𖥔 ՞ ˖࣪ ٪ ˖ ݁ . ؛ ៹ ָ࣪ ̨𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་ ˖ ʿ 🏹 ꜝꜞ
✧── XX ;'-     you gotta have faith!
📼 ( 5 STEPS TO FORGIVENESS )

S1 ; APRIL 24TH, 2006 ┈•
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𓍢 ━━ ❪ ACT ONE OF BOHEMIAN ❫ ˖୧
❝ EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU, BOW! ❞

*trigger warning: talk of religious trauma, religion*

𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐖 much he loves his brothers. That is, until they're next in line to dance with death, which is more often than he wanted for them but I guess that's what happens when you have a savior complex like they did.

Bowie stood in the middle of a Hospital. His heart was beating in his throat and his palms felt sweaty. He didn't expect the hunt to go sideways. He didn't expect Dean to take the hit, and now Bowie can say that he was again reminded in that moment just how much he loved his brother.

"Sir?" The nurse at the front desk spoke, furrowing her eyebrows when Bowie didn't answer. He looked too dazed to listen, "Uh, sir? You're the next eldest sibling, correct?"

Sam elbows him.

"What?" Bowie rawly voiced, eyes red and itchy. He shook his negative thoughts away, "Oh, uh, yeah. I am. Sorry, you were saying?"

"I'm sorry to ask but, there doesn't seem to be any insurance on file," She explained.

"Oh, uh, right," Bowie fishes for his wallet in his red jacket pocket, "Just put him under mine for now," He tells her, handing over his insurance card with a tight-lipped smile.

The cop next to them spoke, "Look, uh, we can finish this up later."

"No, no, it's okay," Sam answers, "We were just taking a shortcut through the neighborhood and our windows were rolled down. We heard some screaming when we drove past the house, and we stopped, ran in."

"You all heard the screaming, aye?" The cop writing down the information looks suspiciously at Bowie, eyeing his hearing aids.

Bowie clenched his jaw at the micro-aggression, "Yes, we all did," He states.

The younger, nicer cop frowned at his partner before saying, "And found the kids in the basement?" The brothers nod, "Well, thank god you did."

Bowie notices Dean's doctor walking out of the hospital room, his eyes furrowed down at the files in his hand. He didn't notice the brothers there until Sam had spoken up.

"Hey, Doc, is he—"

"He's resting," The doctor reassures.

Bowie narrows his eyes, "And?"

"The electrocution triggered a heart attack," He continues, "It was pretty massive, I'm afraid. His heart, it's damaged."

"How damaged?" The brothers respond in unison.

The doctor hesitates, "We've done all we can. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I'd give him a couple of weeks at most, maybe a month."

It felt like Bowie was hearing white noise after that.

Taking a step back, he leaned against the wall, feeling his breathing go unsteady, like every breath put more weight on his chest. A couple of weeks? Maybe a month? No, that wasn't possible. This was Dean they're talking about.

Maybe that was just the doe-eyed little brother in Bowie's heart that saw his older brother as some kind of indestructible superhero, but Dean Winchester always got back up, right? Always.

"No," Sam shakes his head, "There's got to be something you can do, some kind of treatment."

"We can't work miracles," He responds, "I really am sorry."

It was an hour before Bowie could calm down enough to walk into Dean's hospital room. The pair looked straight faced, knowing Dean was going to downplay the situation as much as possible.

"You ever actually watched daytime TV?" He asked them, clicking through the channels idly, his voice raw and exhausted, "It's terrible."

"Not as terrible as you look," Bowie teased softly, taking a seat right beside him. Dean scoffed a laugh, "I shouldn't say that, we share the same genes."

Sam exhales, "I talked to your doctor."

Dean ignores that, still looking at the TV screen, "That fabric softener Teddy Bear? Ooh, I want to hunt that little bitch down."

"Dean. . ." Sam clenched his jaw.

He turns off the TV, getting comfortable, "Right, well, looks like you're both gonna leave town without me."

Sam scoffs in disbelief, "What are you talking about? We're not gonna leave you here."

"Hey, you better take care of that car," Dean continues, "Or I swear, I'll haunt your ass."

"That's not funny," Bowie muttered, unable to meet anyone's eyes as he said, "You're not gonna die, De. You're just not."

