❛ CHICK-FLICK MOMENT ❜
・₊˚៹ . ❪ bohemian — act one ❫ ˖ ₊˚.⋆ 。✧˖°
࿐⠀┊ ⠀CH. 3⠀┊ 🏹🎨👻
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Sioux Falls, South Dakota: 1999

     Eighteen-year-old Bowie Winchester sat on the steps of Bobby Singer's front porch with a sour expression, nursing a black-eye with a bag of frozen pizza bites as he bounced his leg anxiously.

     His brown eyes shifted behind him, where he could still hear Bobby and John arguing. He raised the volume on his hearing aids just a little higher, leaning back to get a good listen.

     "You can't just put your hands on the boy whenever the urge tickles your brain!" Bobby snaps. "Kid's never hurt a damn fly!"

     "He knows what he did," John dismissed angrily, running a hand down his face. "You know what? I came here as a pit stop for the boys to get cleaned up, not for you to lecture me on my parenting, Bobby! He's fine!"

     Bowie could feel the stomping boots reverberate on the wood that connected to the old house. His gaze lifted to the second floor, where he caught the eyes of fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester — who watched his every movement with a worried frown.

     In hopes to ease him, Bowie forced a smile and waved the bag of pizza bites, mouthing, "I'm okay."

     To that, Sam gave a smile and a nod, before being pulled back into the room by a now twenty-year-old Dean, who made a point to give Bowie a small glare before closing the curtians. Instantly, Bowie's smile dropped with a short sigh.

     "Parenting? If you call punching a little boy in the face just cause he went through your little diary—"

     "My hunting journal," John corrects.

     In truth, Bowie had only touched the journal in hopes to grab the photo of Mary hidden within the leather. He had forgotten what she looked like, and wanted to see if he could sketch out the photo for himself before putting the picture back — he didn't expect John to come back from the bar that soon.

     "And he ain't a little boy," The man continued. "He's eighteen now, a man, so if he wants to act like a man and go through my things then he's gonna get his ass kicked like one too."

     The mailman walks up the side of the autoshop, holding a bag full of letters that he was thumbing though. Bowie stood up awkwardly, dropping the back of Pizza Bites on the porch and meeting the mailman half way so he wouldn't hear the yelling.

     The man smiled, handing Bowie a small chunk of letters. Then, he frowned, noticing the bruise ring forming around the boy's eye, his eyes shift to the house, where he could hear the arguing clear as day, "You okay, kid?"

     "Huh— oh," Bowie chuckled awkwardly, "Yeah, I'm fine. . .got this from softball practice," He lied. The man gave a stiff nod, glancing back at the house before contining with his mail run.

     As he made his way back up the porch steps, Bowie thumbed through the letters. His eyes widened at one with his own name on it, the printed crest of: The Kansas City Art Institute. Bowie's heart stopped, tuning out the yelling voices on demand as he rapidly peeled open the seal.

     "Dear, Bowie Winchester we are pleased to inform you. . ." Bowie trails, mumbling the words, "I got in," He muttered, a smile slipping on his face, "I—I got in."

     "What're you doin'?" Bobby asked.

     Bowie spins around and pushes the letter behind his back, his heart beating a million miles a minute as he looked at Bobby — who stared cautiously back. Thinking as quick as he could, he handed the rest of the letters to Bobby, "Bills. Post card from a distant cousin, all that jazz."

     Bobby hummed taking the letters, "John's washing up, you're back on the road in ten."

     "Right, thanks Bobby." He nods, breezing passed Bobby to the door.

     "Hey, Bow?" The man called out. Bowie quickly turned around, "You keep that head of yours on straight, you'll be out of the woods soon, I know it."

     Bowie gave a soft smile, "Thanks, Bobby." He repeated, and grabbed the handle of the front door.

2005

Bowie pulls open the door to the motel lobby with an aggressive huff, still annoyed at Dean for the now-dried mud on his favorite blue shirt. The oldest in question breezes by him with a satisfied smile, but Bowie keeps his mouth closed and adjusts the duffle bag on his shoulders.

"One room, please." Dean throws the credit card down on the table.

The clerk looks between the three of them, before looking back down at the card, "You guys having a reunion or something?"

"What do you mean?"

"That other guy, Bert Aframian. He came in and bought out a room for the whole month." The clerk explans, looking almost annoyed.

