្.˚⠀━━━⠀⠀PHANTOM TRAVELER
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❛ BOHEMIAN ━━ BOOK ONE ❜
𑁍ࠬ¸𓍢 ━━ ❪ SUPERNATURAL ❫ ˖ ୧ 。
𓆸 ┊ ⠀𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ⠀┊ ❀
◟ ✦ IT'S SOCIAL SUICIDE!❞
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THE MORNING SUN SHINES THROUGH THE FADED curtains in the motel room that Bowie slept in, beaming down against his soft skin and showing off his warm complexion. His hearing aids laid flat on the wooden nightstand beside his bed, his crossbow discarded somewhere on the ground along with the one sock missing from his foot.

     A light snore escaped between his lips, burying his face deeper into his pillow as the door opened with a slight creak, one that Bowie couldn't hear but instantly made Dean shift on the other bed. Sam steps inside.

     Slowly, and half unconscious, Dean reaches for the blade under his pillow.

     "Morning, sunshine!" Sam greets, juggling three cups of coffee and bags of food in his hands.

     Dean groaned, sitting up a little, "What time is it?"

     "Uh, it's about 5:45," Sam responds, placing a coffee on Bowie's nightstand and softly shaking his brother's ankle as he passed. Bowie groaned.

     "In the morning?" Dean whined, flopping back down.

     "Yep."

     "Where does the day go?" He asked rhetorically, "You get any sleep last night?"

     He shrugged nonchalantly, "Yeah, I grabbed a couple hours━"

     "Liar," Dean responds instantly, "Cause Bow and I were up at three in the morning, throwing shit at each other from the beds, and you were in the corner watching a George Foreman infomercial."

     "Hey, what can I say? It's riveting TV." Sam grinned, looking toward Bowie, "Bowie! Wake up, man!" He belts slightly.

     "You know he can't hear you," Dean grumbled, grabbing his pillow and raising it above his head, "Aye, BJ, get up!" He bellowed, slamming the pillow down against his brother's head.

     Bowie's eyes snapped open, gripping the small knife under his pillow and flinging it out with a panicked yelp. Sam screamed out, moving just enough for the knife to dig itself into the wood
of the walls instead of his neck.

     Slowly, Sam turned back to his brother with wide eyes, "Holy shit!"

     "What the fuck!" Bowie seethed with a slight slur in his voice, too early in the morning to focus on his proper pronunciation as he glared heavily at his brother, "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

     Dean doesn't grin, pointing at Sam like a child, "Sam hasn't been sleeping properly," He snitched.

     Bowie's mood instantly shifts into concern, sitting up and turning his full attention at his little brother as he put his hearing aids on, "What? Sam, we talked about this," He says lightly, "You need sleep━"

     Sam chuckled awkwardly, "Look, I appreciate your concern."

     "Oh, I'm not concerned about you," Dean says instantly, though everyone in the room knew he was lying, "It's your job to keep our asses alive, so I need you sharp."

     "I'm concerned," Bowie corrects, giving the eldest a pointed look, "Are you still having nightmares about Jess?"

     Sam sighed softly, taking a seat beside Bowie, handing Dean his coffee. The youngest smiled slightly when Bowie threw a blanket over his shoulders.

     "Yeah, but it's not just her, it's everything." He admits.

     Bowie grabs at his coffee, taking a quick sip and instantly scrunching his face in disgust at the amount of sugar dumped inside. It was obviously Dean's, so he leaned forward and plucks the coffee out of his brother's hands and switched them.

     Dean didn't bat an eye at the exchange, taking a long sip of his sugared coffee.

     "I just forgot, you know? This job, man, it gets to you," Sam continued.

     "Well, you can't let it. You can't bring it home like that," Dean replied.

     "So, what? All this. . . it never keeps you up at night?" Sam pressed. Dean shook his head, "Never? You're never afraid?" He insisted.

     "No, not really." He shrugged.

     Bowie scoffed, leaning over the beds and pulling out Dean's knife under his pillow, holding it up with a knowing look, "Liar."

     Dean reaches over and swipes it back, "I'm not lying. That's not fear. That is precaution," He corrects, he motions to the little knife spliced in the wood, "What about you, Mr. Bond?"

     "I never said I wasn't scared," Bowie replied lightly, running a hand through his fuzzy sleep-hair and giving a light shrug, "I have more weapons on me than you guys think."