"Oh, come on, it's a little funny," He responds, taking a pause, "Look, kiddos, what can I say? It's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That's it, end of story."

"Don't talk like that, alright?" Sam firms, "We still have options."

"What options?" Dean asks, "You got burial or cremation. I know it's not easy, but I'm gonna die and neither of you can stop it."

Bowie stands up abruptly. He didn't think Dean saying those words would affect him this much, "You're not gonna die!" His voice cracks.

Sam walks out first and when Bowie goes to follow Dean speaks up.

"You take care of him," He orders, "Torch gets passed down to you now."

"Yeah?" He turns around aggressively, "Well, it shouldn't have been passed down to you in the first place," Bowie says, "And if you think for a second that either of us are just going to give up then you're a lot dumber than you pretend to be."

Dean clenched his jaw, and for a second, Bowie thought that he'd argue with him, just like he always did.

But instead he says, "I love you, Bj. You know that right? I know I wasn't able to make it all up to you in time, and I'm sorry." Dean says softly.

Taken back, his eyes swelling with fresh tears, "Yeah, whatever." Bowie replies bitterly.

Then he left without another word.

*·˚ ༘ ➳〔 𝙗𝙤𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙖𝙣 〕 ࿐ ࿔*:

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 highway before town, Sam and Bowie sat across from each other at the table, stacks of books between them and printed-out newspaper articles of people who've cheated death.

Bowie bites the skin of his thumb, flipping through pages of a book on witchcraft. He didn't want to take the magical route— and God knows Dean would never let him use anything on him knowingly— but he wanted to keep all the options open.

Besides, any amuature can do magic.

"Hey, dad, it's Sam," The youngest brother stands up to pace, leaving yet another voicemail, "Uh, you probably won't even get this, but uh, it's Dean. He's sick and the Doctor says there's nothing they can do. But, um, they don't know the things we know, right? So, uh, don't worry. 'Cause Bow and I are gonna do whatever it takes to get him better."

Bowie clenched his jaw in anger when Sam put the phone down.

He watched his little brother close his eyes to gather himself, a little sob bubbling in the back of his throat as he tried to force every feeling he felt down.

Bowie hated that.

"Hey," He said warmly, letting the anger roll off his shoulders. He spoke calmly, and in a weird way, maybe even motherly as he stood up, "Come here, give me a hug."

Sam allows himself to press his head into the softness of Bowie's stomach, letting out a shaky breath as the eldest rubbed at his shoulder in a soothing way.

"You said it yourself, we're gonna do whatever it takes to get him better," He reminded him lightly, "We got this, alright? I promise."

Bowie pulls back and pats his back hard and aggressively, making Sam wince. Then, he holds out his pinky for him to grab.

The youngest scoffs, "What are we? Six."

He says nothing, giving him a persistent look. Sam smiles a little, wrapping his pinky around Bowie's.

He felt the weight on his shoulders lessen in that moment, glad more than ever to have Bowie back.

A knock on the door makes them both stiffen in confusion. Sam wipes at his eyes while Bowie picks up a freshly clean arrowhead from the table, holding it so firmly in his hand that a few veins pop out of his forearm.

He looks through the window and his whole demeanor changes, "Damnit, Dean!" He curses, opening the door wide, "What are you doing here?!"

"I checked myself out," Dean responds, using the wall for support because he couldn't even stand straight.

Sam stands up, quick to help him, "What, are you crazy?"

Bowie pops his head out the door, looking around with narrowed eyes before slamming it shut, leaning against it, "You didn't check shit out, you escaped," He corrects, "I specifically told those doctors not to let you go."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot," Dean concludes, sitting at the table, "But that arrowhead away, you look like an idiot."

Bowie scoffs, throwing it on the bed, "Still would've killed you with it."

"You know, this whole 'I laugh in the face of death' thing, it's crap," Sam tells him, "I can see right through it."

"Yeah, whatever, dude," He shrugs, "Have either of you slept? You both look worse than me."

"We've been scouring the internet for the last three days," Sam explains, "Been calling every contact in Dad's journal."

"For what?"

"For a way to help your ungrateful ass," Bowie responds, "Now, will you excuse me."

He opens the front door and leaves, slamming it closed behind him. Bowie walks down the rows of rooms toward the vending machine, where he leaned up against it and fished out his phone.