Bowie tilts his head, "And what room is that exactly?"

After getting the room number from the clerk, the brothers quickly exit the motel lobby and rush toward room 10. Ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle, Bowie kneels down and pulls out a bobby pin from his hair.

"Dude. . .why the hell do you have a bobby pin in your hair?" Dean deadpans.

Bowie frowns, looking back toward the door and shoving it in the lock, "Why not?"

"Because it's for chicks."

"And now it's for me," He dismisses.

     In truth, Katherine once picked his bedroom door with a bobby pin and he'd kept one on him ever since.

     With one last jiggle the door opens and Bowie steps back with a proud smirk, "You're welcome. Say thank you to my chick pin."

     "Move," Dean shoves him into the room, and Sam closes the door behind them with a chuckle.

     The room itself was messier than Bowie's college dorm — which in his defense it was only his roommates side. The walls were covered in newspaper clips, maps, lore and photographs. The bed was unmade and there was still a suitcase on the sheets.

     "He left in a rush," Bowie takes note, kneeling down on the floor and examining the scuff marks by the door, "He was moving fast, didn't take much with him. Shoes were dirty too, must've came back from a sticky situation. . .maybe the bridge?" He was talking to himself now, "Same shade of mud on the floor."

     Sam and Dean share an impressed glance.

     "See, I knew there was a reason I called you." Dean says, grabbing an old burger from the table and giving it a sniff.

     "You didn't call me, you showed up unannounced," Bowie grumbles to himself.

     "I don't think he's been here for a couple of days at least," Dean announced.

     Sam kneels down and runs a hand over a pre-made salt circle, "Salt, cat's-eye shells. He was worried, trying to keep something from coming in."

     "Worried is a loose term," Bowie replies, looking over the newspaper clips with a calculating frown, "More like paranoid."

"What do you got there?" Sam asks, walking up beside him.

     "Sort've what we already knew," He shrugs. "Centennial highway victims. Their names, their death dates. . .all that stalker shit we love to do." He jokes, turning to Sam with a small grin. The youngest returned it.

     "I don't get it. ." Dean begins.

     "Well that's shocking," Bowie says.

     Dean glares at his sarcasm, "Different men, different jobs, ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?"

     Bowie scoffs, "I think them being men is common enough. I don't know if you've noticed but uh, men are kind of dicks."

     "You're a man," Dean reminds.

     "And you're a dick," Bowie grins mockingly, "You see how that comes full circle?"

     "Dad figured it out." Sam voices from the other side of the room. Dean and Bowie walk up beside him, "He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's the Woman in White."

     "Woman in White. . .takes unfaithful men, Woman in White?" Bowie asks, and Sam nods. The middle child quickly turned to Dean with a smug smirk, "Told you, they're dicks."

     "Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it," Dean says.

     "She might have another weakness." Sam replies.

     "No, dad would've made sure." Dean shakes his head, "He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?"

     "No, not that I can tell." Sam mutters.

     Bowie scoffs, leaning against the wall. "Maybe your dad isn't as thorough as you thought, Deanie."

     "Stop calling me Deanie," The man grumbles.

     "Deanie," He says under his breath.

     "If I were dad, though, I'd go ask her husband," Sam points at the man at the bottom of the article, "If he's still alive."

     "All right, why don't you two see if you can find an address. I'm gonna get cleaned up," Dean orders, walking toward the bathroom.

     "Hey, Dean. ." Sam speaks suddenly, "What I said earlier about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry—"

     Dean holds his hand out, "No chick-flick moments."

     Sam scoffs a laugh, "All right, jerk."

     "Bitch," He responds.

     Bowie rolls his eyes, "Dumbasses."

     When Dean had closes the door of the bathroom, Sam reaches over the desk and plucks a photo from the wall. Bowie glances at it. The phone was of John and the three boys — surisingly there was a photo of all four of them. Young Sam was perched on John's smiling lap, and Dean was leaning into his father with a small smile.

     Bowie however, was barely in frame at the corner, smiling the widest because he didn't know any better not to. The man scoffs at the photo in Sam's hands, and turned away.

     Sam's eyes drift toward Bowie, who was now shirtless and fishing in his duffle for a shirt. The youngest seems to freeze up at the scorch marks and little slashes on Bowie's chest — most likely from cigarettes and pocket knives. The display had gone quicker than it came when Bowie tugs on a new shirt.