     Sam frowned, grabbing Bowie's socked foot and pulling out an even smaller knife hidden inside, "Dude, that doesn't hurt?"

     Bowie smirked, taking it back, "No pain, no gain."

     "All right, whatever." He scoffed at his brothers, "I'm too tired to argue with dumb and dumber."

     "That's offensive."

     Dean's phone rang on the bedside table with a call from a man named Jerry Panowski who seemed to have a job for the brothers in Pennsylvania and he was keen on meeting them in person.

     So, they packed up their things and hit the road with only three hours of sleep under their belts.

     "Here," Bowie leans over the bench seat, holding out a cassette. It was covered in a thin layer of paint, his name in big golden colors with a star next to it.

     'Bowie's Bops'.

     The eldest narrows in on it, "What is that?"

     "A library book," He deadpans, "What do you think it is?"

     "I know it's a cassette, why are you giving it to me?" Dean responds, glancing at Sam who looked more amused than he should.

     "Five steps of forgiveness, De." Bowie pats his shoulders, diving forward to remove Dean's cassette tapes and flinging it over his shoulder to replace it with his own, "You want to make up for ruining the career I spent six years forming? Step one is bending your rules."

     "You got to be fucking kidding me," Dean clenched his jaw.

     "What? Did you really think I was just going to let all of this all go and not make your life a living hell?" Bowie questioned innocently.

     "Yes?" Dean says hopefully.

     In response, Bowie raised the volume to Phil Collins 'On My Way' to the max, rolling down every window in the car with a cheery smile on his face.

     "From now on," Bowie screams over the music, the wind blowing violently at his hair, "Driver shuts the fuck up, and I pick the music!"

     Sam lets out a laugh at Dean's miserable expression as they continued down the road.

-

          BOWIE NOTICED THE WAY DEAN AVOIDED WALKING near the working plane as they followed Jerry down the walkway and toward his office. He raised his eyebrow at his brother, telling him silently that he was observing him. In response, Dean stepped on the back of his shoe.

     "Thanks for making the trip so quick," Jerry began, "I ought to be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around." He looks mostly to Sam as he said, "Dean and your dad really helped me out."

     Sam nods, "Yeah, he told me. It was a poltergeist?"

     "Poltergeist?" Repeated a worker passing by, "Man, I loved that movie!"

     "Hey, nobody's talking to you. Keep walking!" Jerry orders, turning back to the brothers, "Damn right it was a poltergeist. Practically tore our house apart. Tell you something, if it wasn't for you and your dad, I probably wouldn't be alive."

     Dean raised his chin smugly, looking head-on like a puppy proud of doing its first trick. Bowie raised his thumb up with a mocking smile.

     "Your dad said you were off at college, that right?" Jerry made conversation with Sam.

     The youngest nodded, "Yeah, I was. I'm taking some time off," He dismissed.

     "Well, he was real proud of you. I could tell," Jerry nods. "You know, he talked about you all the time."

     "He did?" Sam asked in surprise.

     "Oh, you bet he did," Jerry's eyes turn slightly to Bowie, "Uh, you. . . he never mentioned you. What's your name again?"

Bowie gave a tight-lipped smile, "Bowie," He greets, "I'm just here to help."

"He's our half-brother," Dean corrects, "He went to college too, got a Fine Arts Degree. Best tracker in the hunting business."

"Oh, wow." Jerry looked impressed.

His purposeful gloating made Bowie's thinned face go red, "It's not as interesting as it sounds," He quickly dismissed.

Sam smirked, "Once, Bowie jumped over a moving car that was being controlled by a ghost," He feed into Dean's gloating.

Jerry's eyes widened.

"That's not— that's isn't—" Bowie shook his head, "I technically ran up the car, I didn't jump." He instantly corrects.

"And the. . ." Jerry circled a finger over his ears, trying not to sound offensive, "The hearing doesn't affect the job?"

Bowie sighed. It's okay to say the word, I'm deaf.

"People have this idea in their heads that people with disabilities can't do half the things an able-body could. They're wrong." He ends it at that.

Noting that Bowie was getting a little flustered, Jerry changed the subject, "Oh, hey, I tried to get ahold of your dad, but I couldn't. How's he doing anyway?"