The man dragged his thumb through the contacts, his heart breaking in his chest when he looked down at the last number. It was John's. He didn't know why he still kept it, or even if it still worked, but every part of him wanted to suck it up and call.

He wanted to scream at John for not answering Sam's calls.

He wanted to curse him for not caring about Dean the way he should.

His own damn son and he doesn't even care that he's dying.

Not like Bowie held it past the man to put himself before his own children— considering he's done it so many times before.

But, he didn't.

Instead, he scrolled back up to the pinned contacts, only one on the list but still the most important.

Bowie pressed the phone to his ear, and held his breath. Hoping the person would answer him.

Two rings.

"You better have a good reason why you're callin' this late, son." came the gruffed and annoyed voice of Bobby Singer.

Bowie's shoulders sag in comfort, a light smile on his lips, "Don't act like you were sleeping, we both know you were up watching those telenovelas," He teased.

"Yeah, yeah," Bobby replies, "It's good to hear you ain't dead yet," He says, "How's college? You get that, uh, Art gig we talked about?"

Bowie's heart tightened at that, "Yeah, uh, about that. Change of careers last minute," He explains softly, "Not like I wanted but it is what it is. I was actually calling to see if you had any information on anything that can keep someone from meeting their grave too soon, if you catch my drift."

There was a long pause on the other line, "Bohemian James Winchester, now I know you ain't back in this hunting life or I swear—"

"It's a lot more complicated than that," He closed his eyes to gather himself, "Thanks to you, giving Dean my address."

"I didn't give him squat," Bobby responds, sounding offended at the thought. Then he paused, "Oh that slippery son of a bitch went through my contact book last he came here, knew it was too strange him showing up for a catch up."

Bowie sighed, "Yeah, well, Dean came to me with a pretty interesting dilemma. I don't know if you've heard but John—"

"He's missing, i'm aware," He grunts in annoyance, "Don't tell me you're out lookin' for him like some chicken with his head cut off."

"Do you know everything, or can I get a word in?" Bowie jokes. He looks up at the night sky, "He's not missing, he's running. From what? I don't know but my best guess is us. He called us from a payphone telling us that he was closing in on the thing that killed my mom but he's been MIA on information ever since," He reports.

"And?" Bobby pressed, not one to walk eggshells, "What about it?"

He swallows thickly, "Dean's in trouble," He says softly, "He's uh, he's dying Bobby," His voice cracks, and he needs to compose himself, "He's dying and I've looked everywhere for some way to save him. It's been three days and I'm freaking out—"

"Alright, alright," Bobby cuts in, soothing him. Instantly it seemed, Bobby had flipped a switch in his brain. He was a hardcore guy, blunt and firm, but damnit did he have a soft spot for the boy he called his son, "You need to take a breather here, Bow. That's the first thing."

Bowie takes a shaky inhale.

"Okay, good. Now, the only thing I can think of is a faith healer, they've been hot and heavy this time around but you gotta find a real one, not those ponies that do nothin' good,'' He explains, "I know a guy who met one, a hunter named Joshua. Says some guy in Nebraska that performs miracles and all that crap. I'll send you more information."

Bowie lets out a steady exhale, "Thank you—"

"I ain't saying it's gonna work, I sure don't want you mixing with the wrong kind of people, so you better be careful and that ain't a suggestion," Bobby continues.

He nods, "I'll keep you posted."

"Bow," He says suddenly, "There's a lot I wanna scold you about, but I know you're too stubborn for me to convince," He sighed, "Just. . .get out of there as soon as possible, alright? You got out, son, stay out."

Bowie hesitates, "Alright," He says, unsure of his answer, "I will. Thanks again, Bobby."

He hangs up the phone, feeling more weight being added to his shoulders.

He composes himself once again before going back inside, "Pack your shit, we're leaving."

Dean groans in annoyance.

Sam furrows his eyebrows, "What did you find?"

"The answer to all of our prayers, I think," He admits, shrugging on his jacket, "There's this one guy in Nebraska, a specialist," A faith healer, but he wasn't going to add that.

"You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?" Dean asked his brothers with a deadpan.

Sam scoffed a laugh, looking much more confident about the whole thing, "We're not gonna let you die, period. We're going," He responds, smiling at Bowie, "Nice work."

