❛ ⋆ ˚｡ ꗃ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟐𝟔. . .  ❜ 🔪 ࿐
🔦 👻 ❪  𝗲𝗽𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗱𝗲 20, 𝘀𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝟬𝟭  ❫
' this is real '

( details of gore. )

Dean felt like the Impala hadn't been this quiet since the day they picked 13-year-old Bowie up from that Motel room in 1994. In truth, Dean felt like it was so tense that even breathing wrong would set Sam and John off. The oldest in the backseat with his hands clasped in front of him. Sam was staring out of the window in thought.

"We need to call Katherine," Sam speaks up, his throat raw and dry. He looked only for a second at John through the mirror then adds, "And Bobby."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," John more commanded than suggested, rolling his neck and stretching out his shoulder blades in the back, "We got a hunt to finish."

Dean jaw clenched suddenly, narrowing his green eyes to the road at his words.

Sam responds for them, "If any deserves to know right now, it's Bobby."

John licked his front teeth, holding back a remark he knew would cause a scene. Instead, he hums, looking to Dean, "Let's get to the Motel first, set up for the day." He suggests smoothly, "Hell, I'll call Bobby myself."

"I got it," Dean cuts in, the feeling of speaking up spreading anxiety through his chest, "I owe Bobby a hell of an apology for going through his stuff without askin' anyways."

Dean rolls his eyes at the thought of being cussed out by Bobby Singer.

"Dean, music, will you?"

The oldest son nods at the command, turning up whatever cassette was playing. The familiar sound of violins starts to play. Both Sam and Dean felt gut-punched at the sound, locking eyes.

Dean would rather have a thousand more of these if it meant Bowie was here to make them.

Sam would drive down this highway for the rest of his life if it meant he could say how sorry he was to his brother. Regretting the anger he felt towards him about Max, about things Sam knew Bowie couldn't really control.

John leans forward and plucks the cassette out, snapping the brothers out of their thoughts, "What kind of shit is this?"

He goes to toss it and out of instinct Dean snatches it. John stirs in surprise. The cassette now sits on his lap, the layers on thin pain unchipped, the big gold letters of Bowie's name with a single star beside it.

Bowie made it double-sided at some point during their journey, just to give Dean a little mercy, considering he felt like driving into a pole when he heard songs without some form of lyrics.

After a long silence, Dean shortly responds, "Bowie's."

"Bowie's," John repeats back, "What was that boy? Backseat Princess."

Dean swallows an insult down.

"I'd rather have him back there than you right now," Sam grumbled.

"Alright." The oldest son warns, tone venomous. He was daring either of them to say another word.

Once again, the quiet takes over. Not a word until Dean pulled into the Motel lot John was staying in, it rolls to a stop and Sam is already getting out before the car engine goes off.

"I can call Katherine," He says, "Dean call Bobby."

John follows Sam to the trunk of the car, practically eying down his neck in annoyance at his youngest boy. He swings the keys to the Motel room between his pointer finger, "Was in the area 'cause of the news about Daniel. That's when I got the call about Bow."

Sam thought his father was far too eager to be trusted. He slams the trunk closed, forcing a tight-lipped bitchy smile back and motioned for John to open the Motel door.

That was the moment they registered that Dean was still sitting in the Impala.

With one hand on the cassette and the other still on the wheel, Dean is utterly lost in thought.

"Dean-," Sam moves forward, opening the driver's side door.

"Just give me a minute." Dean orders.

Sam hesitates his nod, closing it slowly.

Dean watches Sam and John disappear inside before closing his eyes and dropping his shoulders with a shaky sigh. How could I be this stupid? He thinks. Bowie would be alive right now if it wasn't for his stupid obsession. His idea of family was so twisted it only made everyone drift farther apart.

He stole his little brother's chances at a monster-less, happy life all because he was too scared to venture out and find his own.

Dean stares down at the cassette, flips it over, and puts it back in the music player, pushing play.

'Uh, right. .okay, I think I figured it out.' Bowie's recorded voice is heard stimming in excitement at his success, 'You're now listening to Side B of the best songs on the planet because I said they are. Sorry, De.'

Dean smirks a little.

'Dream A Little Dream Of Me,' by Doris Day is the first track. He found himself leaning back, his head against the bench seat as he allowed himself to mourn for just a moment.

Thinking of all the moments he failed Bowie.

-----------

Bowie's lungs fill with cold air out of muscle memory the second his eyes snap open. The sun burns through his clothes, making them stick with sweat on his skin. He grimaced.

Pressing his face to the grass, his hazel eyes scanned the woods. His body was sore, his knuckles were bruised, his mind felt like an unsolvable puzzle even towards himself.

Last night hit him sooner than anticipated. His eyes swelled with overwhelmed tears. His body doesn't feel like his own. Bowie swallows, his tongue felt like sandpaper rubbing against the roof of his mouth.

He killed someone. He doesn't remember exactly what he did to Len, but he knew it was best left unthought of. Bowie closed his eyes, being forced to remember the feeling of the man's skull when he stabbed him through the jaw.

He sits up, looking around in mania. His headache felt worse than a hangover. Bowie rams his wrist into his head, trying to stomp down the memories even harder than his mind already had.

Bowie froze; he's reminded of John, seeing him in that Motel room. The anger towards Sam and Dean starts to spark in his chest before he could morally stop himself, as if every negative emotion he wouldn't let out had somehow highjacked and rewired his self-control.

It was rightfully so. His stepfather did sell him, and his brothers did happen to be the biggest co-dependent idiots he'd ever met.

I shouldn't have trusted them, Bowie lets out a bubble of laughter, grabbing at his face in disbelief. The sound is loud, broken and painful in his chest as he struggled to get a grip on reality.

This was his life.

'Maybe this deal with Azazel won't be so bad for you after all then,' A voice drawls deep, eerie and inhuman.

Bowie stops laughing, snapping his head around. Then he looked left, right, even up. Nobody. He was officially going crazy. A shake goes up his spine at the sound.

It was the first and only voice Bowie's heard clearly since he was fifteen. After John blew his hearing with two shots of his pistol next to each side of his head in a brutal warning after getting in between one of John and Sam's arguments.

It was coming from inside him, echoing.

'Not crazy,' It spoke, 'Possessed maybe, but no crazy.'

