˚ ༘✶₊˚.                         ⊹ ˚ .  FIRST ACT
❪       TWENTY-FIVE    ♥︎    ₊˚༢࿐
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( blunt talk of sexual assault. )

ON HIGH ALERT, EVEN THROUGH HIS PANIC ━━, Bowie could feel his pulse in the backs of his ears, and the stomps of his own feet as he ran through the abandoned hospital floor.

He didn't know where he was going, but he was looking for something - anything that could help him against Azazel. Or contact his brothers.

"You can't run from me, Bow" Azazel drawls, lazily walking down the hallways with a slight skip and a whistle.

Bowie takes a sharp turn, his body slamming into the wall as he keeps his fast pace. The elevators are coming into view. He's not stupid, he knows they won't work — the emergency box was his goal.

And only glass stands between him and an iron ax.

He doesn't hesitate to break it with his fist, taking a sharp inhale at the ones that pierced his knuckles as he pulled the ax out. The pain could be something he looks forward to worrying about if he makes it out of this alive.

John says, never hesitate. not when it comes to life or death. It'll be your last thought.

The weight of those words are almost as heavy as the weight of this ax. He licks his bottom lip in anticipation, and continues on his trail with bloody knuckles.

"Really, this is childish." Azazel's irritation is heard.

Bowie slams his bottom of the ax into a vending machine, more glass crunching under his shoes as he shrugs off his jacket and collects as many water bottles as he could.

Almost every hospital has some kind of chapel, Bowie knows. He's quick to enter the staircase, looking at the names and arrows before ducking down two flights, looking back every second.

Two doors down he dives body first into a small church. Dropping his jacket. He only has moments to think fast, pushing a pew with a single hand against the doors.

By then, the pulsing in his ears stopped. He takes a breath, and starts unscrewing the bottle caps, dumping them into an old baptismal font. When the last bottle drops he starts to pace, uttering his first sentence in the last fifteen minutes.

"This isn't how I die."

He was in a cat and mouse game with his own personal Devil.

The monster they've been searching for since the moment they could think a proper thought.

And he was the one closing in, alone.

Bowie pulls a rosary off a statue, "Thanks," He mutters to her, and holds it over the font. His other hand gripped on the ax as he chants low in latin, ". . .te, creatura aquae, in nomine. . ."

"Bowie!" Azazel slams his fist against the doors, pushing once. The pew scrapes against the floor, and the hunter could see the demon's yellow eyes through the window's reflection.

He continues, shifting his eyes back to the water before throwing the rosary in and watching it sink to the bottom.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and with a short release of breath he raises his ax right when the doors slam open.

It catches in the wood of a pillar, Azazel's face inches from it.

Bowie steps back when Azazel steps forward. The hunter's eyes were narrow, calculating the demon's every step. He wasn't stupid, whatever bursts of powers he seems to have won't be a match for a demon this old and this evil.

He needed to outsmart him.

"Don't you want to hear what I have to say first before you start swinging?" Azazel circles with Bowie around the font,

Bowie pulled a disgusted, annoyed expression, walking backwards to make sure he had his eyes on him, "Now why would I want that?"

Honestly, who was a fan of the "Monster Monologue"? Bowie thought they dragged on and on about their grand reason for justifying brutal murder by being misunderstood and he simply didn't care for it.

Besides, he was already deaf. He'd rather not waste his last percentage of hearing.

Before Azazel could answer, Bowie flicked some water at Azazel's skin. His eyes widened when nothing happened to him. Azazel smirks. Oh shit.

With only a second to think of a backup plan, his mind sparks and he grabs another pew off the ground and throws it. Azazel slams into the wall, the second pew pining him for only a second.

Don't let him think, Bowie tells himself. Keep him down.

He picks up another one, and throws it before Azazel could get up.

The demon's daze was enough for Bowie to run up and pull the az out of the pillar.

Yellow Eyes scoffs, "Oh, so you want to play dirty? Fine."