     "What?" The man asks when he notices his little brother staring, "Do I still have mud on me?"

     Sam shakes his head softly, "Nah, you're good."

     About an hour passed when Dean had finally gotten out of the shower and changed into cleaner clothes.

     Bowie was sitting on the bed with his ankles crossed, sketching a rough picture of Sam who sits at the bottom of the bed, posing in the most dumbest way as he listenes to voicemails left by his girlfriend Jessica.

     Dean takes in the sight bitterly. He was annoyed that Sam and Bowie got so comfortable around each other even after the years they've been apart. Yes, there was still unresolved problems between them but they didn't fight about it like Dean and Bowie did.

     "I'm starving," Dean announces, grabbing his jacket. "I'm gonna grab a little something to eat at that diner down the street. You two want anything?"

Bowie purposely looked around the room, pretending he didn't hear anything.

     "No," Sam says more kindly.

     "Eh, screw the both of you." Dean grumbles, closing the door behind him.

     "Dude," Sam turns to face Bowie. "Can you seriously be a little nicer? We aren't going to get anything done if you two are at each others necks like lions."

     "I'm a cheetah," Bowie corrects. Sam scoffs in amusement.

     Suddenly, Sam's phone rings, "It's Dean." He announces.

     "Dude, five-o. Take off."

     The brothers quickly glance at each other and scramble to their feet. Bowie reaches for his duffle and places his sketchpad in the first pocket, pulling it over his shoulders.

     "What about you?" Sam asked.

     "Uh, they kind of spotted me. Go find Dad." The line goes dead.

     "A fallen soldier, he will be missed." Bowie says, slapping Sam's shoulder as he passes toward the bathroom, "Come on."

     Reluctantly, Sam follows.

1999

Sam reluctantly followed Bowie inside of the motel bathroom with light grumble, "I'm fine, Bow! It's just a stupid scratch." He huffed. The middle child shook his head, pointing to the sink where Sam was forced to sit on.

"A stupid scratch that could get infected," Bowie replied, opening the cabinet and grabbing the first-aid kit. "How many times are you gonna follow Dean into reckless situations, huh?" He lectured, unscrewing the cap of a disinfectant, "If Dean threw himself off a bridge, would you do it too?"

"I'd jump for you too, you know," Sam grumbled, wincing softly when Bowie washed his cut knee. "Besides, how were we supposed to know that shed was unstable when we climbed it?"

"The holes in the roof should've been enough." He huffed, carefully placing a bandaid on the cut, "John's gonna blame me for this, you know—"

"You weren't even doing anything," Sam frowned. He hated the way his father treated Bowie, but never had the courage to say anything against it. "Dean says you were trying to steal from him."

"I was going to give it back," Bowie corrected, tapping his other knee with a reassuring smile. "There, all done, no more Tom Crusing over things."

"I'm fifteen," He reminded, sliding off the sink, "Could've done that myself."

Bowie rolled his eyes, "Complain now, but you're gonna miss me doing that when I'm gone."

Sam stiffened, "Gone?" He repeated, "Where are you going?"

The boy hesitated, not knowing if he could trust Sam with that information just yet, especially when he hadn't started packing his bags. "Going around hunting isn't forever, you know." He reminded lightly, throwing himself on the old bed, "You're allowed to go off and do your own thing if you wanted."

Sam's frowned deepened, plopping down across from him, "Dean didn't, he's still here."

"That's because Dean wants to be here," He emphazied. "Do you want to be here? Doing this until you're old and gray?"

"No," He said instantly.

Sam's face went red at his lack of hesitation, remembering all the times John and Dean got mad at him whenever he spoke about getting out of the life — but Bowie simply shrugged, a small smile on his face.

"You can do whatever the hell you want, Sammy." Bowie said, "You're the smartest kid I've ever met and if you want to go to college like me then do it."

"Like you?" Sam repeated softly, and Bowie realized his slip. "Are you going to college?"

Bowie sighed, pulling out the crumbled letter from his pocket and handing it to Sam. He watched cautiously as Sam read the letter, thumbing the hole in his shirt anxiously, "Early access to housing on campus, said I gotta be there next tomorrow to claim my spot, so I gotta leave tonight. Full ride."