'Hello?" Bowie spoke out fearfully, this experience was horrible, he cups his ears, wishing for the familiar static, standing on his feet even though he felt dizzy, pulling at his fingers in discomfort.

No response.

"Hel-," His phone rings and he jumps, startled out of his skin.

He was in the middle of nowhere talking to himself like a looney.

Clicking the green button, he brings the phone to his ear, "What?" He snaps. It came it so aggressive that even he jumped.

"Yiiikes," Kit's blunt yet charming voice dragged through the phone, "Bad day?"

Bowie huffs, trying to gather himself to conversate, blinking slow, "Uh," He swallows dryly, "I don't. . ." He looks around, "To be honest I don't even know what day it is."

Silence lingered on the other line before Kit firmly asks, "Where are you? What happened?"

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you're worried about," Bowie croaks, "Is there a reason you called?"

"Worried about you," Kit admits, clearing his throat quick before adding, "I wanted to see if you were okay. You haven't texted me since your birthday a few weeks ago."

Bowie closed his eyes, not wanting to unravel the feeling of Kit missing him, not wanting to think of the tightness in his stomach at the thought. He had too much of a shit year, "You know, believe it or not, mentally it felt a lot longer. You'd be surprised how much can happen in a few weeks."

"Where are you?" Kit demands an answer.

"I don't know," Bowie says truthfully, groaning as he picked up the red jacket off the floor, and walking off past some trees, heading towards what sounded like a highway. He feels like he was re-entering society with six screws loose and a vendetta, "I'm in the woods, um . . . near a highway."

He'll just have to deal with Sam and Dean later. Surely, he wouldn't be missed that much. . .if not at all.

Kit mutters to himself too low for Bowie to hear. Most likely scolding.

Bowie can picture Kit's soft eyes narrowing, sincere and intimidating.

Truth? Bowe felt embarrassed. It seemed like the only times he ever saw Kit was when he was down on his luck and was close to a mental breakdown. Always pale, eyebags and battling something traumatic.

Not only that, but he also still needed to come to terms with the fact that he killed someone hours prior, he could feel blood and dirt under his fingernails.

Bowie stumbles into the highway, thankfully no cars were close enough to him, but some stilled beeped at the sight of a random man stumbling out of the woods.

He looked at the road signs as he walked along the pavement. Telling Kit everything he saw even though he couldn't hear Kit in return with how loud the cars were near him.

At some point, an hour in, Bowie gave up talking and walking. The adrenaline leaves his body. He feels his knees wobble. A car beeped at him; he was too close to the road, the headlights felt blinding.

"Bowie!" A voice shrills from somewhere, Bowie couldn't place it really. Not until gentle hands reach up from behind him and pushing him in the passenger's seat of a sleek black Jeep Wagoneer.

Kit runs around the car and into the driver's seat, yelling profanity at the drivers who had to drive past his stopped vehicle. Bowie finally gets the silence he needed when Kit slams the door shut, now they were alone.

Kit let's out a surprised, shaky breath. Running his fingers through his neck length hair, he begins to drive, "You could even walk on the right side of the road?" He's trying to lighten the mood of a tense situation.

Bowie tries to swallow the dryness off his tongue, pulling at his fingers in anxiety, "To be fair, I couldn't have known what side you'd come from," He mutters back, and Kit laughs in agreement, the sound easing the hunter.

"Didn't go well with your brothers?" Kit guessed.

Bowie's stomach bubbled in rage at the thought of them, he didn't even mean to, but there was no control to it. His face twisted, "Uh, yeah. Didn't know why I bothered." Kit hums in agreement, then he adds, "They're with their dad now, it's whatever. I should probably make my way back home like I planned."

The thought of his apartment didn't feel like home to Bowie. It sounded odd to hear, because he knew that everything had changed.

Stevie was gone, he and Katherine drifted apart, he didn't have a job to go back to. He didn't blame Katherine if she stopped keeping up his apartment funds.

Everything Bowie built, since he was eighteen and on his own, was destroyed in a matter of months. The anger in his chest flared, his jaw tightening.

He should've closed that door in Dean's face and never opened it. He should've stayed blissfully unaware.

Bowie was finally accepting his mother's passing and the effect it had on his life normally before Dean showed up, spoke the trigger words John woven into his dna about the need for revenge and justice. Saving people, hunting things.

Fuck the family business.

'Makes me want to blow up that stupid fucking Impala,' It growls, sounding more and more like Bowie by the second.

Like it was latching onto his every atom.

The Hunter flinches up, grabbing at his hearing aid and adjusting it rapidly.

Kit's phone rings to the tone of 'Ain't No Rest for The Wicked', he looks down and turns it off, "Sorry, my dad. I'll call him back later."

He glanced at Kit and adds, "You didn't have to come-" He was scared for the safety of others.

He killed someone.

Kit glanced back at him with narrow slits of his attempt at fake annoyance, focused on the road, "Shut up, Bowie." He cuts in quick, his voice still gentle and firm. Bowie couldn't take much of his threats seriously, "People like ya for a reason, it's okay to ask for help. Besides, there's no way I couldn't when I realized how close you were. Fastest hour drive of my life."

"An hour?" Bowie echoed after him in shock.

Not only was he surprised Kit picked him up, but he was also surprised he was wandering the highway aimlessly for what only felt like a few minutes.

What was happening to him? Was time real?

Kit says, "You look like, and smell like, you haven't showered in forever."

Bowie looks down in embarrassment, "I've had a long week."

--------

Sam bites the skin of his thumb, reading Bowie's journal from the couch, feet on the table. The sketches were eye-catching, shaded with colored pencils, charcoal, multi-colored pens. Pages with entrees of hunts, written in the most gorgeous and patient handwriting Sam had ever seen.

Dean fiddles with a gun on the twin-sized mattress next to his, pulling it apart, cleaning it, and then doing it all over again if it meant calming the storm he felt in his chest. John was zoned in on the hunt like always, police scanner to his ears.

"What's that?" Dean murmurs, he kept glancing at the book Sam was reading, the only thing he could see was Bowie's initials on the spine.

"It was in Bowie's duffle-bag," Sam responds idly, not taking his eyes off the pages. It was almost finished. Bowie simply called it Volume 1, "It's all the hunts we've done together since you've picked us up."