Bowie raised both his arms out wide, motioning to himself, "What would either of you do without me?" He asked, "Everyone say thank you, Bow!"

Dean groans again, closing his eyes.

*·˚ ༘ ➳〔 𝙗𝙤𝙝𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙖𝙣 〕 ࿐ ࿔*:

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐀, the rain had caked the floor in mud and the whole field was filled with cars in front of a big tent. Dean had been complaining the whole entire time and it took all of Bowie's strength not to punch him in the jaw.

Dean kept using the dying card so there wasn't much that either of them could do.

Sam tried to help Dean out of the car, but the man smacked his hands away. Bowie's eyes scanned the faces of every elderly person that had come.

"Bowie James, you're a lying bastard!" Dean drilled, "I thought you said we were going to see a doctor?"

"I believe I said a specialist," Bowie corrects with timid smile, "And in a way, he is kinda like a doctor."

"Look, Dean," Sam cuts in, "This guy is supposed to be the real deal."

"I can't believe you brought me to see some guy who heals people out of a tent," Dean complains.

"Reverend Le Grange is a great man," said a woman.

"Yeah, that's nice," Dean snapped.

"I have a right to protest. This man is a fraud!" said another being held back by a police officer, "He's bilking all these people out of their hard-earned money!"

Bowie grimaced, and Dean says, "I take it he's not part of the flock."

"Well, when people see something they can't explain, there's controversy," Sam defends.

"Yeah, but come on, Sam. A faith healer?" Dean scoffs.

"Maybe it's time to have a little faith, Dean," Sam responds.

"You know what I got faith in? Reality," Dean says, "Knowing what's really going on."

"How can you be a septic? With the things we see everyday?" Sam questioned, "Bowie, help me out here."

Bowie opens his mouth.

"You shush," Dean waves at him.

Bowie closes his mouth.

Personally, he didn't have much faith.

"Exactly, Sam," He continues, "We see them. We know they're real."

"But if you know evil's out there, how can you not believe good's out there, too?" Sam asked.

"Because I've seen what evil does to good people," He rebuttals.

"Maybe God works in mysterious ways," says a girl who had overheard their conversation, turning to face the brothers with a large, kind smile.

"Maybe he does," Dean flirts, suddenly switching up, "I think you just turned me around on the subject."

She chuckles, "Yeah, I'm sure."

"I'm Dean," He introduced, "These are my brothers Sam and Bowie."

"Layla," She greets them.

Bowie gives her an awkward smile.

"So, if you're not a believer, then why are you all here?" Layla asked.

Dean sighed, "Well, apparently my brothers believe enough for the both of us."

Layla's mother drags her away before another conversation can break out, smiling at all three of the brothers as she passes.

"Well, I'll bet you she can work in some mysterious ways," Dean smirked.

The tent was hot and grimey when they entered it, rows of people huddled together as they wanted for the Reverend to appear. They were coughing, pale and sickly. It made Bowie's heart clench.

They all just wanted some faith.

"Yeah, peace, love, and trust all over," Dean says blankly, jerking his head to the security camera in the corner.

"Sit down," Bowie sighed. He didn't like the feeling he got being here.

Dean tries to sit down in the back, but Sam tugs him.

"Come on," He says, "We're sitting up front."

"What? Why?" Dean asked.

"Because you're more likely to get noticed," Bowie responds, pushing him forward, "Now go on."

"Oh, come on!" He seethed.

They found three seats in the second row. Sam had forced Dean to take the aisle, Bowie right between them.

He was uncomfortable. Bowie wouldn't claim to have religious trauma, people definitely had it worse than him, but there was something about this whole thing that brought him back to a bad place.

Bowie could never admit it— but he used to be a prayer. A heavy prayer. He remembered being as young as ten-years-old, getting down on his knees and praying his little heart out for someone to save him from John.

He remembered how it escalated after the incident at that Motel when he was thirteen. He remembered closing his eyes and praying when those men did what they did, and he remembered praying and crying on that sidewalk while he shook.

And it was always the same prayer.

He wanted to be saved.

But, of course, no one answered his prayers— sure as hell not God. Bowie saved himself. And it left him with bitter resentment towards whoever was running upstairs.

"Each morning, my wife, Sue Ann, reads me the news," Starts the Reverend, his accent southern, "Never seems good, does it?" He asked the crowd.