With a wave of his hand, the pew was thrown off of him. Bowie blinks, and the demon is gone.

The hunter rolls the ax in his hand, licking his bottom lip in simmering anger. He was overstimulated with it, and the scratch wouldn't go away until he was covered in blood.

His brothers, their father. When they met up in that hotel the tables switched faster than he thought possible.

Of course, his younger self laughs at him.

Sometimes, when you're comfortable in your peace, you forget all the reasons why you fought for it in the first place.

Bowie didn't run away for this. To die a hunter. Alone. He wanted a peaceful sunset, maybe some Sinatra.

His mind wanders for only a second, before the floor creaks behind him. The noise travels through the floorboards and vibrates under Bowie's shoe.

His face goes slack and he swings the ax behind him, like a baseball bat. Azazel steps back, and throws him.

Bowie's back slams into the altar, the sound of his head hitting the old rusted piece echoed through the room.

Although he should've, Bowie hadn't let go of the ax.

He slid against the ground and it sliced into his hand. He winced, blinking away the growing concussion, staring at the blood on his shaky hands.

"Oh, Mian," Azazel clicks his tongue, kicking away the ax, "You just don't know when to let the things that hurt you go. Do you?" He crouches in front of him, "What would you do without me moving these obstacles for you?"

The manipulation made Bowie's eyes roll, which wasn't a good idea, because now he was seeing stars in the corners of his eyes, and he could hardly lift his head.

Azazel lifts Bowie's chin, a scowl on his face, "John said you'd put up a fight, can't say he didn't train you well. You lasted longer than most, that's good. I need that."

"John?" He whispered out.

Azazel smiles, "A son for a son. He wanted more time with Sam, I was happy to oblige, it was a lose-lose situation for him either way."

Bowie clenches his jaw, "He sold me?"

"For a pretty penny," Azazel grins, "I'm surprised you didn't ask me how I got Jasper as a pawn in our game," Azazel paces, "You really shouldn't get personal with your cases, Bowie. You never know who's watching." He lectures.

Bowie doesn't respond, dissociated.

John sold him to Azazel, for more time with Sam before what? Azazel inevitably took him too? For what?

"People never suspect the people they love to betray them, stab them in the back, remember that." Azazel tells him, "You're starting to see that now, aren't you? When John came back."

". . .I mean, the way your brothers promised to have your back and just betrayed you like that? Hugging up on their daddy like they didn't know those are the same hands that make you flinch–"

Bowie loudly groans, "Stop talking a second while I think?"

He was trying to get into my head, Bowie knows. Jasper only betrayed him because Azazel put him in a position where he had to, for his mother. His brothers on the other hand.

"You've been watching us," Bowie concludes.

He smirks knowingly, "I told you I'd come back for you. I keep my promises." He tilts his head, "You know who doesn't keep promises? Sam. Remember when he lead John to the college you went to? after you made him promise that night he wouldn't."

Bowie feels the wind knock out of his chest again. Azazel has been watching them since the beginning. If it wasn't him personally, it was his followers, always keep tabs, always watching.

They've been searching for someone who's always been right there.

"The horror you must've felt when you opened your door to find John standing there," Azazel tsked with false sadness, "If I remember correctly, didn't you move out of the dorm and rent an apartment across town under a different name? Had to take a bus to school every day since."

Bowie groans, his eyes shift up, where the stained glass window of Jesus shines colors in his vision as the sun rises. Stay awake. Stay awake.

"If I wanted a replay of my life, I'd have a near death experience," Bowie seethed. He was done saving his energy, Azazel was too quick to get under his skin.

"I almost forgot about that," Azazel snaps his fingers, "You must be flowing with juice by now. How strong have you gotten?"

"What are you talking about?" He firms, slowly trying to get up.

Azazel smiles, "We don't have a lot of time before I take you back to dumb and dumber for that little goose chase of ours."

Bowie wobbles on his hands, but Azazel kicks him back down so hard he could hardly swallow a breath.

"You ever wonder why you just know when you're in danger? Your senses amplified at birth?"