"Really?" Dean put his guns down, shoving Sam slightly so he could sit next to him on the bed. His hand grips the other side of the book to see better, reading the entree of when Bowie killed the Skinwalker.

There was an impressive drawing of Dean, one side of his face split into scales, white eyes that made him shiver at the memory. Bowie's handwriting gets less patient as the pages go on, projecting how he was feeling physically as those days finding John ticked closer and closer.

After a while, John noticed Sam and Dean huddled together. It made him feel paranoid, like his own sons were plotting for his downfall. Maybe, somehow, they figured out about his deal with Azazel the one time he got close enough to kill him.

With a slight twitch of his eye, John sits up straighter, "Dean those gun's ain't gonna clean themselves."

Dean's whole body stiffens, like the sound of John's voice alone made him a whole different person. For a second, he faltered at the command.

John's whole leg began to shake, his shoe hitting the floor was the only thing filling the silence.

Until a knock on the door made Dean and Sam jump.

Dean pales at John's expression. He wondered if the world was against him, like that knock on the door might be a vampire ready to kill them all.

"Vampires don't knock," Sam mutters, like he could read Dean's mind, and Dean eased a bit.

He stands up, grabbing his knife anyway as he moved to open the door, glaring a bit at his father. The maid brings them fresh towels, and the Hunter smiles awkwardly, hiding his knife and taking them.

"We need to get going, I picked up a police call," John explains, grabbing his jacket. "A couple called 911. They found a body in the street. Cops got there but everyone was missing. It's the Vampires."

"How do you know?" Sam questions, watching as Dean rushed to collect his things.

John waves him away in frustration, "Just follow me okay?"

He was giving them no time to slow down, no time for breaks, for thinking, for grieving.

"Vampires, gets funny every time I hear it," Dean grumbles.

Reluctantly, Sam follows his family to the crime scene of Slatest Vampire victims. He watches from afar as John spoke to the police, balancing on the backs of his shoes with bitterness.

It was cold, his brother is dead, and he can't even do a hunt properly without John benching them like toddlers. What was the point of all of this?

It felt like it was all for nothing.

"I don't see why we couldn't have gone over with him," Sam comments.

"Oh, don't tell me it's already starting," Dean groans.

He stands up straighter, "What's starting?"

John walks up to them with his hands in his pockets, "It was them all right," He confirms, "It looks like they're heading West. We have to double back to get around that detour."

"How can you be sure?" Sam pressed.

"Sammy-"

"I just want to know we're going in the right direction," Sam glares at his brother.

John clenched his jaw, "We are. Did you question your brother this much when you tracked for you?"

At the mention of Bowie, Sam raised a challenging eyebrow, "Only when he had something to hide. Which was usually never. So how do you know?"

"You'd be shocked about what your brother doesn't tell you," John smiles, almost like he caught Sam in a trap, "Your brother's killed Vampires before. Hell, younger than 18 at that. Which means he also would've found this." He holds up a small object.

Sam and Dean straighten at this, looking at each other in confusion.

Surely, they'd remember being with Bowie if he killed a Vampire. He would've told them. What kind of hunts did Bowie go on right under their noses? No wonder he was more advanced than they could dream.

A flare of jealousy sparks in Dean's chest at the thought.

"A vampire fang?" Dean mutters, looking down at the sharp-edge tooth. He wonders what it would be like to have a Vampire kill under his belt.

"No fangs, teeth. The second set descends when they attack," John corrects, looking to Sam challengingly, "Any more questions?" Sam shook his head, "Then let's go, we're losing daylight. And Dean, why don't you touch up your car before you get rust? I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it."

Dean falters, looking down at the car.

Kit's apartment smelled of herbs and cleaner. When Bowie walked inside, he mirrored Kit's movements and took off his shoes, setting them aside.

His phone rings again, same ringtone.

"You could answer it if you want," Bowie suggests.

The man shrugs it off, "My dad's been missing me since I've moved out here. He's all alone since my mom died last winter." He explains, but turns his phone off again, "I called him every day, I can call him again later."

Bowie hums in response, looking around.

Kit rushes around trying to clean up as nonchalantly as possible, "Do you want some water?"

The question falls victim to Bowie having his back turned, too busy looking at Kit's knick-knacks and abstract art. His rack of expensive liquor near his mountain of vinyl's that's almost as tall as his mountain of self-help books.

Kit throws his jacket on the couch, grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV for background noise.

A hand rests on Bowie's shoulder, and his tunnel vision sharpens into hyperawareness. He turns, grabbing Kit firmly by the wrist and pushes him back just enough for the man to stumble a single step.

"Don't—!" His voice raised just slightly before he licks his lips and collects himself, "I don't like being touched," Bowie tries his hardest to smile reassuringly.

"You've had a rough time," He acknowledged, "You can stay here a bit if you need to."

"I'm sorry to hear about your mom," Bowie says.

"It happens," He smiles sadly.

Bowie pulls at his fingers, "I, uh," He thinks about the last time he saw Kit. The night in his car, outside the motel on his birthday. He remembered the happy twists in his stomach when he looked at Kit. Which was why he couldn't stay. "I can't."

"Why not? I don't mind—"

"Kit, I can't be present mentally enough for you, right now and I don't want you to take it personally," Bowie answers firmly.

The opening jingle of a news channel can be heard, and Bowie's attention shifts to the screen, Kit's eyes curiously following as the TV starts projecting the concerned faces of news Anchors.

"Good Afternoon America, I'm your host Desman Chack, and today's news is brought to you with a severe trigger warning. Just moments ago, off highway I-90, the police discovered a mutilated body of an unidentified man tied to a tree in the woods."

Bowie's face paled, the ringing in his hearing aids is starting to grow louder. He looks to Kit, who isn't looking at him. The man is too focused on the news, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.

On one hand, the Hunter was hoping Kit never put to pieces together — On another, he wondered if Kit would still accept him, knowing he had blood on his hands.

Can anyone stand to level with a murder?

"Viewers advised," The screen displayed a moving camera man and a fast-paced reporter trying to get a steady shot of the body being unnailed from a tree trunk. And its face, even though hardly seen from afar, was void of skin.

