that tightened whenever John Winchester was mentioned, or when a hunt goes slightly sideways and he's put in danger all over again. His brothers, who he loved dearly, suffocating him. It was piling high on his conscious, the dominos he had built shaking against the winds of his past – the same past he had run from at 18, in hopes it would end there.

It never ends there.

Seeing Mary felt like a tipping point for the man. His own mother, a Poltergeist, a protector erupted into flames. She had touched his cheek, and although holding him for just a moment it still felt like a lifetime of all the pain and regret he held for her.

Punished for her death for as long as he could remember.

She had gone as quick as she came but left a permanent stain on his upbringing. Yet, there she was, in that house smiling at them like a picture frame, as if she hadn't burned on the ceiling. Mary had saved them, yet again, and yet. . .he couldn't do the same.

It was a tipping point.

So, there Bowie Winchester sat, somewhere in a town in Rockford, Illinois - home to the famous Roosevelt Asylum where the brothers had been given coordinates to by John from an unknown number - running his finger along the rim of his club soda.

His eyes were glossed red, bags under his eyes weighing in as he tried hard not to let them close. His hair, which was usually curled against his forehead in soft locks, was messy and matted upward. His skin was paler than usual, almost sick-like. If anyone dared to look closely, one would assume that he was seconds away from dropping dead.

He sure felt that way.

"Can I get you anything else?" Asked a bartender on the other side of the island, wiping down the counter with a rag as he got ready for his nightly customers. His name tag read 'Kit', which in Bowie's opinion, suited the tattooed youngster. The young man smirked, "Besides, a third club soda." He adds.

Bowie swallows thickly, looking down at the drink in front of him with hesitation.

He didn't know where Sam and Dean were, considering he left early that morning without a note or a text to where he would be. They called him about twenty times. Text doubling that until they abruptly stopped. Most likely got so roped up in the case that they simply forgot - or decided to give him a break.

Which means they couldn't exactly stop him from what he was about to do.

"Actually," He croaked, pushing away the club soda with his finger as he fought back tears, "I think I need something a little stronger. . ." He responds, "Something that could numb me up a little."

Kit hums, taking the glass, "I can work with that," He says, "I'll surprise you."

To that, Bowie smiled, "I think I need a little surprise in my life," He answered, "I think I'm tired of turning around and not being surprised."

"Then you've come to the right place."

In seconds, a tall glass of something pure white was placed in front of him, and Bowie didn't need to be a genius to know it wasn't water from the gut-wrenching scent that burned his nose once he was close to it. A single cherry sat lazily at the bottom, and with a tilt of his head, he wondered if his choice to drink again was the worst he's ever made.

But then he thought, 'Fuck it.'

Bowie downed the glass quicker than he ever thought possible, the burn shredding the skin of his throat. He felt it come up for a second, but with another quick swallow, it settled down and made him cough.

"What is that?" He wheezed, pushing the glass away in disgust.

"Damn," Kit whistled, taking the glass away," We call that a Sunset Rum, things eighty-four percent alcohol straight up," He felt the need to educate, watching the effects with an amused grimaced, "That can knock the senses out of you if you overindulge."

Bowie took that information with a grain of salt, fishing the cherry from the bottom and popping it into his mouth, rolling it against his tongue in thought, "That so?"

Kit nods, "Yeah, you looked like you needed it." He answered, cleaning the glasses on the counter like second nature as he spoke, "I don't mean to pry but you seem seconds from killing yourself," He says bluntly.

Bowie scoffed a laugh, "Well, at least you're honest," He pauses a moment, gathering himself, "I've got too much to do before I can consider it."

The man nods again, "A bucket list?" He guessed.

The hunter tapped his fingers against the counter in thought, "A personal vendetta."

Kit laughed a little, "That's a bit dramatic," He responds, "What did they do?"

"I don't think you want to hear my life story," Bowie mused.

Kit leaned against the countertop, "Come on, you got me curious now. A cute guy comes into my bar telling me he's planning a vengeful scheme, can't blame my ass for being curious."

Bowie's face redded at the compliment, reaching up to rub behind his hearing aid as he thought it over, "Alright," He hummed, looking down at the empty glass, another once of hesitation washing over him, "But only if you pour me another drink."

𖤐┊

"𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐎𝐖?", Dean asked when they entered the Asylum that day, side-by-side. The eldest tried to look over his shoulder at Sam's flip phone, watching him go through the messages and come up empty-handed, "Don't tell me, I already know the answer."

Sam sighed, snapping the phone closed and putting it in his pocket.