There had been a point where Mary and John thought he was mute, but maybe the reason Bowie was always so quiet, so observant, so cautious as a child, was because — well, it was because he wasn't human. Not completely.

Not when he could hear the calls of Angels in seashells.

Not when fields of flowers swayed in the same rhythm as him.

As if he was created by the hands of God.

"Inhuman strength, healing the sick, hell maybe even walking on water—" Azazel cuts himself off to laugh at the thought of that kind of born power, "Helping people only to die and resurrect even stronger every time like a phoenix from the ashes!"

Bowie is shaking for control of his body, trying to stable his breathing, "Like," He heaves, "S-some kind of Jesus?"

"If the shoe fits," Azazel smirks.

"You're crazy," He chokes, "People don't just. . . come back from the dead. . . like nothing. A-And last I checked, I didn't make a deal so whatever John did, I can undo!"

"Why do you Winchester's fail to see the bigger picture?" Azazel asked, "Oh, right, you're not a Winchester. Are you?"

━━・ ✦ ₊ 👻 ⊹ ° . ❫ ━

SAM AND DEAN WALK UP THE STAIRS TO THE HOSPITAL━━, smiling lightly to themselves. The hunt in New Paltz, New York had gone as smooth as it ever can for the brothers, and Sam had gotten a bit of action with a girl named Sarah in the process.

Which the youngest was eager to talk to Bowie about.

It had been a few days since they admitted him in. They wanted to stay but John was quick to tug them in every direction, and with Dean calling the shots, Sam had no choice but to follow him.

"You think he'll like this?" Sam questions, holding a wrapped gift that concealed new paint brushes inside.

Dean doesn't even look at it.

Sam had gotten into Theater, Bowie made a career with a paintbrush, he was skilled in the violin, the piano, the guitar.

Dean hardly passed school, let alone had time to pick up any extra activities. Give him a gun? He'd sure impress a few with that skill.

"He'll love it," Dean dismissed his thoughts, opening the door to the hospital. He walks in after Sam and says, "He'll have nowhere to put it, it'll just sit in the trunk. Take up space."

"But he'll love it." Sam repeats his words.

The hospital floor is oddly empty.

The woman at the front desk wears light green scrubs, her hair pulled up as she sits impassively, typing away on her boxed computer screen.

The brothers greet her with a smile, but she doesn't look up. They glance at each other awkwardly, listening to the rapid typing of her keyboard as she continues to ignore them.

After a moment, Dean clears his throat loudly.

"Do you have an appointment?" She drawls, her eyes never leaving the screen.

"Uh, we're here to visit our brother, he was admitted here three days ago," Sam says, shifting the painting under his arm, "We called this morning."

Her typing stops.

When her eyes met theirs, a flicker of recognition crossed her expression. Maybe if the brothers had been paying attention, they would've noticed it. Bowie sure would've.

He also would've noticed that every other nurse on the floor was wearing dark green scrubs, and this woman seemed to be the only one out of place.

"Of course, what's the patience name?" She asks, looking down at her papers but not really looking through them, just pretending to.

"Bowie Winchester," Dean answers, frowning at the energy she gave, "W-i-n━"

"I'm afraid we don't have that name in our files," The woman cuts swiftly.

The brothers go stiff at the same time.

"We called this morning," Sam repeats, "The doctors said he was doing fine, that he was showing signs of movement in his sleep━"

"I'm sorry, sir. There's no one━"

"Well check again." Dean demands. He looks to Sam, "Are you sure we're at the right hospital?"

Sam rolls his eyes, "Unless they tore down the previous hospital and built another one in three days, I'm sure this is the right one."

Dean smiles forcefully at the woman, "We'd appreciate it if you'd check again. Maybe try his full name, Bohemian. Little hippie, I know, our mom went through a phase."

She looks at her computer, types in a few letters, then freezes up. Her face slack, her shoulders dropping as she hums.

"What?" The brothers ask at the same time.