"He's faceless," Kit mutters.

Bowie doesn't hear him, just the heartbeat in his ears.

'My work on display,' It thought.

The man's face is completely beaten in, the scene cuts and the host apologized. It cuts again the Sherriff, "Far as we know, these aren't the signs of a serial killer or gang. This was an act of blind rage from one hateful individual to another. We got a sociopath on the run and hostile. And from the looks of it, instincts of a killer animal—"

Kit points to the TV, "Isn't that. . .the highway I picked you up at an hour ago?" He questions, though basically rhetorical as he tried to turn the volume up.

Bowie felt sick, grabbing the remote from his hand and turning the TV off, "Can I have some water?" He smiles as best he could.

Kit playfully rolls his eyes, trying to ease to tension but Bowie could see it in the man's shoulders, "I tried to offer you water earlier." He hesitates, "Bowie. . . . if there's something you want to tell me—"

"I'm sorry," Is all Bowie mutters.

The second Kit turned for the kitchen, he made a soundless sprint to the bathroom and closed the door, dropping his head against the wood.

The soreness in his body was amplified with each breath his lungs were forced to breathe, and yet the sensation in the back of his subconscious was creeping up, trying to give him a junkies rush.

A second heartbeat in his chest, echoing each beat and making him feel claustrophobic in his own skin.

Bowie leans his elbows against the sink, splashing his face with cold water. He frowns, looking down at his hands, dry blood crusted under his short nails, staining his cuticles.

He looks up at himself in the mirror, scared. He searches his own eyes, looking for the slip of his own mask. "What is this?" He swallows.

The Bowie in the mirror tilts his head, the smirk of a devil so sly and sinister that Bow stumbled on his own feet and hit his back against the wall.

"What's what?" It questions back. 

"Me," Bowie directs, hearing himself talk was trippy, "This, what the fuck—"

It looked confused, and it freaked Bowie out watching his own expressions shift. He knew it was just projections in his head.

"Let me all the way in and I can show you," It replies, "Azazel is giving you a gift, we can use it against him. Let's kill Azazel." It says eerily, cheerfully even, "Let's kill John, and maybe even Moe is still around—"

"You're not killing anyone, ever." Bowie promised.

"We have to Bowie," It groans, "Don't deny it, you know it's the only way."

Bowie shook his head, licking his chapped lips, "Only way for what?"

"To save Sammy." It drags, smiling.

His heart split, "Save. . .Sam? Save him from what?!" He remembers Azazael's words. He said John sold him to have more time with Sam before he collected him too. Collected Sam for what? "What does Azazel want with my baby brother?!"

Its smiling face snaps into a void expression in seconds, looking into Bowie's own eyes with the kind of black nothingness he knew wasn't really his own. It scared him shitless.

"Let me in, Bohemian." It demands.

Bowie shook his head, not trusting his voice to be steady.

It raised his hand and Bowie suddenly felt a pounding headache form. He grunts out, falling on the tile.

"Bowie?!" Kit knocks on the other side, concerned, "You okay?"

"Do you have any idea what I can do to you in here?" It narrows Bowie's eyes though the mirror, "Do you want to know what it feels like to be a dead man walking?"

He couldn't answer either of them, feeling his atoms behind shredding and regenerating so quickly, his body trying to fight a demonic entity attaching to his rage.

But he was so tired.

The floor began to stretch and morph. He stumbles on his own feet, trying to find a grip on reality. "Kit, just— a moment—,"

"What's wrong!?"

"I can't stop it!" Bowie yells back.

The handle jiggles, "You sound hurt! Look whatever's happening, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. ."

It turns its head to the door, "He knows." It claims, "He knows. He'll call the police. We have to get rid of him."

"Shut up!" Bowie snaps at the mirror.

"Hey, don't tell me to shut up." Kit defends behind the door, "I'm trying to be fucking nice!"

Bowie grabs at his chest anxiously, "No! Not you— just, ah—!"

He can't handle it.

He falls on his knees and pictures everything horrible life had to offer him.

Azazel's face kept appearing.

Its voice kept asking to be let inside, Kit kept banging on the door.

"Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away!" Bowie gets violently louder each time.

He opens his eyes. He's sixteen again.

He was in a shipment container, he remembers it. The day John trained him how to hunt Vampires without the need to hear or even see.

And then, the sound of a blaring alarm that made his legs feel numb, the chains of something being released, the familiar sound of snarling.

It was forcing him to relieve these memories as if they're the first time. Breaking his mind in hopes of taking control.

Bowie can't let it win.

"This isn't real," He mutters, closing his eyes, pulling off his hearing aids. The static silence follows, "This isn't real."

The crash on the ground felt real moments after, the face of the familiar dead woman that lingered in his subconscious since he was a teenager. The first human life that he felt he took.

She's above him with those sharp retractable claws, and her touch felt so real. Vampire. A vampire who needs to feed to complete transformation.

He remembers the game. He knows he can't reason with her; he tried that the first time. Begging the woman to breathe, to let him help her. It doesn't work, he had to kill her.

And like the memory, John had removed anything sharp.

Now that he's older, Bowie wonders if John expected to drive home alone that night. Claim the training had gone sideways, that he hadn't listened and got himself killed.

John had every chance to let Bowie go. To give him up, leave him with Bowie. Something. But no, stubbornly, John wouldn't let him go until he had complete control, or he was in a box.

Bowie let out a bellowing, rageful scream. So raw and loud that it ripped his throat as he grabbed the wrench off the floor and slammed it so hard against the vampire's head that he felt the shatter of the skull against his knuckles.

He blinks. He's twenty-four.

He was in a bathroom, and the brightness of that sunlight was a reminder that it was never real.

The Vampire was never a Vampire.

"Bowie. . ."

The hunter is holding Kit's shirt, the other hand-stained red with the blood of a friend. Kit's last words were his own name as the body slumped into his chest, the side of his head halfway in.

Bowie felt sick, his body trembling, "No. No," He cries desperately, scrambling back. His side hits the door, he slips on blood, "No, No, no! No!"

The door had been kicked open. Kit was scared for him.

"Kit?" He calls out, as if he'd answer. As if he's just sleeping.

All his walls crumbled.