"Oh. . ." Sam faltered, "You are a real good artist Bow, of course they'd want you there. A real Van Gogh," He admired, his frown still tugging on his lips, "But. . .do you have to?"

Bowie frowned, "What do you mean?"

"I mean. . .why can't you stay?" Sam huffed, handing the letter back. "It's not so bad, once you prove yourself like Dean did. You're a great hunter! The best tracker we've got a-and without you here—" I'd be alone fighting against John. "I'd miss you."

"I don't want to prove myself to John." Bowie said, "I want to get the hell out of dodge and paint a damn tree without having to worry if I'm breathing the wrong way around him."

There was a long silence between the two and Sam's face had gone sour.

"You aren't gonna tell them. . .are you?" Bowie asked worriedly, "You know he'd string me by my ears if I tried to leave."

He looked up at him with a set frown.

2005

Sam turns his attention to Bowie with a set frown, watching as he fiddles with Dean's station on the drive to Constance Welch's husbands house, "He's going to skin you alive."

"I'd see that orange jumpsuit a mile away," He jokes, setting the station on classical before giving Sam a sort wink.

"We are getting him out of there," Sam felt the need to remind, looking down at his laptop as his eyes scanned an article, "Can't just leave him."

"Boo, you suck." He responds, pulling into the dirt road.

"Might be your signature move but it's not mine," Sam replies snipetly.

Bowie masks his hurt expression. He had hoped that — of all people — Sam would be more understanding. "You left him behind too," He reminds softly.

Before Sam could respond, Bowie was already getting out of the car, slamming it shut. With a sigh, the younger brother follows. The brothers walk up the steps to the man's house and Bowie knocks on the door.

The man who opens it was a lot older than the one in the news article and smells strongly of alcohol and aftershave, "Can I help you?"

Sam flashes a smile, "Hi. Are you Joseph Welch?"

"Yes," He replies.

"We just have a few questions," Bowie adds on, "You mind maybe stepping outside?"

To that, Joseph steps outside and closed the door, leaning agaisnt it. Sam pulls a photo from his pocket, handing it to the man, "Have you seen this man before?"

Joseph takes a long hard look before handing it back, "Yeah, he was older but that's him. He came by three or four days ago, said he was a reporter."

Sam nods, "That's right," He slips into the lie, "We're working on a story together."

"Well, I don't know what the hell kind of story you're working on — the questions he asked me."

"About your wife, Constance." Bowie guesses, "I'm sorry about your loss."

"He asked me where she was buried." He says, disturbed.

"And where is that again??

Joseph frowns at Sam, "Wat, I got to go through this twice?"

"It's fact checking, if you don't mind." Sam responds.

He sighs, "In a plot behind my old place over on Breckenridge."

"Why did you move?"

I don't know, Sam, maybe he didn't want to live in a house were his children died, Bowie wants to say, but knows it would be unprofessional.

"I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died," He says like it was obvious, and Bowie nodded.

"Mr. Welch, did you ever marry again?"

"No way," The man shakes his head, "Constance — she was the love of my life, prettiest woman I'd ever know."

"So, you had a happy marriage?" Bowie butts in. This caused the man to hesitate, and the brothers shared a quick knowing look.

"Definitely," He lies.

Sam clenches his jaw, "Well, that should do it. Thanks for your time."

Sam goes to leave, but Bowie stays still, watching Joseph. "Mr. Welch, did you know that almost forty percent of marriages end with the partner cheating on their spouse?" He asks.

"What did you say, boy?" He whirls around.

"Have you heard of the Woman in White?" Sam jumps in, speaking less bluntly, "It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really. They're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places in Hawii to Mexico, lately in Arizona."

"I don't care much for nonsense," He responds.

"Want to know what all these different woman have in common?" Bowie asks rethorically, "Stop guessing, it's that their husbands were cheating bastards, and because they suffered from temporary insanity, they murder their children and then themselves. Real tragic, real thing."

"Their souls are cursed, walking back roads, waterways, and if they find an unfaithful man they kill him, and that man is never seen again." Sam finishes.

Joseph shakes in rage, "You think. . .you think that has something to do with Constance, you smartasses?"

"You tell us." Sam responds, holding his stance and staring the man down.

"I mean, maybe I made some mistakes," He backtracks in anger, "But no matter what I did, Constance never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here and you don't come back!"