Looking past her computer, she locks eyes with each one of them before saying, "I'm sorry to inform you like this, but your brother was claimed deceased a few hours ago."

Dean steps back from the counter. His face was always firm, but his eyes held the kind of shock that he'd probably never feel again hearing those words for the first time. His heart thumping in his ears, blocking anything else from being said.

Sam isn't as quick to shut down, his eyes filling with tears as he slammed his pointer finger into the table, "No, that's not true. We called this morning and he was fine! I want to speak to the Doctor."

"Sir, I understand losing a loved one is hard━"

"My brother isn't dead," Sam bellows, turning heads in his direction, "Your system is wrong, we want to see him!"

"Sammy. . ." Dean's voice is shaking.

Sam snaps his head to him in anger, "It wasn't even that bad. There were a few scratches! His body shut down from exhaustion, that's all it was!"

"It says your brother had severe gashes to his chest, he suffered multiple concussions, his body had been worked past a humanly limit," The woman says slowly, "He passed in his sleep. . .not many people are that lucky."

"No," Sam's lip quivers, tears pooling out of his eyes as he looked to Dean for help, for something, "No! No! He was fine this morning, he was fine!"

Dean grabbed a fist full of Sam's t-shirt, pulling him away from the counter. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing it would shake and sound raw. Not the voice of the eldest brother who was trying to calm the youngest down before he hopped over and socked the nurse in the face for the wrong information.

He gives him a look of warning, firm. But Sam wasn't an idiot. The tears that formed under Dean's eyes were a dead give away that even he believed it was more than possible that Bowie simply stopped fighting to survive.

Still, a Winchester doesn't believe anything unless it's looking them in the face.

"We want to speak to the Doctor treating our brother," Dean turns his attention to the nurse. His eyes narrowed in her direction. He's seen enough TV shows to know that the Doctor is supposed to break that kind of news.

The woman hesitates, then nods, "I'll call Doctor Isaac down." She stands up, collects her things and turns around to leave, her eyes flashing black as she leaves.

"We need to call Dad." Sam instantly says the second she's out of earshot.

"We should make sure Bowie is actually dead first before we do that," Dean responds bluntly.

"He's not." The youngest emphasized.

"Okay, he's not, which means we don't have to call Dad at all," The oldest snaps back, "I'm sure Bowie is fine watching live TV with an orange juice and candy stripe nurses rubbing his shoulders."

The nurse at the front desk comes back to the service desk with a Doctor in a white coat behind her. He appears to be in his young thirties, hair slick blonde and eyes like autumn leaves. He smiles at the brothers, the kind that a doctor shouldn't show in their circumstance as he leaned forward to shake each of their hands.

"Boys, it's good to see you again. I was just speaking with your father━," Doctor Isaac flips his clipboard up but Sam and Dean were quick to cut in.

"What are you talking about?" They talk together.

"Our father is on a business trip, out of town." Dean adds in, his suspicion growing as he looks between them.

The Doctor frowns, "No. Your father is here."

The confusion faded from their faces as John Winchester stepped out of a room, walking towards them with a solemn look on his face. It was at that moment, their realization crashed down on them.

Bowie was dead.

Dean's eyes uncontrollably watered, "Dad?" He asks, pushing past the Doctor as he and Sam meet him halfway down the hall, "Where's Bow?"

John's lips quivered, "I got the phone call. I wanted to make sure it was true before I called you boys. His heart gave out in his sleep. He's. . .he's gone, boys. I'm sorry."

"His body was extremely weak," Doctor Isaac continues before the brothers could form a single clear thought, "Years of physical unhealed bones, sprains, wounds. His heart showed signs of failure long before he passed, as if he had died before. That kind of damage is severe."

Rage fills Sam's chest as he hands Dean the gift and runs forward, grabbing John by the jacket, and slamming him into the door. His face was hot as he said, "You did this! This is on you!"

"Sam! Sammy, let him go!" Dean snaps, trying to pry him off.