And in seconds, a demonic sensation washed over his body and fogged his vision, the hazel of his eyes darkening. Gazing down at the scene now, like a casual viewing of a freshly slaughtered lamb.

"Don't cry!" His voice commanded out in a stern unapologetic tone.

Bowie shakes his head, grabbing at his head.

Bowie gets up, grabbing his coat and his shoes over his shoulder and taking Kit's keys off the counter.

Kit's phone rings, 'Ain't No Rest for the Wicked' plays out and before Bowie looks back. He can't stay there. He runs away and out of the building with as much strength as he could muster.

In dead silence, Sam and Dean drove behind John's truck in the Impala. Sam was driving, which would be unusual if it weren't for the fact that Dean felt so emotionally exhausted, he was about to open the door and get to know the pavement personally.

Dean bounces his knee, flipping through Bowie's pages. His eyes rapidly searching for some sort of sign from the universe that Bowie didn't die loathing them before he could truly fix everything.

"Bowie's hunted Vampires before," Sam restates, breaking the silence with a frown, "Makes you wonder what kind of training Dad had him on."

Dean frowns, "Makes you wonder what their relationship was actually like behind closed doors." He mutters.

Sam scoffs, "Please, they hated each other. The idea of them finding a common ground or-or even sharing a thought is like winning the lottery."

Dean picks up the library book, flipping through the pages already filled with hunting sticky notes, "Vampires groups of 10. .blah blah. . victims are taken to the nest, where the pack keeps them alive, bleeding them for days or weeks. I wonder if that's what happened to that 911 couple."

"That's probably what dad's thinking. Of course, he didn't ask he just told us what he thinks." Sam replies in one breath.

"So it is starting."

"What?"

Dean clenched his jaw at his brother's innocent act, "Sam, we've been looking for Dad all year and now we're not with him for more than a couple of hours and there's static already?"

He scoffs, "No. Look, I'm happy he's okay, all right? And I'm happy we're all working together again — but if you haven't noticed, our brother is—"

"Ain't about Bow," Dean firms gently, looking down at Bowie's journal, rubbing the leather with his thumb.

"Of course this is about Bowie!" Sam pressed.

"He died before you guys could mend things about Max," Dean corrects, "And you hate yourself for it, because you think he died thinking you hate him, and that he hates you."

Sam is silent, his knuckles white on the wheel as his eyes started to swell with hot tears. With a clenched jaw, he finds himself unable to respond.

Because Dean was right.

Stubbornly, Sam knew that Bowie was right too. About Max.

About his place in the hunt.

He didn't care about that anymore; Sam just wanted his big brother.

"I know you do, because I do." Dean continues, his voice starting to go raw as he tried not to cry, "The number of times I failed to protect him. Should be me in the ground. God knows the world would be better with him in it than me. Bowie probably died thinking the world hated his guts and he deserved it because I made him feel that way. Can't change it, I'm going to Hell, Sammy."

"Dean—," He glanced at him in surprise.

"I'm right," Is all he said. "Don't pass the blame to Dad, it's on me."

Sam clenched his jaw at the thought, "This is blame on Dad. He's hiding something about Bow, I don't know how or why, I just know. And the way he's been treating us like children, he-he barks orders at us! He expects us to follow him without question. He keeps us on some shit 'need-to-know' deal."

"He does what he does for a reason," Dean defends like a broken record, not even knowing why at this point. He had to have faith this was all for something, "Our job, there's no time to argue. There's no margin for error — Bowie knew it too — it's just the way the old man runs things."

"Yeah? Well, maybe that worked when we were kids, but not anymore." Sam concludes, "Not after everything you and I have been through, Dean. Not after losing a brother to even get to this point. We can't be treated like kids! Are you telling me you're cool with just falling into line?"

For a moment, Dean is silent.

Sam watches him from the corner of his eye, watching him look at the journal with their brother's initials on the spine.

"If that's what it takes to guarantee my baby brother didn't die for nothin'," He answers.

The phone in his pocket rings, he answers, listening to John bark a two-sentence order, "Yeah, Dad. All right, got it." He hangs up, "Pull off the next exit."

"Why?"

"'Cause Dad thinks we got the Vampires' trail."

"How?"

They'd been following John for two hours. How did he get that information?

"I don't know, he didn't say."

That's it.

The engine revs and Sam drives with erratic grace around John's truck and in front of it, causing John to turn off the road.

Sam gets out of the car.

"Oh, fuck, here we go. Sam!"

"What the hell was that?" John demands lowly.

"We need to talk."

"About what?!"

"About everything!" Sam snaps, "Where we going, Dad? What's the big deal about this gun?"

"Sammy, come on! We can Q&A after we kill all the Vampires," Dean tries to step between.

"Your brothers right, we don't have time for this." John answers.

"Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous to be together. Now, out of the blue, Bowie is dead, you're oddly at the scene and now you need our help?!"

John steps forward, "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Obviously something big's going down, and we want to know what!" Sam yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Get back in the car."

"No."

"I said," John takes another step forward, and this time only Dean is on alert of the warning, "Get back in the fucking car."

"Yeah," Sam looks him dead in the eye, "And I said no."

For a second, Sam's face was Bowie's in the eyes of John.

And the Hunter hated it.

"All right, you made your point, tough guy," Dean grabs Sam's shirt, "Look, we're all tired. We can talk about this later. Sammy, I mean it, come on!" He orders.

Sam follows with a mutter, "This is why we left in the first place."

John looks amused, "What'd you say?"
Sam turns around, taking the bait, "You heard me."

"Yeah, you left." John emphasized, "You wanted to follow in your little hero's footsteps, when your brother and me? — we needed you. Bow turning his back on this family was to be expected, because he was never a Winchester, He ain't blood. You walked away, Sam! You walked away!"

"Stop it! Both of you!"

Sam scoffs a laugh, "Bowie is my blood. You're the one who said don't come back, Dad. You're the one who closed that door, not me. You burned down Bowie's door. You were just pissed off you couldn't control us anymore!!"

"Stop it! Stop it, that's enough!" Dean pries John's hands out of Sam's shirt and pushes them both away, "That means you too!"

Sam gets in the driver's seat and slams the door. John walks back to his truck.

"Terrific," Dean throws his hands up in the air, being the only one outside now.