"Am I the only one who thinks he's being a little damn selfish?" Dean continued, "I mean, we finally get word from Dad, coordinance, and he runs off to god knows where."

"No," Sam answered instantly, "I don't think that it's selfish for our abused brother to need a break from finding his abuser."

"Dad isn't an abuser," Dean clenched his jaw, "He's a discipliner, and Bowie never followed the rules, of course, he was gonna get the short end of the stick. I mean, the man never put his hands on you, hardly on me either unless I did something really wrong."

To that, Sam didn't answer. Not because he agreed but because if he did say anything he might end up punching the man in his jaw, "So, apparently, the cops chased the kids here, into the South Wing." He changed the subject."

"South Wing, huh?" He pulls out John's journal, "Wait a second," He flips to the right page, reading aloud, "1972, three kids broke into the South Wing. Only one survived. The way he tells it, one of his friends went nuts and started lighting up the place."

"So, whatever's going on, South Wing seems like the heart of it," Sam settled.

Dean rolled his eyes, "Hell, if Bowie was here he would've said something along the lines of, 'No shit'," He mused.

Sam smirked, walking past him, "If I didn't know any better it sounds like you miss his company on these things."

The eldest clenched his jaw, "Shut up."

They walk into the South Wing, talking among themselves. Sam seemed to grow annoyed with his brother as he continued to make insensitive jokes about his dreams, some sticking the landing to get him to laugh but the rest seemed to bother Sam.

'Bowie would understand,' He thought.

"So, what do you think? Ghost possessing people?" Dean asked him as they stood in a laboratory, most likely used to torture the patients there.

"Maybe," Sam responds, "Or maybe it's more like Amityville or the Smurl Haunting," He suggests, frowning, "I'm sure Bowie would have better comparisons."

"Ah, spirits driving them insane, kind of like my man Jack from 'The Shining,'" Dean jokes.

Sam hesitates, looking him over, "Dean, when are we going to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Talk about the fact that Dad's not here," Sam answered bluntly.

"Oh, uh, let's see, never." He deadpans.

"I'm being serious, man."

"So am I, Sam!" He raised his tone, "He sent us here. He obviously wants us here. We'll just have to pick up the search later."

"It doesn't matter what he wants!" Sam clawed desperately to get it through his brother's thick skull.

Dean motioned to him, "See, that attitude right there? That is why I always got the extra cookie."

"And why Bowie got the short straws right?" Sam quotes him from earlier, giving him a look.

"Oh god, do you always have to bring him up in our arguments about Dad?" Dean groaned, "We get it okay? I'll admit, Bowie had it bad but it was over 6 years ago! I'm tired of walking eggshells around him about it. Dad never did to us what he did to Bowie-"

"That doesn't make Dad any less of a shit parent, Dean!" Sam bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls of the Asylum, "What? Do you think because he didn't raise his hand to you every single day that Bowie should just roll over and accept what happened to him? I didn't want to admit it either, but Dad treated him like another hunt."

"He was looking out for him," Dean says, "Him and I both, Dad told me all the time when we were alone that everything he did was for Bowie's own good. I mean, look at him, Sam, he's one of the best hunters in the business-"

"Bowie didn't want to be a hunter, Dean, none of us did! He left for a reason, don't you get that? Don't you see what this is doing to him?" Sam expressed, "Do you really think he just forgave everything and moved on? Are you stupid enough to believe that he even accepted your drunk-ass apology to him-"

"And why are you standing here in front of me defending him, instead of him doing it himself?" Dean cut off, face red, "It's been almost two months since that incident, so why now are you all bringing it up? If Bowie has more to say about it, hell, if he wants to scream from the rooftop and blame us all for what happened to him, then why hasn't he done it already?! Why hasn't he left?!"

To that, Sam couldn't respond.

Because he didn't know.

After everything that had happened to Bowie, even now as the hunt for John progressed, why did Bowie stay? Outside of the deal, he made Dean, outside of the closure for their mother Mary, why did he allow himself to get dragged through the dirt all over again?

He sighs, "Look. If I could fix everything this family did to him, I would. I'm trying to be better. He's my brother at the end of the day, and I'd kill for him. But whatever Bowie does with his life after we find Dad and finish this, is up to him. He came out here to solve this, so forgive me for expecting him to do exactly that. Okay? I can only try and fix what I did to him, not what Dad did. So don't come here blaming me for everything as if it was just me, because it wasn't."

Sam nods, saying nothing else.