John stares back with a clenched jaw, and Sam lets Dean pull him away.

"If you can give me a moment with my sons," John asks Doctor Isaac. He wants for the man to leave before he slowly says, "Sam. . . your brother was sick. . ."

"You made him like that," Sam responds, "Every bone you broke, every beating he took—"

John's face visibly heats, "I discipline him just like the rest of you! Blame your brother for every rebellious bone in his body," He points towards the room, "He got himself killed, you're lucky he didn't drag you boys down with him!"

"Don't say that!" Dean bellows, taking himself and his family by surprise. The eldest clears his throat, composing himself, "He wasn't like that. He was cautious. He's saved me and Sam's ass more times than I can count, looking for you. Those Daeva's got him, that Demon got to him. We need to stop pointin' fingers at each other and avenge him."

"Your brother's right." John says instantly, "We don't have time to mourn. We could be closing in on this thing. He'd want us to keep going."

Before Sam could even speak another word, John pushed his way past him. He clenches his jaw, looking at Dean.

"You don't really think— I mean, something is off, don't you see that? If Bowie—"

"Sam," Dean swallowed so thick he almost choked, closing his eyes to gather himself, "You saw how he looked. Man, I don't know, maybe if we had noticed in time. Maybe if we weren't so caught up with seeing Dad. We were too late. Look, even Dad was crying over him, that doesn't seem real to you?"

He pushes the gift back into Sam's chest, walking down the hall. Sam looks down, rubbing the wrapping paper as he thinks, 'Bowie thinks I hate him.'

Instead of following John outside, Dean had turned around a corner and doubled over a trash can, heaving his breakfast to the bottom. Logically, he knows that Bowie's death isn't his fault but blaming himself came easier than clarity.

If he hadn't taken the letter. If he hadn't tried to find Bowie.

If he had just left him alone like he wanted none of this would be happening. Bowie would still be alive if he wasn't so selfish. If he had just made amends sooner.

All of these missed opportunities to better himself had been ignored or passed by, and Dean can't help but feel like a failure. Of a brother, and a person.

His mother would be so disappointed in him.

The sickening twist where Dean felt more ashamed to disappoint his mother than be the perfect father's son.

Dean wipes the corners of his mouth with a sleeve, making sure to gather himself properly before fixing his leather jacket and leaving the hospital — leaving his brother, behind him.

' Yellow eyes better count his days.'

━━・ ✦ ₊ 👻 ⊹ ° . ❫ ━

"My mother was Mary Winchester," Bowie reminds, "And my father was a man she met in a hunter's bar. Two normal human people."

Azazel laughs, "Come on, you think abilities like these just fall from the sky? You either have it or you don't. And you?" He chuckles, "You were born with it, kiddo. I need someone like you on my front lines."

Bowie looked down at his hands, "Like some satanic leader?"

"You're not a leader," Azazel corrects, "You're a second in command. The mastermind, the left hand, the killer. Just like me," He smiles, "We get the job done. You know, people like Sam and Dean can lead through their ass. Dean leads through fear, Sam leads through persuasion, but you? You cut through corners and put all the pieces together for them."

Bowie listened intensely, his eyes tracking Azazel's pace like a black cat from his half-sitting position.

"You found John in Lawrence long before your brothers picked up his tracks," Azazel reminds him, "You mapped out every hunt John came across on his way to California. You found John, and through you, I found you both. With your complex inhuman intelligence burned with your father's training shaped your choices and decisions that brought you here."

He stops to open his arms wide, yellow eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Brought you here to me."

Bowie paused. And for just a moment, he found himself listening to the demon. He hated himself for it.

"What's a king without his royal adviser whispering in his ear?" Azazel continues, "God created you for this. You have the potential to destroy army's from inside, start rebellions. And I'm the one who saw the potential first when I came to collect your mother's debit."

"God created me. ." Bowie repeats to himself.

"If the shoe fits," Azazel repeats.

Bowie remembers being ten years old, praying on his knees for God to send someone to save him from John.