---------

By the next morning, Bowie had driven across state lines back to the original point where he split up with Sam and Dean. His phone was dead now. His clothes and face dried with blood that wasn't his own from the bodies of two separate people.

Human people.

"We were raised to save people and hunt monsters. Don't mix those two up." He recalls yelling at Sam during the last arguments they had before they separated.

He felt like a hypocrite.

His eyes still shine with tears, his hands still trembling uncontrollably — he's surprised he hadn't crashed. Every breathe he took was uneven and shaky.

How could he go back? How can he go back, look his brothers in the eyes, and explain. Should he even try?

He couldn't go to Katherine like this.

Bowie contemplated closing his eyes and letting the wheel swerve him off the road and into the sweet peace silence death had to offer.

If the universe wasn't so cruel restarting his heart every time he tried.

He looks at his eyes through the mirror. They aren't black, but they aren't hazel either — the difference lay in the look behind his eyes. The spark was gone. Something was left sinister about his gaze.

Bowie felt gone.

No thoughts. Just the itching needs to hunt everything.

And everyone.

It lingers. Ready to pounce at his mobility.

Making his way back to his brothers felt easy for him. He could feel them in a way.

Bowie felt himself at a higher frequency than before.

When the familiar sight of John's ugly truck came into view. Bowie parks Kit's Jeep Wagoneer next to it. He tries to wipe the sweat and grime off his face, the hospital bracelet still on his wrist.

He must've found his brothers in the middle of a hunt.

Bowie looks around before casually taking his key and runs it across the paint of John's truck, following their messy trail down the road.

He wouldn't normally do something so bold, but some immoral actions slip before he could process it — just another reminder that his body wasn't his own if he wasn't hyperaware of himself.

Any slip? Bowie dreads the thought of what would happen in his sleep.

Ending at the trail, it seemed Bowie was entering in the middle of a showdown.

He saw Dean, only Dean, in front of a few Vampires, standing in front of the Impala.

Bowie recalls the day John locked him in a shipping container with a freshly bitten Vampire. He remembers the feeling of her skull caving when he beat her in with a wrench in the dark.

He shivers. Bowie relieved it only hours ago. Kit was dead because of it. And now God wanted to be cruel by putting the real thing in front of him.

It made him feel the urge to succumb to unfamiliar cacoethes habits.

". . .I usually draw the line at Necrophilia," Dean could be heard.

The female Vampire hit Dean so hard across the face he hit the floor.

Bowie tilts his head in amusement as she lifts his brother up by the jaw.

"I don't normally get this friendly till the second date," Dean mouthed off.

"You know, we can have some fun. I always like to make new friends." She drawls, forcing a kiss between them.

Bowie clenched — He was annoyed at his brother, but he drew the line at no consent for any individual. Even if that was his dumb brother being used as bait for this hunt. He wanted to kill Dean himself, at least that's the urge he was forced to feel with that parasite in his body.

And yet, here he goes. Protecting his family who did shit to deserve it.

He runs up and grabs the nearest Vampire by the back of the neck, drawing attention from everyone, he lifted the creature up with one hand and snapped its neck with full force, and watched the second chance of life fade for its eyes, before removing the head completely.

Adding more blood on his clothes and skin.

Still in the Vampire's arms, Dean speaks between his teeth, "Bowie?!" He bellowed.

Two bolts of his own crossbow fly through the air and into the chest of the last two Vampires, they drop one after another.

Dean falls into dirt and the smell of dead man's blood-filled Bowie's nose.

Sam and John ran through the woods armed and ready.

Both faltering at the sight of Bowie.

John looked mortified.

Sam looked like he had just found a golden ticket.

Bowie waved his fingers at him.

"Barely even stung," The vampire comments.

"Bowie. . ." Sam shakes, not even looking at her. He drops the crossbow and starts moving forward.

"Oh, are we interrupting something?" Kate hissed at them.

As Dean gets to his feet, he dusts his clothes off. Eyes never leaving Bowie's stance. He looks at his father with rage.

"You'll be unconscious in a second, so use your last conscious breath to shut up while that dead man's blood enters your system," Bowie says bitterly, smiling at them.

Her eyes widened in realization, looking down at the arrow in her chest before falling to a heap on the ground.

"See," Bowie concludes with a raw and tired voice, talking to her sleeping body as if it would respond.

"Load her up," John commands, trying to pretend like Bowie had always been there.

"You're alive," Sam choked out, ignoring his father and running up to him and throwing his arms out, closing the distance by pulling Bowie into a firm hug, "You're alive! I'm—," I'm so sorry, "I'm such an idiot. You were right about everything! I-I thought," Sam pulls back from the hug, tears in his eyes as he looked at his brother, "I thought one of the last things I said to my brother was that he was like his abuser. That you died thinking I hate you."

Bowie falters, and suddenly old feelings stir. "Don't. . .you?"

"No!" Sam cried, hugging him again. Bowie grunts under the pressure, "I get it if you hate me though."

Bowie doesn't respond — he doesn't feel like he can.

"Bow," Dean voiced, holding his ribs in pain. "How is this possible?"

He was asking the obvious, glaring at his father.

Bowie also looked at John, wondering how he should handle this.

'Wait until you can get your questions answered on our own time,' It spoke, ringing in his hearing aids.

Bowie rolled his neck, hating that he agreed. This deal with Azazel was deeper than he knows — John had answers. If he told the truth, his brothers turned against their father. What then? John gets defensive, denies everything, runs away?

He had to catch him off guard.

For once, he had the advantage.

"Yellow Eyes," He says, "Azazel, I saw him."

Dean stalks forward, eyes wide, "You saw him? Up close? The demon."

"I didn't just see him," Bowie explains slow, "I spoke to him, and I fought him off."

Sam looked amazed, the brothers hovering over him as they continued to ask questions.

"What did he say?"

"What does he look like?"

"Did you kill him?"

Bowie and John are the only ones locking eyes. John is tying the Vampire to a tree for the next phase of their hunt.

"He let me go," Bowie answers softly.

Dean is taken back, "What do you mean? He just let you walk away?"

Bowie shrugs as he continues lying through his teeth, not knowing where he was going with this, "Guys got bigger fish to fry. From the moment we left that building, after we killed Meg. To when they followed us to the motel. They were trying to separate us, stall us."

