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❰❰ ୧ ⋅ ˚ ₊ ·┊ೃ ' 🎭 030.

The funeral wasn't long.

In fact, Bowie would hardly consider it a funereal. There were no flowers, no wake, no words exchanged about how great John Winchester was before he died. Not even Bobby wanted to show up. With Bowie's inhuman strength, the pyre was made in under six minutes.

     It took four minutes to wrap John's body up in sheets and when Sam and Dean realized they had nothing much to say about their father, it took all of twenty minutes to light up the body and go home.

Bowie waited until Sam and Dean were packing up the truck before he spit on John's ashes, kicking it around with his shoe.

     He was simply that petty.

Within a week, the brothers stopped taking about John all together.

They spent their days at Bobby's house, researching ways to get back the Colt and stop Azazel from causing any more harm.

Like Bowie expected, Dean was distant.

When the eldest son wasn't helping them research, he was outside from sunrise to sunset fixing the Impala. Sam tried to talk to him, but Dean would only give short responses and half-hearted shrugs in reply.

     Bowie could tell there was more bothering Dean than John's death. There was something he was hiding, something that was keeping Dean spooked.

     So, Bowie comforted Dean in the only way his big brother responded to best. Distance.

     When Dean would wake up at 5am to work on the Impala, Bowie opens a lawn chair and places it a few feet away from him. When Dean would pull an all nighter outside, Bowie would bring a blanket and a flashlight, reading a book and sharing snacks.

Dean would say nothing and Bowie would accompany him in the silence. Bowie was always in silence, it was good to finally have someone to share it with.

Sam, on the other hand, was the opposite.

As the youngest, he despised the silence. He wanted to know what Dean was thinking, what he was feeling and why. He wanted to fix everything even when there was nothing to fix.

Azazel had the upper hand. The Winchester's were walking chin-deep in the muddy trenches with no ammo and no way back.

Bowie spent a lot of time thinking about the mystery man with the blue eyes.

He researched all he could on creatures that could warp someone's perception of reality, or teleport themselves and others with a single thought.

     So far, all the lore was either insanely crazy or nonexistent.

     Still, every time Bowie closed his eyes; he didn't have nightmares or flashes of violence. He was always on that Beach, always watching the waves. The cuffs were shielding him from being exposed to any kind of darkness.

     Bowie slept great, he ate great, and he performed at top-notch perfection every time.

     In other words, Bowie Winchester was back in business.

     Which sucked since it seemed like every time he was at his peak, his brothers were at their lowest.

     "Dean's been out there all night," Sam enters the living room with fresh coffee and a fresh new array of complaints today. He placed one cup in front of Bobby and the other beside Bowie. His hair disheveled from a recent shower, his eyes sunken with the lack of sleep, "Maybe one of us should talk to him. One of us meaning you, because he listens to you."

     Bowie looks up from his easel, which was set up in the corner of Bobby's living room. His oil paints were lined up on a small table, a metal scalping brush in one hand and several sized paint brushes in the pocket of his button-up shirt.

     "That's not true."

     "Yeah, sure."

     Bowie was three days deep into an abstract painting, his fingers, t-shirt and chin stained and dried with colors no matter how many times he showered; it always lingers. He decided it was time to get back into what he loved the most. Art.

     For the first time in a long time; Bowie has found a muse.

     The mysterious man with the blue eyes from the road, continued to plague his every thought. He'd spent most nights painting and sketching so many versions of the man he saw on the road.

     On rainy days, Dean would crash on the couch. Where Bowie spent most of his time in front of his easel with his whole set up.

     "I can't sleep with that stupid fucking lamp on." Dean draped his arm over his eyes, "Why don't your freaky powers come with night vision or somethin'?"

     Bowie doesn't look up, his lips twitching up into a small grin, "You could always sleep upstairs."

"Ah, once the rain stops I'll be back out there working on Baby." Dean brushed off by sitting up, a small gesture of protest to his exhaustion, "Won't be getting any sleep with all your Picasso'ing over there," He dragged a chair and sat beside Bowie's easel, "What are you painting anyway?"

     "Not sure, someone from a dream." Bowie shrugs off, pushing the easel out to give his brother a better view. Dean looks it over, his lips jutted out as he took it all in. The mysterious man with blue-eyes; every detail Bowie can remember.

     Dean's lips turnt upward, "Dreamin' about dudes? Kinda—."

     "I like both, Dean." Bowie grinned to himself when Dean's eyes widened. The joke of Bowie being queer was an ongoing gag that Dean poked at, but to hear Bowie confirm it was surprising, "I thought that was obvious."

     "I-I mean—, that's cool, that's cool." Dean leans back, trying to appear nonchalant. Still, the topic left a soft discomfort in his chest, "You're still my dorky little brother anyway."

     Bowie scoffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. Dean smiled, settling into the moment. For a second, they enjoy the lighthearted silence.

     "You should add this color to the sky," Dean spoke sudden, pointing to the light blue paint on Bowie's palette, "Right here." He points to the canvas, before leaning back, as if his opinion on the matter wouldn't be considered.

     Without much thought, Bowie follows the request. Dean grinned with pride, "Like that?"

     "Yeah, that's better."