Always the same prayer.

He wanted to be saved.

Bowie felt like he was going to be sick.

Was this God's cruel joke?

This was his way out, his savior? The man with yellow eyes who ruined his life to begin with.

Was it really that easy?

Did it really come back full circle?

"If I'm some reincarnation of Jesus, what makes you think I'd ever help you?" He asked,dropping his head back on the floor, "You killed my mother. You ruined my life."

Azazel places a finger on his nose, "Bingo. You're not helping me exactly, you're helping a greater cause. And I know you're going to help me, because you're tired of helping them and getting nothing in return. With me, you gain something."

Bowie scoffs, this was crazy, "Like what?"

"Free will," Azazel persuades.

Yet, unknown to Bowie, that Azazel was going to give him the opposite of free will.

"You'd be free from hunting, you'd be free from your brothers draining you, from years of suffering wiped away with a single snap," He snaps his fingers, "This life of yours can be wiped clean, start fresh. You can do whatever the hell you want. No more pain, no more John. Hell, we can go kill him right now. Why? Because you can."

Bowie froze, "Erase my memory? Make me your soldier?!"

Only when he needs to. Forcing his will behind Bowie's subconscious whenever he was called.

Azazel's very own trojan horse.

But Azazel didn't say that, instead he said, "You shouldn't have to be burdened with memories like yours, right? The Winchester's have taken so much from you already."

Perhaps he was saying all the right things on purpose.

"It's time to start over, make you who you were always meant to be without distractions," Azazel corrects in excitement, waving his hand in the air with each emphasized word, "Bohemian, The God killer, prophesied to either destroy humanity, or save it."

In Azazel's hopes, destroy it.

Bowie laughs in panicked hysteria, "Ha! Yeah, I'm a real slayer of the Almighty. Oh, that's good. Yeah, like I'd ever help you kill God."

"Not just thee God, although he's on the list, all Gods." Azazel says, "Knock down every peg until we're the top dogs. My army that you lead into battle, and me—"

"This isn't Pinky and the Brain," Bowie cuts in, "And if you think for a second, that I believe I'm some second coming of Christ, meant to lead your stupid Army against God and anyone who makes your insecure ego shake, you're crazy. So I'd rather you just kill me now."

A tense silence takes over, and Azazel sucks his teeth in contemplation.

He knew persuading Bowie would be a challenge, but he wasn't a demon for nothing.

Bowie was so close to breaking, Azazel just needed to hit the right buttons.

"I knew you'd say that," He admits, "I had to say, I thought you'd be more willing after what your brothers did to you. After everything they've put you through, after all John did. . ."

"I can forgive all of it, if it meant I didn't have to work for you," Bowie says.

Azazel smirks, he took the bait and he didn't even realize it, "Even for the night of your rape?"

The sentence was so blunt that Bowie faltered, his face dropping in shock, sitting up fully, "What. .?"

"Do you forgive John for abandoning you? Do you forgive those two hunters for raping you, leaving you there? John not believing you, convincing your own brother to gaslight you for years into thinking you made it all up—"

Bowie's eyes watered, "Shut. Up!" He orders, now moving to stand up.

"Thirteen," Azazel reminded, "Can you forgive them for allowing you to walk blindly into something that scarred you forever? Can you forgive God, Bowie?"

"I said shut the fuck up!" Bowie bellowed, slamming his fist so hard into the font breaks from the stone table built to the floor, holy water splashes across the room, not even nearing Azazel whether he could burn from it or not. Cutting up his knuckles.

There it was.

The right buttons.

Bowie's face drops into an expression of blunt emotionless stone. The tension in the room becomes suffocating.

And for a second Azazel pauses in alarm.

Then, Azazel laughs, "There it is! Look at that strength fly!"

"Don't mock me," Bowie stalks forward.

"Don't," Azazel quickly holds a finger up between them, stepping back, "Don't forget who has the upper-hand here." He says dangerously low.

The hunter doesn't hesitate, "I think you've made that clear," He tilts his head, both knowing he wasn't talking about the demon.