Bowie stepps forward, "If you really believed that. . .you won't be so worked up about it." He says lowly.

With that, the brothers turn back and got into the Impala, driving away.

1999

Bowie Winchester slowly zipped his duffle, keeping his eyes steady on the sleeping bodies around him. John was gone, off at another bar, and Dean was fast asleep on the small sofa bed. With a few saved dollars in his pocket, the bus would be making it's way around any moment.

With one long lasting look at his brothers, Bowie slowly opened the front door and slipped out into the cold windy night.

He takes a deep breath, tightening the duffle on his shoulder before beginning his trek away from the motel.

"Weren't even going to say goodbye?"

Sam quietly closed the door, sitting on the steps with a blank face. Bowie sighed, turning around to face him.

"Didn't want to make it harder than it had to be," He responded.

The boy gave a small scoff, "Right. Because we both know you don't plan to visit, or write, or call—"

"What, can you blame me?—"

"Yeah." Sam whispered, "Yeah I can because you're turning your back on family."

"You vouching for the whole family or just you?" Bowie asked lightly. Sam falters at that and the older brother gave a small sigh, "I'm not abandoning you, Sam."

"Yes you are," He responded, "You're leaving me behind with them and you don't even care."

"Of course I care." He insisted, "Hell, you think it doesn't kill me inside to leave you behind? With him?" Then, his eyes casted down to his hands before looking back up at his brother, "Come with me, man."

Sam's eyes widened. "What?"

"Come with me," He repeated, "I-I can juggle college and a job, I'm an adult now so I can enroll you into school. It'll be hard but it's not impossible. Sam, this is your chance to start working towards your future, your real future."

"I can't. . ." Sam muttered, "I can't leave Dean. You act like they won't track us down the second they realize we're gone, they'd find us anywhere."

"Part of being a tracker is knowing how not to be tracked," Bowie responded. "Come with me."

Angrily, Sam gets to his feet. "No. No, because unlike you, I actually care about the consequnces that come with being selfish! Just. . ." His voice cracked, sniffling, "Just stay here, Bowie."

Bowie's eyes watered, "I can't. ." He muttered, glancing back toward the bus stop, "I-I gotta start thinking about me. This isn't who I am. I don't want to be a ruthless hunter. It can be you, too." He began to walk backwards, "If you change your mind, you know where to find me, my doors always open for you, just...don't tell anyone where I'm going, all right?"

Sam hesitated.

"Promise me, Sam."

The boy sighed, "I promise."

With that, Sam watched Bowie run through the darkness.

2005

Sam snapps the phone shut, shoving it into his pocket as Bowie smirks his way, "What are you looking at?"

"Fake 9-11 call?" He says, "Brilliant."

Sam rolls his eyes, "Yeah, whatever."

A small silence follows, and Sam couldn't help but stare at Bowie from the corner of his eyes. It was obvious he wants to say something, but Bowie was never one to pry with Sam.

"I should've gone with you. . ."

Bowie turns his head, looking to Sam with a startled expression, "Huh?" He responds, looking away from Sam's serious eyes.

"The night you ran away," He continues, looking toward the road. "You asked me to run away with you. . .I should've gone with you," He admits it, "I wanted to so bad, and I hated myself for not going."

Bowie's hands grip the steering wheel as he continues.

"And I'm sorry for not saying anything when Dad attacked you. . ." He clenches his jaw, "And I'm sorry for—"

"Sam, just stop." Bowie mutters, "It's fine, man."

"No, it's not." He insists, "Six whole years without seeing you, I had a hell of a ton of time to reflect. You were my brother, too, not just Dean. And you might not think we're your family," He swallows thickly, "You thought it wasn't real but it was real to me. You were my real brother, the closest thing I ever had to someone who understood me."

Silence stays in the air again, as Sam let out a shaky breath to stop himself from crying.

"I told Dean where you went in hopes that we could find you again, but then he told John and you had to go deeper into hiding, it was my fault because I didn't keep my promise." He adds on, "And now you hate the both of us—"

"I don't hate you." He whispers, glancing at Sam before looking back to the road, "I never did and I never will, you're my baby brother, full blooded or not." He pauses, swallowing thickly, "It was real to me too," He admits, "You and me, that was real. You were a pain in my ass but..."

They both let out a small chuckle.