𖤐┊

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 so visibly angry than how he saw Kit in front of him, the young bartender clenching his fist over an empty vodka bottle as he tried to calm his nerves once Bowie had finished talking. It seemed that Kit was the empath type, the kind of guy who gets worked up over things that he couldn't control — even if he didn't know about it then.

He, of course, had only met Bowie this morning, yet the second the deaf man had entered the bar he couldn't help but be instantly protective.

Bowie had seemed out of place in the beginning, the curiosity of the man eating away at Kit until he had the courage to build up conversation. Now, he wished he buy a gun and hunt down Bowie's family members himself.

"And now you're just, what? Driving cross-state to find the man who physically and mentally abused you with your older brother who stole your Art letter and gaslight you into think you weren't assaulted even though he was physically present when it happened?" Kit summarized, the words pooling from his mouth in a quick breath as he looked disgusting at the thought.

"Yeah, basically," Bowie slurred his words, putting another glass of alcohol to his lips, "Don't forget the loss of Stevie, that hit a lot harder than I expected."

"Give me that," Kit orders, taking the half-empty glass from the Hunter's hands and discarding it, "If I knew that you haven't touched a drop of alcohol since you were thirteen and that you're only doing this out of self-sabotage, I would've kicked your ass out of my bar," He scolds, running a hand through his ear-length black hair.

Bowie shrugged, not bothered by the fact that Kit had cut him off from the bar because he drank up most of the liquor anyway — his wallet empty and his brain so fuzzed out that any emotion thrown at him simply rolled off his skin. It felt nice. It started with Katherine and he friends edibles, the feeling of those alone made him feel invincible, made him feel less broken than he actually was.

Now it was alcohol. And all Bowie could think of was, 'Now I know why Dean does this so much.'

"So, what should I do, Kitty?" Bowie asked.

"One, you can stop calling me Kitty," Kit reddened, not expecting that nickname at all, "Two, you can leave your toxic ass family and start your life over again!"

Bowie shook his head quickly, the act making his head pound, "Nope, no. Can't do that. Gotta find my mom's killer, gotta get the closure. Gotta find John, gotta force him to look me in the eyes and admit what he did," He admits bluntly, "I'm doing this for me."

Kit drummed his fingers against the countertop, thinking, "Alright," He says finally, "End of the day it's your choice but those reasons alone aren't going to keep you going for much longer," He tells him, crossing his arms, "You've been silent your whole damn life, taking it all with a grain of salt. I personally think you should throw the salt back."

"What do you mean?" Bowie's swallowed the dryness in his throat down.

"I mean, you're going to go back to that motel, and you're going to look Dean straight in the eyes and tell him how you really feel," Kit firmed, "Just because they're family doesn't mean you have to accept their apologies! Bowie, you need to fight back. Not just against the people who killed your mom, but your family, too."

Bowie blinked, "That was deep."

Kit raised an eyebrow, "I'm serious."

"I'll do it," He responds, slapping the counter and getting to his feet, "I'll do it right now."

     The bartender instantly backtracked, "Wait what? Bowie you're intoxicated, you can barely stand."

     "I can stand," He responds, stumbling.

Kit scrambles across the counter to help him, "Damnit, you're a pain in my ass and I just met you," He scolds softly, helping him back to his seat, "I'm not letting you go until you've sobered up a little!"

Bowie slowly picked up a steel metal straw, holding it up like a toddler presenting a rock, "I could stab this in your jugular and walk out of this bar," He says nonchalantly.

Kit rolled his eyes, snatching it, "I believe you."

He sighed, slumping back, "If I don't do it now, I'll never do it," Bowie admits, rubbing his eyes.

     The man sighed slow, rubbing his neck in hesitation before looking back at his bar companion, an older woman who just began her shift, "Ronnie, you think you can hold the fort down? I gotta run an errand."

     The woman waved him away in annoyance.

     "Alright, come on," Kit dragged Bowie up and out the door.

That was how Bowie ended up in Kit's sleek black Jeep Wagoneer, his head dangling out the window as they listened to music on CD, the midnight air helping Bowie to sober — that was until he found a bottle of rum in the backseat and started drinking it like water.

"Give me that!" Kit scolds, not taking his eyes off the road as he snatched the half-empty bottle and threw it out the window, "You're worse than a veteran, you know that right?"

     "This is it," He groaned, pointing lazily to the Motel up ahead.

     He pulled into the parking lot, unbuckling his seatbelt. Bowie's eyes widened, reaching over and grabbing his hand over the buckle.

     "What are you doing?"

     "You're not going in there alone," Kit firmed.

     "Yeah, I am—"

     "No."

     "Am to."