Azazel cloaks his frustration with a smile, changing the subject, "I think you're ready for my little present."

"I don't want anything from—" Bowie is cut off by a phantom force that makes the wind knock from his lungs, he feels himself falling backwards by a push of Azazel's palm.

Except, when he landed, it wasn't on the old floors of an abandoned hospital but onto wet cement.

For a second Bowie thinks it's all a bad dream.

He stands up quick, like a cat, his head narrowed as he wiped the dirt rain on his jeans.

A neon sign outside a bar was the only light on the empty highway just outside of a small town.

Cars and motorcycles lined the pavement, laughter and music muffled from inside. Bowie feels a dangerous presence behind him.

He didn't have to turn around to know Azazel was there with his hands in his pockets, smiling.

"What are we doing here?" He asked, his tone exhausted and emotionless.

He couldn't live with himself knowing he wasn't even all that human.

That he spent his life cowering to a mortal man, while his mother's murderer begged for him to join his army.

"I'm giving you a gift," Azazel answers, "An offering."

"What are you talking about?"

"I want you to kill him," Azazel continues, "Think of it as a trial run. The second you finish this, the deal is set and you belong to me."

Before Bowie could question this, the bell on the bar door chimes, laughter fills the air of two men drunk off their asses.

One says goodnight to the other as he lights a bent cigarette in his pocket.

He was short, his hair was a dark shade of brown, and his beard unkempt and gray.

And in that moment, Bowie's heart felt like it had stopped beating, dropping into his lungs and killing him. As if his body shut down, holding itself up by thin strings.

He felt phantom hands curl around him, suffocating him, reminding him that deep down, he was still that thirteen year old boy.

A flash of that small boy with a bruised face lings before turning back into the man he was today.

A reminder that he was still too weak to fight back.

"Night, Len!" Said a younger man.

"Night," Len grunts through the cigarette between his lips.

"You can't forgive him," Azazel reminds lowly, "You can't forget it, why does he get to?"

A rage fills his chest. He hated that he agreed with Azazel. Why did Moe and Len get to live their lives? They pin him as a fun night while he dealt with the consequences?

They didn't have to hold their breath every time they walked into a motel room for the night.

They didn't wake up with nightmares of being held down and used, they didn't live with that pain for days, for years after. Altering your perception of life and the way you see it, your place in it. No one deserves peace for taking away another human being's right to say 'no'.

"I thought you made logical choices? Even if sometimes you don't agree with them," Azazel points to him, "Your words. You kill monsters," He drags the same finger across the lot, at Len, "There's your monster."

We were raised to save people and hunt monsters. Don't mix those two up.

Bowie's hands itched with anticipation, revenge clouding his judgment as he stared at one of his assaulters.

He was right there. Twelve years later, and he was right there.

And they don't even know Bowie's real name.

Azazel leans down to speak in his ear, "The on switch is getting faulty. Let me push the button for you."

Bowie feels every moral thought leave his mind.

"Turn off that part of you," Azazel orders, "The part of you that thinks you owe the world. Don't protect a world that doesn't protect you. Turn it off. Don't think of Sam, or Dean. Think of you. . .and this."

A cold blade is placed in Bowie's palm, the hunter's eyes dropping to the weapon stonily, he raises it up to his face, inspecting the sharpness, "Kill him?"

"He won't hurt another child again," Azazel vows, smirking his evil smile.

But that was enough for Bowie.

Truly, that was enough.

Azazel disappears.

Bowie didn't care whether it was manipulation or a power play, Azazel didn't matter anymore.

Why would he, when the person he wanted dead was inches away from him?

He can't change what happened to his mom, he hardly remembers it.

But he remembered Len, he remembered Moe, he remembered that night as if he was put in a movie, reliving the scene on loop.

The blade felt like the weight of sin in his hands, which he squeezed tight in his fist like a trophy as he crossed the parking lot.

Len turns towards the alley, where his car is parked. He walks down the path, digging in his pocket for the keys.