"I'm sorry, too. ." Bowie smiles sadly, "I should've tired harder to convince you. I could've handled everything a lot better then I did. I don't regret leaving, but I regret shutting you out." He sighs, "When this is all over, we can start having weekend dinners, espeically now that you'll be a lawyer."

"Look at you, an Art Professor," Sam scoffs a laugh. "That's awesome."

Bowie shrugs, "Not confirmed, still haven't gotten my letter."

"Then they're missing out," He smiles before instantly shifting, "What about Dean?"

"What about him?"

"Do you think you'd ever. . .forgive him."

Bowie clenches his jaw, "It's different. He had a hand in a lot of shit. Knows things you don't. . ."

"Is that what you meant on the bridge?" He presses slightly, "About what happened that night in that Motel, when we accidently left you there."

"It wasn't an accident. . ." He says through his teeth.

"I was in the car, I don't really remember it. . .what happened?"

"Nothing." Bowie shudders, "Look, he hates me just as much as I hate him and that's that."

"He loves you deep down. . ." Sam says, "He was willing to look for you just as much as I was, you two were close once, when we were kids. I'm sure he missed you and just didn't say it—"

"He didn't. . ." Bowie mutters, "Trust me. Mini-John probably threw a party in his head when I left. He hated me for what happend to mom, just like John did."

"You weren't the one who caused the fire," He grumbles.

Bowie's eyes grow distance at the memories, all the abuse he indured flashing though his mind like a horror trailer, "To them, I might as well have."

Sam's phone rang before he could respond, clicking the speaker button and holding the phone between them.

"Fake 9-1-1 phone call, Sammy?" Dean's voice rings out, "I don't know. That's pretty illegal."

"You're welcome."

"Listen, we got to talk. Bow there too?"

"Yo," Bowie voices.

"Tell me about it," Sam responds. "So turns out, the husband was unfaithful. We are dealing with the Woman in White. She's buried behind her old house, that should've been dad's next stop."

"Sammy, would you shut up for a second?"

"I just can't figure out why he hasn't destroyed the corpse yet." He continues.

"Well, that's what i'm trying to tell you. He's gone. Dad left Jericho." Dean informs, "I've got his journal."

Sam reels back, glancing at Bowie. "He doesn't go anywhere without that thing."

"Yeah, well he did this time."

"What did it say? Did he leave a note?" Bowie asks.

"Same old ex-marine shit when he wants to let us know where he's going."

"Coordinates," Sam and Bowie say in sync, "Where to?"

"Not sure yet."

"What the hell is going on?"

Bowie looks away from the phone last minute, the headlights showing a person in the middle of the road. In a panic, Bowie steps hard on the breaks, causing the phone to slip out of Sam's hands as he fell forward, before he could hit his head on the dash, Bowie reaches over and placed a hand over his chest to hold him in place.

"You okay?!" Bowie asks him.

"Did you just soccer mom me?" Sam asks breathlessly.

"Want me to slam your head on the dash myself?" He bites back.

"Take me home."

Both brothers slowly turn around. In the backseat was the spirit of Constance Welsh. A silence follows, and Sam looks to Bowie expectingly.

"Absouletly fucking not." He replies in a jumble. At that, Constance locks all of the doors. "Absolutely, absolutely." He backtracks.

But Constance steps on the gas herself and the brothers were forced to ride toward Constace's house with her at a rapid speed. When the car had finally stopps, Bowie seems to be more calmer than before.

"You don't have to keep doing this, Constance." He says, trying to sympathize.

"I can never go home."

"You're scared to go home," Sam realizes.

"Yeah no shit, she killed her kids in there, dude." Bowie says through his teeth, failing to whisper.

When Sam finds the courage to look behind him, Constance was gone. In seconds, Sam's side of the door opens and he is thrown out of it by an invisable force. Bowie screams his name but Constance glitches on top of him, straddeling the man.

Bowie feels a panic rise in his chest with Constance on top of him, slight grinding as she whispers in his ear, "Hold me." Her cold ghostly hands grips at his wrists, holding them in place. "I'm so cold."

He begins to hyperventilate, "G-Get off me — GET OFF ME!" He screams, a stemmed memory pushing through his subconcious, "I'm not unfaithful to anyone, you can't kill me."

"You will be. ." She whispers, and pressed her cold lips into his.