     "No, you aren't." Kit continued, "You're too vulnerable right now, and I don't feel comfortable just dropping you off."

     "You don't even know me," Bowie muttered.

     Kit rolled his eyes, "I know enough," He reminds, "Plus, I'd feel like an asshole getting you drunk and then leaving you on your own— even if it's technically my job to get you drunk that's not the point—"

     "Thank you," Bowie slushed, probably the most serious emotion he had shown since getting intoxicated as he started at Kit with such fire that the bartender couldn't help but soften, "For not, uh—"

     For not taking advantage of me in this state.

     For not leaving me when I needed someone.

     For listen to me.

     "You're welcome," Kit responds, not letting him elaborate, already knowing what he was going to say.

     They stare at each other for a long moment, Bowie's hazel eyes locked with Kit's soft blue ones. His breath was unsteady, his glossed over as he glanced all around Kit's face. All in seconds, until Bowie looked away and motioned to the Motel, clearing his throat.

     "I gotta do on my own," He tells Kit, "Only way it feels right."

     Kit swallows thickly, understanding it, "So, I won't see you again then?" He questioned, "You're one hell of a one-night stand, you know that?"

     Bowie gives him a sluggish grin, "Never say never." He gives the man his phone number, the numbers written down sloppily before he placed it in Kit's button-up pocket, patting it, "Maybe you can make me another drink!"

     "'Never again." Kit responds.

𖤐┊

"WHERE IS HE, DAMNIT!", Dean paces the room with a clenched jaw, his eyes cast down to his phone as he waited for his brother to answer his messages. It had come to a point where they were worried more than ever, and Dean was tired of hiding it, "This isn't like him. What if he was kidnapped? Murdered!"

     Sam nodded, cleaning a cut he gained from the hunt in Roosevelt Asylum, "Maybe we should go out there and look for him," He suggests, "He probably ditched his phone, I'm sure this is all for a good reason."

     Dean gnawed at his bottom lip, "Okay. Yeah, no that's a good idea. Let me call some people, maybe Bobby knows where he is. Bobby always knows."

     Before either of them could move for the exit, the door was abruptly slammed open, causing them both to jump back in surprise. Bowie is hanging his weight by the handle, his eyes wide on the floor as he felt himself dipping down even though he wasn't really moving. He shakes the blur in his vision and stumbles inside, look dramatically surprised to see them.

     "Where the fuck have you been?" Dean demands.

     "Well, I—"

     "Are you...drunk?" Sam asked in confusion.

     Dean's eyes widen, "You seriously went to get drunk? On this hunt Dad specifically sent us on? A hunt, mind you, that Sammy and I had to close by ourselves because you dropped off the face of the planet this afternoon," He motioned between the brothers, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

     That question seemed to bubble up something in Bowie, "I—" He tried to form words, but Dean was quick to cut him off long before he could say them.

     "You think you can just pack up, leave and not think either of us are going to question it?" Dean continued on, "What happened to being a team, here? You can't just fucking run off when shit gets too hard for you—"

     "Why not? You did it." Bowie had spit the words with such venom that even he was surprised, his tone still slurred together as he tried his hardest to stand straight.

     Dean's eyebrows shoot up, stepping forward, "What's that supposed to mean?"

     "Dean, maybe we should just—" Sam suggestion was cut off by Dean's aggressive wave of his hand.

     "No. No, Sammy, there's clearly something Bowie wants to say," He responds, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

     Bowie swallowed thickly, face hot, "Nothing," He says, trying to move past him in hopes to lock himself in the bathroom forever, "Just forget it."

     Dean was steps ahead, grabbing his bicep roughly, "No, come on, tough guy. Tell me what you want to say!"

     His whole body locked up at Dean's aggressive touch, "Don't. Touch me." He says under his breath, eyes glossing over as he tried to pry his arm away.

     Dean's grip didn't ease.

     "Let me fucking go!" Bowie snapped.

     "Dean, just let him go—" Sam responds softly, moving to try and step between them.

     Dean moved him back with his other hand, "Stay out of this, Sam!" He orders, turning back to Bowie, "You've done nothing but hide how you really feel since I picked you up! You clearly got some pent up issues here and I'm tired of walking on eggshells around you! I'm tired of thinking everything I say is gonna some how hurt your feelings. We're grown men, Bow, not fucking children anymore!"

     "We were never a children," Bowie shook his head. He felt his whole body heat up, his face so red that he felt sick. His body was shaking now, his finger twitching against his palm as he looked down at the floor. Not making eye contact, "Let me go, please."