They all respond in the same tone, all together like some kind of pre-recording. It made Bowie's skin crawl.

"Seems like there's always someone committing some immoral, unspeakable act," He continues, "But I say to you, God is watching."

Bowie's stomach churned, "I don't wanna be here," He mutters suddenly, moving to stand.

Dean forces him back down, "If I can't leave, neither can you."

Bowie felt a panic rise, "No, you don't understand—"

"Shhh!" An elderly woman scolds.

He settles back down.

". . .and God rewards the good, and he punishes the corrupt! It is the Lord who does the healing here, friends," He smiles.

Bowie felt his eyes water. Why did it affect him so much? It's not like he grew up in some stupid strict church, it's not like he was forced to hear these things. So why did every time God was mentioned he felt some kind of urge to cry and scream.

Because God wasn't real to him. To Bowie, it was just a thing people used as an excuse to be an asshole, to be authoritative over others. God's way and anyone who thought differently was wrong, any other faith was wrong. It made him want to scream.

God never asked his prayers, so why would he answer anyone else's? Was he not good enough? Did God hate him?

"The Lord who guides me in choosing who to heal by helping me see into people's hearts."

"Or into their wallets," Dean mutters. He didn't mean to be loud, but he was so used to speaking up around Bowie that he didn't realize it.

"You think so, young man?" The Reverend asks.

Dean panics, "Erm, sorry."

"No, no. Don't be," Roy laughs, "Just watch what you say around a blind man. We got real sharp ears," The crowd laughed, "What's your name, son?"

He clears his throat, "Dean."

"Dean," He repeats, "I want you to come up here with me."

Everyone gasps, clapping.

Bowie sinks lower into his seat.

"No, it's okay," Dean waved off.

Sam frowned, "What are you doing?!"

"You've come here to be healed, haven't you?" Roy asked from the stand.

He hesitates, "Well, yeah, but uh—" The clapping tried to drown him out, "Maybe you should just pick someone else!"

"Oh, no," Roy shakes his head, "I didn't pick you, Dean. The Lord did."

"Get up there!" Sam says in excitement.

Dean stands up, "Bowie, come with me," He says quickly, looking panicked.

"What?" Bowie falters, "No way!"

"Please?" Dean begs, "Please, damnit, come with me."

Bowie shakes his head violently, "No!"

Dean doesn't take no for an answer, tugging him up by the sleeve and dragging him onto the stage for emotional support.

Bowie feels like he's swaying, standing in front of the crowd. He tries to awkwardly smile away the panic, but it doesn't work.

"I see you brought support up here," The man says, which is ironic because he can't see. He motions for Bowie to step back, "Just step back while the Lord does his work, son."

Bowie clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

"You ready?" Roy asked.

"I mean, look, no disrespect but I'm not exactly a believer," Dean says honestly.

"You will be, son," Roy smiles, "You will be. Pray with me, friends!" He calls out.

The crowd raises their hands up in the air, muttering words that Bowie couldn't hear.

Roy places his hand on Dean's shoulder, then on his head. Bowie felt a tension on his skin, like something had breezed past him, something that he shouldn't feel.

He grabbed at his hearing aids, wincing at the sudden ringing in his ears. He had to turn them off. The second he did however, Dean had dropped to his knees.

"Dean?" He calls, stepping forward.

Sue Ann grabs his shoulder firmly, "Don't get in the way of God, son," She warns.

Bowie angrily pulls his shoulder away, "Don't fucking touch me!" He snapped roughly.

Dean drops to the ground on his back.

The crowd applauds, drowning out Bowie's outburst.

Both brothers rushed to Dean's side, kneeling down before him. He looked nowhere near as pale as he did before, just confused and dazed.

"Dean? Say something!" Sam orders, gripping his shirt.

Dean hesitates, "I-I think I'm healed."

[ IMPORTANT ,, i expect everyone in this comment section to be respectful & kind about other readers experiences and beliefs in this comment section. everyone's belief is valid. none is greater than the other & you are safe to express yourself in this story. this book is for you to vent and relate to bowie, don't be ashamed for who you are. any hate toward the character or people in this comment section will be dealt with. bowie winchester hated bullies. ]

new chapter layout by @-pyrrhics