Sent into an episode, Bowie begins to hyperventilate harder, his chest rapidly rising and falling. He can feel his ribs start to bruise as he tries to pry his wrists from her hands. Constance continues to kiss him, sitting on him. He feels suffocated, closing his eyes and seeing a completely different person on top of him — which made it even worse.

"GET OFF OF ME!" He screams.

"Bowie!" Sam bellows, pulling hard at the handle, slamming his palm into the window, "LET HIM GO!"

Constance glitches again and right when Bowie tried to breathe, she reappears and presses her fingers into his chest, causing him to scream.

The sound of gunfire echoed out, the glass shattering and hitting Constance. It was Dean, screaming out Bowie's name.

Bowie took this chance to sit up and turn back on the car, "Fuck you, dead psycho!" He presses his heel on the gas and drove the car straight into the house, his head slamming into the wheel.

"Bow!"

The man grabs at his head, pulling it back with a wince when blood stains his fingers. He missed the panicked look on Dean's face when he ran into the house, Sam following quickly behind him.

"Shit, Bow, are you okay?" He asks.

Bowie was still in hysteria, his eyes burning with tears as he continues to hyperventilate, gripping at anything to hold himself together.

"Can you move?" Dean asks, leaning though the broken window and grabbing his wrist to tug him out.

"No! Don't fucking touch me!" Bowie sobs, yanking his hand out of Dean's and holding it to his chest, finally letting himself breathe. "M'fine, I'm good."

Sam slaps at Dean's arm, motioning him to look. It was Constance and she looked even more angry. Without a word, she drops the photo and throws a desk straight into the brothers, pinning them against the car. Bowie was still in the drivers seat, his eyes closed.

The lights begin to flicker, and two children appear at the top of the stairs. Bowie didn't hear what they were saying and he presses his palm into his ears when Constance screams.

"You're fine," He mutters to himself, "You're fine." At his chant, he seems to calm down, looking back over to his brothers. "She dead?"

"Super dead." Dean confirms, "Found her weak spot. Good job, Sammy." He slaps the boy's shoulder.

"Ah!" Sam grabs it, wincing and masking the pain with a mocking laugh. "Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, I was on the other side of the window, you freak."

"Hey, saved Bow's ass." Dean responses, looking to Bowie, "You okay, Bow-tie?"

"Do you care?" Bowie mocks.

"Absoulety not," He mocks back. He did, and Bowie somehow knew it as Dean's eyes swept him for any damange, "This is the second time you've screwed up my car. I should kill you."

"I'd like to see you try."

It was quiet when Sam, Dean and Bowie drive out of Jericho. Bowie sits in the back, rapidly sketching something in a big leather journal he had bought in town. Dean keeps glancing back at him but he didn't seem to notice — or care.

"Okay, here's where Dad went." Sam announces. Bowie closes the journal, leaning forward. "It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado."

"Sounds charming," Dean says, "How far?"

"About 600 miles."

"If we shag ass and throw Bowie in the trunk we can make it by morning," Dean jokes. Bowie rolls his eyes.

Sam sighed, "Dean, I, um—"

"You're not going." He finishes.

"The interview's in ten hours. I got to be there." He explains.

Dean brings back up his walls, giving a forced nod. "Yeah, whatever, I'll take you home."

When they had reach Stanford, Bowie had trades spots with Sam. The youngest wants to pull Bowie into a hug, but he had always remembered Bowie's reluctance to touch anyone longer than a handshake.

So, Bowie gives one firm pat on Sam's shoulder, "If you aren't my lawyer if I get arrested, you suck."

Sam scoffs a laugh, "Call me if you find him?" They nod, "Maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?" He was mostly talking to Bowie.

"Course, I'll come visit." Bowie smiles, "And I'll use the door this time, promise."

"Yeah, all right." Dean dismisses. He starts the engine when Sam begins to walk away, "Sam?" He calls out, "We all made one hell of a team back there."

"Yeah. . ." He smiles.

With that, Dean pulls out of the street. Bowie follows Sam's figure from the rear mirror, a sunken feeling in his chest. As they drive farther away from his apartment, the worse the feeling got.

He mutters something.

"What?" Dean frowns.

Bowie sits straighter, "Turn around."

"Turn arou—why?" He presses

At that, Bowie lookes dead in his eyes. "Something doesn't feel right."

[ I want him to be real so badly. ]

NOV / 28 / 2021