     "Admit it, Bow," Dean mutters, "Admit that no matter how hard I try, how hard any of us try, you're never actually going to forgive us! Forgive me! Stop pretending that we're okay one minute and then cold shouldering me whenever the fucking wind blows!"

     "Let me go..."

     Dean scoffs a laugh, "I mean they say forgive and forget but you don't do either of them, you just sit in this hole of never forgiving and never forgetting! We get it, Bow, we fucked up back then but what did you expect me to do about it?!"

     "I expected you to be my fucking big brother, Dean!" Bowie bellowed, the words pooling out before he could consider what he was saying.

     And it felt good.

The bomb had finally exploded.

     "I expected you to protect me! I might not blame you for running away while I was being fucking raped in a Motel room, but I can sure as fuck blame you for gaslighting me into thinking it never happened when you were there!" Bowie screamed, voice going raw, "For years you made me feel crazy for it! For as long as I can remember you've treated me like shit."

     Dean was quiet, listening to him with glistening eyes. Sam, however, kept his head down, hoping the others wouldn't hear him sniffle as he listened to Bowie speak about their childhood.

     "You wanna finally fix it? Well, too fucking bad. It doesn't get fixed in less than a month! You can't just undo everything you've done to me with a sorry!" Bowie continued, "And yeah! Okay? I'm fucking angry, I'm always angry. Because John made me into a hunting weapon and I got cheated out of my childhood, I was nothing. I grew up as fucking nothing. I still feel like nothing."

     He was choking on sobs now, every word coming out with pure grief, "So, no! We aren't okay. So, get the fuck off of me!" He ripped his arm out of Dean's grip, holding it to his chest, "I hate you!" He pushed into Dean's chest.

     The act made him feel better, so he did it again.

     "I hate you!" Bowie sobbed, "I hate you because I loved you, Dean! I loved you and you didn't protect me! I needed you! I fucking needed my brother and you left me behind, you always leave me behind!"

He cried in a single breath, "Why do you hate me so much, huh? What did I ever do to you? What did I do to any of you?! I never asked to be pulled apart by your father, I didn't want anything! I just wanted my brothers—"

     He continued to slam into Dean's chest, not caring that Dean stood so still, taking it all without raising his hands. He didn't even notice that Dean was crying, full blown tears pooling out of his eyes. Sam noticed it, somehow through his own tears he could see his brothers clearly.

     "Bowie..." Sam steps forward.

     "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

     "Bowie... it's okay..."

     "You're making me search for a man who ruined everything! He ruined it! And the second we find him you're both going to take his side! You're going to defend him and I'm going to be left again! Again!" Bowie continued to cry, "You won't protect me from him, you never did."

     "Bowie," Dean firmed, trying to grab his arms, trying to grasp him, "Bowie, listen to me."

     "I can't, I can't do it," He cried, "I can't keep fighting him, I can't do it anymore, De, I can't."

     "Bowie," Dean continued, "Damnit, Bow, listen to me!"

     He bellowed, grabbing both sides of his brothers face with his palms, making sure Bowie could see every word that Dean formed with his mouth. His eyes burning with such determination that Bowie instantly stopped fighting.

     "If he ever, ever, tries to put his hands on you again? He'll have to touch me first," Dean vowed, shaking his head at the thought, "Do you understand me? I'm going to protect you. I don't care how late it is, I'm doing it now and you got me. I got you."

     "You have both of us," Sam firmed, walking up beside him and squeezing his shoulder, "We aren't divided anymore. We can make our own choices, and we're choosing to stand by you."

     Bowie sniffles, feeling his whole body droop down. He couldn't carry his own weight anymore, but that wasn't a problem when he had is brothers to lessen the weight for him. For once, he felt okay dropping against their hands, accepting the comfort he was trying so hard to block out since he came out here.

     "What if—"

     "Then we'll figure it out," Dean cuts in softly, "I know now that sorry just ain't gonna cut it this time."

     Bowie nods, his eyes feeling heavy, his mind spilling in surprise. He closes his eyes, not even realizing he was on the rug until he felt both Sam and Dean wrap their arms around him, keeping him steady while they sat on their knees.

     "I drank again..." Bowie cried, "I shouldn't have done it but I didn't know what else to do..."

     "We'll cold turkey you, if we have to," Sam jokes.

An important question still lingered.

Can they be okay, now?

Genuinely, truly, okay? Could they finally start to build up, rise from the abuse John had put on them? Stand together for once.

The answer: They will certainly try.

[ HOW WE FEELING? we're getting into John very soon, I plan on skipping most of the fillers this season ]