Sam nods, like he was catching on, "Well, Yellow Eyes was wrong, we might have a way to kill him once and for all." He grabs Bowie's shoulder, "He had no idea letting you go would be his downfall."

'Or yours,' It thought.

"How did you find us?" John finally spoke up, suspicious. "Whose car is that? Why do you have so much blood on your clothes?"

Bowie swallows, thinking of Kit, "I had to fight my way out."

"I thought you said Yellow Eyes let you go."

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Bowie snaps at John, "I'd say that's mercy."

Silence lingered in the air after.

Dean quickly closes the distance between them and pulls Bowie into a hug, his head resting in the space between Bowie's shoulder so firmly that the youngest felt the urge to buckle his knees and let his big brother hold him for as long as he could.

Dean closes his eyes, taking in the moment, he can feel his brother's heartbeat through his shirt, feel his warmth. He was here.

And for Dean, at least in that moment, all was well, "You're alive," He breathes out, pulling back and grabbing his neck firmly.

It was the expression of nothingness that would leave any normal person confused — especially when Bowie started to tear up at the look.

It was because for them, for these kinds of brothers, the emotion pooled in the eyes, in the touch, in the tone.

And it was the first time Bowie saw, in Dean's green eyes, the relief and love towards him that he never thought Dean was capable of forming.

"Can't get me that easy," Bowie mutters, "Got a lot of Hell to raise."

Oh, how he meant it. Sam and Dean had no idea what kind of monster stood among them, being kept at bay just slightly — and yet it was all the willpower Bowie had.

The Vampire stirred awake.

John turns to his sons, "You guys need to go. They'll come after you. Vampires mate for life, she means more to their leader than the gun. But the blood sickness is gonna wear off soon, so you guys don't have a lot of time. Half-hour ought to do it, want you out of the area as fast you can."

Sam frowns, "But—"

"You can't take care of them all yourself." Dean firms.

"I'll stay." Bowie jumps to the opportunity.

He could've sworn John's eyes flashed with fear, "No. I'll have her and the Colt."

"But after, we're going to meet up, right?" Sam pressed, "We just got Bowie back, so much has happened. We can use the gun together!" John doesn't respond, "You're leaving again, aren't you? You still want to go after the demon alone? After what Bowie just went through to help us win?!"

Bowie grabs his brother's sleeve, "Save your breath. He knows what he is."

John clenched his jaw.

"I don't get you!" Sam snaps at John, tears starting to form, "You can't treat us like this!"

For once, Dean saw what his brothers saw.

"Like what? Like children? You are my children! I'm trying to keep you safe!" He snaps.

"You weren't worried about that back there," Dean responds calmly, and now the attention was on him, and he didn't care, "Dad, all due respect, but that's all a bunch of shit."

Bowie's eyes widened, he felt his body ease, his control grew stronger over himself as he watched his brother.

"You know what we've been hunting out here. You sent us on a few hunting trips yourself — Wanna talk about safety?" He laughs tiredly, "Is watching you put a gun to my little brothers' ears and blow his hearing out safe? Leaving me with them so young when I hardly knew what to do, was that safe?"

"Dean—," John clenched his jaw, trying to speak.

"Can't be worried about keeping us that safe now, can you?"

"It's not the same thing, Dean." He firms.

"Then what is it?" He pressed, "Why do you want us out of the big fight?"

"This demon is a bad son of a bitch!"

Bowie smirks, "Takes one to know one, huh Johnny boy?"

John glares, "I can't make the same moves if I'm worried about keeping my boys alive. You'd best respect me boy!"

"I know what kind of moves you're referring to," Bowie mocks, "I can assure you, if I can hold back — you sure as hell could. You just don't want to. Respect goes both ways, don't it sir?"

"I don't expect to make it out of this fight in one piece!"

'I can help with that,' It growled.

"—your mother's death, it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die too. I won't." John concludes.

"We need to do this together." Dean didn't give up, "We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it."

Bowie didn't agree with the sentiment of family, but he nods along, "I've met him. He's strong. It'll take all of us to kill him."

"We're running out of time," John has no expression, "You do your job, and you get out of the area. That's an order."

And as Sam and Dean are reluctant to move, they eventually cave into his stare and slowly start making their way to the Impala.

Bowie hadn't moved.

He just looked at John.

As if he was given the ability to see right through him for just a second.

How could he ever be so scared of a stubborn, no-good suicidal drunk like John?

"Bowie, you coming?" Sam and Dean stop, waiting for him to follow.

Expecting him to.

"We're running out of time," John repeats, more firmly, angrily.

"You and I will have all the time in the world when this is over." He vowed quietly, only for John to hear, and slowly walked back with his brothers, never breaking eye contact.

John looked more scared of Bowie than the Vampire fighting against her restraints, or the group of Vampires he planned to face all on his own.

Bowie slides into the familiar backseat of the Impala, his things still neatly put away in the corner. His cassette tape in his usual seat.

Once all three doors slammed, the brothers submit to the traumatic silence of the night — and for the first time in what felt like weeks, they allowed themselves to process everything that happened the last few days.

Sam is looking down at his hands, tears never falling from his eyes. Dean is looking forward, hands on the wheel, thousand-yard stare. And Bowie, locked in a staring match with his own reflection in the rear-view mirror.

All of them, so utterly lost.

What happened now?

"We can't let Dad finish this on his own," Sam voiced suddenly, sniffling, "We've lost too much. We have to finish this!"

Dean swallows his words, glancing at Bowie in the backseat. He felt conflicted. Most of his mind and heart agreed with Sam. He wasn't about to sacrifice his whole childhood for nothing.

And yet, his soul told him to keep driving. He looked at his brother in the backseat — a selfless, good-hearted brother he thought died because of him, because of the selfishness built into him by a selfish father.

What if he risked sacrificing his adulthood on a broken man's dream? A dream that really wasn't even his own. When he could just stop a second and mend what he can with what he had left.

All or nothing, of course. The Winchester way.

Bowie could see it right then. The true, genuine hesitation. The realization that this life wasn't the only one for him. It was the same realization he had at 13, the same realization Sam had at 18.

26-year-old Dean didn't want to do this anymore, but if he didn't finish this for his younger self it'll be all for nothing. He had to see the end of his mother's killer. He just had to.