"He's, uh, wrapped up in a job right now," Dean waved off.

"Well, we're missing the old man," Jerry nods. Bowie scrunched his face in disgust, "But we got Sam and Bowie. Even trade, huh?"

"No, not by a long shot." Sam shook his head.

"Speak for yourself," Bowie scoffed, "Whatever job you have for us Jerry, I'm sure we'll finish it."

"Good, I got something I want you guys to hear."

Sitting in Jerry's office, Bowie leaned his hands against the back of Sam's chair. He reached up, running firm fingers through his loose curls.

"I listened to this, and well, it sounded like it was up your alley," He pops in a CD, "Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for united Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours."

Bowie hid his frown when he realized he couldn't hear the audio, glancing between his brothers who were listening intensely.

Apart of him wanted to ask Jerry to turn the volume up, but it was overridden by the self-consciousness he felt.

So, he stayed quiet.

"Took off from here, crashed about two-hundred miles south," Jerry explained. "Now, they're saying mechanical failure. The cabin depressurized somehow, nobody knows why."

"Survivors?" Bowie spoke up.

"Over a hundred people on board, only seven got out alive," Jerry nods. "The Pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine,  pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault."

"You don't think it was?" Sam asked.

"No, I don't." He says instantly.

Sam instantly starts listing off, "Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests, a list of survivors━"

"━and any change we can take a look at the wreckage?" Dean adds in.

"The other stuff is no problem, but the wreckage? Fellas, the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance." Jerry shook his head.

Bowie grinned, gripping his brothers by the shoulders obnoxiously tight, making them wince, "Don't worry, I already have a plan."

-

"Homeland Security? That's pretty illegal. Even for us," Sam reminded his brothers, plucking the badge out of Dean's hands anyway when they walked out of the copy store.

Bowie smirked, "Aw, come on, Sammy, put your acting shoes on. I know you did theater."

"It's something new, you know?" Dean cuts in, rounding the car, "You know, people haven't seen it a thousand times."

"Alright, what do you got?" Bowie asked Sam.

"Well, there's definitely E.V.P on the cockpit voice recorder. Listen to this." He clicked play on his laptop.

Bowie smiled to himself softly when he noticed Sam putting the volume all the way up for him to hear.

"No survivors."

"No survivors?" Dean repeats, "What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors."

Bowie tilts his head, "Five bucks says this thing wants to finish off the survivors too."

"So, what are we thinking? A haunted fight?" Dean asked them.

"There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travelers," Sam responds.

"Like fight 401?" Bowie questioned.

"Yes, exactly like 401." Sam nods.

"The plane crashed and the airline salvaged its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and co-pilot haunted those flights," Dean recalls.

"Maybe we got a similar deal," Sam agreed.

"I like my theory better," Bowie grumbled.

"Alright, so. . .suriviors? Which one do you want to talk to first?"

"Third on the left, Max Jaffey," Sam replied.

"Why?" Bowie frowned.

"For one, he's from around here. And two, if anyone saw anything weird, he did." Sam explained.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I spoke to his mother, and she told me where to find him."

-

          RIVERFRONT PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL SMELLED LIKE expired hand sanitizer. That was probably the only thing that stood out to Bowie as he walked between his brothers in the gardens as they spoke to Max Jaffey.

     "I don't understand. I already spoke with Homeland Security," Max frowned.

     "Right. Some new information has come up," Dean explains, easily lying through his teeth, "So if you could just answer a couple questions."

     "Just before the plane crash, did you notice anything unusual?" Sam asked him.

     "Like what?" Max dodged the question.

     "Strange lights, weird noises, maybe. . .voice?" Dean continued.

     "No, nothing." He dismissed.

     Bowie frowned, "Are you sure about that?" He asked, not giving Max time to respond as he leaned forward on the table, "Because it looks to me that you checked yourself in here for a reason."

     "Well, yeah," He says, face red as he avoided Bowie's eyes, "I was a little stressed. I survived a plane crash."

     The hunter tilts his head, brushing his thumb over his bottom lip, "Usually when a person's stressed they buy a yearly mid-life crisis yoga card, you put yourself in a psych ward. Makes me think you saw something you can't explain."

     The man was stumped. Sam and Dean didn't hide their impressed grin as they looked back at Max, expecting him to crack under pressure any moment.