Bowie is quiet, his walk soundless. Ironically, the older man didn't hear him sneaking up behind him until Bowie kicked his own foot into the back of Len's legs.

Len drops, drunk and confused, "The fuck is your problem?!" He bellows, "You got a death wish?!"

Bowie says nothing, grabbing Len by the collar of his jacket and dragging him effortlessly deeper down the alleyway.

"Hey! Let me go psycho!" Len snaps, punching into Bowie's arm, pulling back, "Who sent you, huh?! You a demon? A vampire?"

Bowie still doesn't speak, reeling his fist back and slamming it into Len's face.

The older man is already dazed, hardly conscious from one hit alone.

Bowie crouches in front of him, "Look at you," He says slowly, his voice graveled, "All worked up. I thought hunters are supposed to be brave."

Len spits the blood from his mouth, "Who the fuck are you?!"

He didn't remember. Of course not. It was just another night for a man like Len, and it made Bowie seethe with uncontrollable rage.

"November 10th, 1994," Bowie says, holding the knife up to Len's face, "The night you took revenge on a man named John Winchester. You remember that?"

Len seemed confused, wracking his brain for a far away memory. Then, it clicked. The fear set in like sharp knives.

"Dean Winchester?" Len asked.

By now in the hunting world, The Winchester son's had made a name for themselves as the youngest, and ambitious hunters under John.

By now, Len knows of Dean Winchester. John's right hand, the perfect son. And in Len's perspective, a boy he assaulted in a motel room.

Both Moe and Len grew worried that one day Dean or John would come for them.

Bowie, of course, was a little less known.

In fact, if it wasn't for Bobby's knowledge of him, he'd be labeled as a tag-along due to John and his constant need to have Bowie on the sidelines of his 'family business'.

At least sidelined publicly.

Bowie got things done in the dark. He knew he had more blood on his hands then Sam, even from the age of sixteen to eighteen.

Bowie now had to make a new legacy for himself.

Bowie hums bitterly, "Not exactly. Your revenge rape on me towards John, was actually you assaulting a nobody kid that he dragged around for years. Not even blood related, isn't that just funny?"

Len's fear turned into rage as he sat up, cradling his bloody face, "What do you mean—"

"I mean, you're probably the stupidest piece of shit on the planet if you think I wasn't going to come for you," Bowie darkened.

Len swallows his fear, "Who—, Who are you?"

Bowie tilted his head, and smiled sickly, looking down at the sharpness of the blade.

Who are you?

When you've been forced to give your life to a cause, when you've been used by people who pretend to love you, when you've lifted the earth on your shoulders for others because loving yourself seemed impossible.

When every day you're drained, you become depressed, a shell of someone you once were. all because you couldn't stop giving, all because you hoped one day you'll get it in return and just. . . didn't.

Who are you?

Who do you become?

"My name is Bohemian," He replies darkly, "Don't worry, you might not be around to pass it on, but I'll make sure everyone will know you sent you straight to Hell."

He took the knife and stabbed it up through the jaw. One, twice, three times.

The man gagged on his own blood, and Bowie made sure to look him straight in the eyes. To make sure he was the last person to see before letting the body fall on the pavement. He might not remember the things he'll do next — but if Azazel was going to take his soul, he'd rather go down swinging.

PHEW. okay, listen I know I've been MIA recently (— and seemingly out of nowhere, and you can all be rightfully annoyed), but I promised you I was planning to come back and finish these stories. I don't even know if anyone still reads bohemian, but I hope for the people who randomly forget they left this book somewhere on their reading list thinks, 'oh yeah this one!' so I can say hello! anyways, I hope you guys liked the reimagining of this chapter and I plan to continue updating as frequently as possible.

also can we thank rowan for proof reading and giving raw opinions on this chapter before I published it. It was the final push I needed to click publish. If you like supernatural!sibling books like this one, check out their book 'barbie' it's just as addicting as I remember it.

love,
-episkey