"And we will," Dean vows, tearing his eyes away from Bowie and clenching his jaw, the itch for a hunt scratching at his skin, "We're gonna kill the nest that stayed behind while they chase after Dad. We're going to go back for that girl. We'll make sure he gets the gun."

"You think we'll make it back in time?" Sam questions, suddenly finding a spark of hope in his chest.

"We better."

It felt like a record time. Sam, Dean, and Bow were able to get back in the familiar dance of hunting. Their moves in sync as they sliced and diced their way through Vampire fangs. At some point, Bowie and Sam found themselves back-to-back in front of two Vampires — Dean off being a hero, saving the human while they kept the monsters distracted.

"Cha Cha Slide?" Bowie suggests.

Sam breathes out a laugh, "Right now?"

With a smirk, Bowie waits for the Vampire to run forward, before taking a big slide to the left, stepping back just enough for both he and Sam to spin around each other and slash their machete's out.

Both Vamp heads sliding off their shoulders and onto the ground.

"Now it's time to get funky!" Bowie sang.

"You have no idea, how good it is to have you back." Sam says firm, his face suddenly serious. "Was never the same without you, even back then. You make us a family."

Bowie clenches, feeling the entity in his chest roll over at the thought of ever considering the Winchester's a family, let alone a family he was the glue off.

It didn't sound right coming out of Sam's mouth.

And so, Bowie chose not to believe it.

He was done giving his brothers the benefit of the doubt. Tired of begging for love, chasing equality. An anger stirs in him, how dare they love him the second he gives up fighting for it?

Surprised at Bowie's reaction, Sam falters.

"Come on!" Dean calls from the stop of the steps, holding a bleeding girl in his arms, "They've probably caught up to him by now!"

Quickly driving away in the Impala, they leave a trail of bodies behind. Vampire bodies of course, but Bowie often wonders what happens to the messes they leave behind after hunts like these.

Any normal person would think they walked into a massacre.

From the other side of the woods, Sam, Dean and Bowie can see John speaking with the Vampire Leader. They hold for Bowie's signal of attack.

The Vampire in John's arms pulls free and punches him hard in the face. Dean goes to move but Bowie holds the stance, not allowing him to.

John tries to stand up, but the Leader throws him back into the hood of his truck, glass shattering everywhere.

"Bowie!" The brothers yell.

Not. Yet.

He aims his crossbow, taking a breath. With a closed eye, he lines the shot perfectly. He could kill John right now if he wanted. He waits until the Leader is standing right above John — allowing the monster to think he's won.

"Now." He says finally, letting the bolt fly straight through the back of the head, and out the left eye of the female vampire.

Sam and Dean charge out of the woods, weapons drawn.

Shot after shot they tried and fought. Sam is thrown down by the Leader, grabbing him up and holding him as bait against his chest.

Dean raises his gun. Bowie pulls a throwing knife out of his belt.

"Put the blade down," The Leader commands, holding Sam tight, "Or I'll break his—"

Bowie hated villain rambles. He throws the knife so quickly that the Vampire couldn't possibly process it. It lands right in the center of his temple, cutting the top of Sam's ear just a little.

Stunned, the Leader drops Sam. Bowie runs forward and kicks the Vampire so hard in the chest he flies back into a tree, breaking the tree.

"You people," He groans out, "Why can't you just leave us alone? We have as much right to live as you do!"

"Maybe," Bowie replies above him, Sam and Dean taking each side, "But we personally draw the line at sharp teeth and the hots for human blood."

Bowie takes the arrow out of the Vampire's temple, making him cry out.

"You think that's gonna kil—"

Bowie slams it into his throat and slides it across, the force cutting the head clean, and snapping the shaft of his bolt.

"Talk, talk, talk." Bowie mocks. 

"No!" Kate screams, she tries to run forward but the last surviving Vampires pulled her back.

They flee, hoping to live another day.

John slowly gets up, grabbing his shoulders in pain after being knocked down so many times. Sam and Dean are looking at Bowie horrified.

And yet, John nods in respect at his work, examining the Colt in his hands, smirking like crazy.

"So, boys." He starts.

"Yes, sir?"

"You ignored a direct order back there." He comments, looking between them, "That Bow's idea?"

"Mine." Dean answers instantly, "We saved your ass."

"You're right," He agreed.

They're all taken back, "Uh, I am?"

"Huh?" Bowie threw out, looking utterly shocked.

"It scares the hell out of me, but you two are all I got," John says to Sam and Dean.

Bowie licked his teeth in bitterness, not even surprised at the emphasis.

"Dad, I think you owe Bowie an apology." Dean says suddenly, finding the courage to keep speaking. John raised an eyebrow.

'You have noooo idea.' It spoke.

Bowie flinched. Being so wrapped up in the hunt, he forgotten the real issue. Himself.

"We're the only two you got?" He scoffs, "Shit. Without Bowie we'd be dead a thousand times over. He faced Azazel, head on. He distracted him, so that we can get that gun!"

Sam nods, "Yeah. He got us to you. He did this all for you—"

Bowie quickly cuts him off, "I appreciate it guys. But I didn't do this for John," He looks at his stepfather in disgust, "Sell my own soul before I do anything for you willingly," John knew exactly what he meant, "Since day one. I've been doing this for mom." He looks to his brothers, "I didn't do it for you guys either. I don't need an apology."

"Bowie—," Dean frowns.

"I don't Dean, really." He answers. Finally, he turns to John one last time, standing in front of him. "You know what you've done," He says surely, looking into his eyes, talking nice and low, "And when you go to Hell, you'll answer for every single one of them. And I'll be here, watching, listening. And I'll use everything you've ever taught me. .to guarantee you never find peace."

John raises his chin, not answering. Knowing he couldn't.

"So, we're going to go after this motherfucker," Bowie spoke loudly, addressing all of them, "And when he's dead, we'll go our separate ways. And none of us will ever. Ever, see each other again." He vows, smiling happily at them before making his way back to the Impala without another word.

And Sam and Dean knew.

That this time, Bowie meant it. 

(  what do I even say? I'm so sorry for being MIA but hopefully this 10,303K chapter can make up for some of that  )

(  FEB. 20. 2024  )