     "So, plane crash." Dean continued, "Is that what terrified you? That's what you were afraid of?"

     "I-I don't want to talk about this anymore," Max says firmly.

     "You know, I'm starting to think my brother's right, I think maybe you did see something up there. We need to know what," Dean ordered lightly.

     "No, no. I was delusional, seeing things." Max excused, instantly shaking his head.

     "He was seeing things," Dean repeated with a deadpan.

     It was time for Sam to take his approach, "It's okay," He says kindly, flashing one of those awkward reassuring smiles, "Then just tell us what you thought you saw, please."

     "There was this man," He finally admits, "And, uh, he had these eyes. These black eyes. And I saw him, or I thought I saw him. . ."

     "What?" Dean pressed.

     "He opened the emergency exit." Max looked between the three brothers, "But that's impossible, right? I looked it up."

     Bowie hums low at the thought, "Internal pressure pushes around1,100 pounds of force against each square foot of an airplane door," He educates.

     Dean slowly turned to him with one of those 'Look at you being a nerd' expressions that made Bowie's face burn up in embarrassment, causing him to clear his throat and say,

     "I mean, maybe, give it take—"

     "So, this man, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly?" Sam asked, cutting in before Bowie could awkwardly rant, "It would look something like a mirage."

     "What are you, nuts?" Max chuckled.

     "You're asking us that?" Bowie raised an eyebrow, the man stopped chuckling.

     "The guy was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me," He emphasized.

     Dean stood up, "I think we have enough information. Thanks for your time."

     Bowie nods, getting to his feet, "See ya, Max." He salutes him.

     "Hey, wait." Max stops Sam, making sure Dean and Bowie were already a little away before saying, "Your deaf brother single?"

     Sam's eyes widened in fear, "Bye, Max."

     "Here we are, George Phelps, seat 20c." Sam announced when the brothers pulled up in front of a three-story house.

     "Man, I don't care how strong you are," Dean scoffed, getting out of the car, "Even yoked up on PCP or something, no way you could open up an emergency door during a flight."

     "Not if you're human," Sam responds, "But maybe this guy George was something else. . ."

     Bowie frowned leaning up against the trunk, "Black eyes. . ." He repeated slowly. He tried to wrack his brain on all of the things he knew with Black eyes, crossing off creatures that didn't fit the description in his head all within ten seconds before saying, "Hey, maybe it's a dem—"

     "Some kind of creature, maybe," Sam continued, "In human form." He paused, looking up from his notes, "Oh, sorry, Bow, what were you gonna say—"

     "Does that look like a creature's lair to you?" Dean asked them suddenly, deadpanning and he pointed to the picket fence.

     "Maybe the creature's a family man," Bowie shrugs, making his way up the long steps.

     It felt like hours sitting on George Phelps couch while Bowie mustered the energy to be social, knowing they weren't getting any real information at all.

     Then, and thankfully, the brothers had said their goodbyes to the victim's wife and her loud children with more questions than answers.

     "It goes without saying. It just doesn't make any sense," Sam frowned once they left the house.

     "A middle-aged dentist with an ulcer is not exactly evil personified." Dean agrees, slowing his steps to look back at Bowie, who hadn't said much, "You alright. BJ?"

     The middle child frowned at the question, not knowing how to answer it. It had only been a few days since his depressive episode, it wasn't like he could flip and switch and be completely over it. He was exhausted. Replaying the drunken conversation Dean had started.

     He was doubtful.

     Now that Dean had admitted the secret he had kept since he was fifteen, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lifted — only to be placed on Bowie's shoulders instead.

     He didn't blame Dean for leaving him with Moe and Len, fighting two grown drunken men half their height wasn't something Bowie wanted for him. Hell, he didn't even blame Dean for being scared of John and not speaking up during their childhood.

     It was their adulthood Bowie was scared of.

     The closer they came to finding John sent a panic through his body. With the hard parts between the brothers out of the way, Bowie was scared of building a relationship with Sam and Dean, scared the blocks would tumble down and ruin whatever brotherhood they now wanted to salvage with him.

     He was scared John will silence them into taking his side, like a dog whistle against their ears. Knowing that the second John gave an order, Sam and Dean will follow it, adults or not.

     Bowie wondered what would happen if John called Dean in this second, and told him to leave him behind. Would he do it?

     Bowie shrugged, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into his pockets, "Yeah, I'm okay. Just a little tired."

     Dean hummed, not pushing as he changed the subject, "You know what we need to do? Is get inside that NTSB warehouse, check out the wreckage."

     Sam nods, "Okay. But if we're gonna go that route, we'd better look the part."

-

LOOKING AT THE RACKS IN 'MORTS FOR STYLE' BOWIE thumbed through the fabrics with a soft frown, not liking any of the plain penguin suits with itchy collars.

     For a minute he debated lying about a stomach bug to sit this one out but Sam was persistent on involving Bowie in every single decision so he felt included.

The attempt was nice. But Bowie hated making decisions. He always felt like he was picking the wrong ones.

Dean steps out of the fitting room with a deep grumble of annoyance, tugging at the collar of his white button-up, "I hate suits," He complained, "They're boring, they're fugly and I look like a guy who sits in a cubicle next to the bathroom." He listed off.

Bowie wasn't paying attention.

Sam walks out of his own fitting room, adjusting the cuffs. He looked between his brothers, smirking in amusement at Dean's discomfort and Bowie's lack of commitment to something as simple as clothes.

"Of course you look better," Dean huffed at his brother, "You look like a Lawyer!"

"Thank you," Sam waved off, looking toward Bowie, "Hey, come on, pick one and let's go."

The man holds up two suits, one an off-colored gold and the other a dark blue, "I can't tell if I want to go Elvis Presley or funeral host."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Can't we all just wear the black suits and call it a shit day?"

"I'm not going to risk matching clothes with you, it's social suicide." Bowie says seriously, grabbing the gold suit.

"Social suicide in front of who?" Dean scoffed.

"God."

"Just—" Sam closes his eyes to gather himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Get the gold and let's go. You're both giving me a headache."

Bowie nods, grabbing the gold suit and moving into the changing room. Shedding his plain black thermal shirt and his favorite faded-red denim jacket, ignoring his own reflection in the mirror to avoid the scarring reminders of his past.

He quickly shoved on a dark black button-up, the golden two piece suit and walked back out of the changing room, holding his arms out in defeat.

"Happy?" He asked them.

"You look great!" Sam cuts in before Dean could even think to say something negative ( not that Dean planned to.) and grabbed Bowie's sleeve toward the front.

"Hold up, I forgot something." Bowie says before they could exit the store, moving back to the cashier and paying for a tie out of pocket.

When he existed, Dean was still complying about his outfit.

"Man, I look like one of the Blues Brothers!"

     "No you don't," Sam instantly corrects, "You look more like a seventh-grader at his first dance." He smirks.

     "I hate this thing—"

"Then here!" Bowie smirked, passing him the bag, "Spice the look up a little."

Dean unraveled the bag and instead deadpanned at the tie inside, "I'm not fucking wearing that." He seethed.

Sam bursted into laugher at the cat-printed tie that his brother bought, causing Dean to glare harder at a smirking Bowie.

"No way!"

Bowie's smirk grew into an all out grin, "Five steps of forgiveness.." He dragged out.

"Dude—"

"Come on, Dean," Sam cut in, "It's just a tie."

"It's social suicide," He mocked Bowie's words from earlier, almost begging as he said, "Come on, man, anything but this."

"Wear the tie or I walk," Bowie left no room for debate with his firm tone, raising an eyebrow at his brother challengingly.

Instantly, Dean hesitates at the ultimatum, glancing at his little brother for help but only receiving a low chuckle in return.

     He was glad Sam was still finding enjoyment in the little things and if it had to be at his own humiliation then he'll take the hits.

"Fine." Dean bit into his bottom lip so he wouldn't add an insult after it.

Bowie watched smugly as Dean switched his plain black tie for the vibrant cat-printed one, swallowing down his pride and gesturing to himself with a 'happy?' expression.

"From Blues Brothers to Mr. Rogers."

"Fuck you."

"Okay, okay," Sam waved between them, changing the subject, "We need to get into that warehouse before dark. No sarcastic comments until then, is that too much to ask?"

     Dean and Bowie looked to each other, raising an eyebrow at the same time.

     "Yes." They replied.

[ no bc this might be the most light-hearted chapter of the series 😭 ]

Dedicated to curiass for doing absolutely fucking nothing <33 ily