     That's how it went some nights. Bowie and Dean would sit in front of his easel, painting every vision his brother had. Letting Dean's imagination run wild, just for a moment. Just to give him some peace.

     Bowie glanced at Bobby with a frustrated grimace, turning back to his little brother with a forced smile, "Just let him fix the car, Sammy. Nothing I can say that he doesn't already know."

     Sam shifts on his feet, tugging his blue polo-shirt down, giving a small huff of annoyance, "We both know that car isn't going to get fixed any time soon, not by himself."

     "It's his therapy," Bowie concluded, "Would you rather Dean go bar-hopping and get so drunk he forgets his name?" Sam shakes his head, and Bowie looks back to his easel to add a few strokes, "Exactly. Let him be or else."

     Sam scoffs a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Or else what?"

     Bowie immediately held up his metal paint scalpel.

     Sam immediately steps back, raising his hands up. "Message received."

     Bowie nods in satisfaction.

     Sam rolled his eyes, grabbing two of the coffees from the table and walking out through the backdoor.

     Bobby puts down his book. "You know who that coffee is for."

     Bowie groaned, putting his brushes down. He grabs a beer off the countertop on his way out. "God forbid anyone listens to my threats."

     He trailed Sam deep into the salvage yard. Dean is under the Impala on a roller, his tools at his side. He was covered in oil and grease, his face and shirt stained in black marks.

     Bowie takes a seat in the middle of the work table, crossing his legs to watch the scene unfold.

     Sam attempts to hold out the coffee, "How's the car coming along?"

     "Slow." Dean glanced at the coffee, then looked back to the car. Sam sighed, placing the coffee down on the work table next to Bowie instead.

     "Yeah? Need any help?" Sam shifts at the tension, immediately regretting the question when Dean throws a piece of the engine on the floor.

     Bowie gives Sam a thumbs up of encouragement.

     "What? You under a hood? I'll pass." Dean closed his eyes to gather his aggression; failing miserably. "That's like Bow being straight."

     Bowie rolled his eyes, a small smile twitching on his lip, "I try not to label myself, Dean."

     "That's what gay people say." Dean grinned a bit.

     Sam gnaws at his bottom lip, shoving his hand in his jean pocket. "Need anything else, then?"

     Dean rolls out from under the Impala, his smile gone as quick as it came, "Stop it, Sam." He stands up, walking to the work table.

     "Stop what?" Sam faked confusion.

     "Stop asking if I need anything, stop asking if I'm okay—, stop sitting on my work table!" Dean directs the last request to Bowie, slapping him on the head. Bowie immediate jumps off the table. "You're a fucking cat, BJ!" He rolled his eyes, "I'm okay, Sam. Really, I promise."

     "All right, Dean. It's just. . ." Sam falters, before regaining his courage, "We've been at Bobby's for over two week now, and you haven't brought up Dad once."

     Bowie winced at the awkwardness, popping the beer cap with his obsidian ring and bringing it to his lips, "This was supposed to be for you, but now it's for me."

     Dean rolled his eyes, taking the beer before Bowie could take a chug, "You know what? You're right. Come here, Sammy. I'm gonna lay my head gently on your shoulders. Maybe we can cry and hug, and maybe even slow dance."

     Bowie put a hand over his mouth to cover his smile, knowing Sam was getting riled up.

     "Don't patronize me, Dean! Dad is dead, the Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the Demon is behind all of this and you're acting like nothing happened!" Sam yelled.

     Bowie turned away slightly, the humor leaving his face. The cuffs the blue-eyed man gave him, gives Bowie the ability to override Azazel's deal and maintain control.

     The day after John's funeral, Bowie sat his brothers down and explained every detail of his time with Yellow Eyes.

     Now, Sam and Dean knew just about everything Bowie knew. From the fake hospital, to the conversation with Azazel, to killing Len and sealing the deal. They knew what he did to Kit, and they knew what he did to Missouri.

     Still, the boys were more concerned with how Bowie was holding up. They told him that the things he did; didn't change the fact that they refused to leave his corner. They downright refused to let Bowie blame himself for what he did.

     It healed the little brother inside Bowie, and he was thankful that Sam and Dean still cared about him, however long it lasted.

     While Bowie brought himself to say everything, he still kept some things to himself. The mystery man being one of them. He kept the whole 'destined to save the world' bullshit to himself, too. Bowie thought it was stupid and downright impossible.

     He refused to see himself as more than a man.

     He didn't feel guilty about keeping those things to himself; but he did feel guilty about not telling his brothers about John's deal. He knew that not telling them would send them in circles trying to find answers. But telling them? That meant watching the guilt eat Sam and Dean alive.

     He just couldn't let that happen.

     "What do you want me to say?"

     "Say something, all right! Hell, say anything!" Sam bellows, "Aren't you angry? Don't you want revenge? All you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car!"

     Dean shook his head, "Revenge, huh? Sounds good."

     "That sounds exhausting actually." Bowie comments.

     "Got any leads on where the Demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad's research? 'cause I sure ain't. But when we do finally find it—!" Dean fakes optimism, before giving Sam a deadpan, "Oh. . wait, like you said, the Colt is gone. But I'm sure you figured out another way to kill it. Nope, you don't. We've got nothing, Sam. Nothing. Okay? So, you know the only thing I can do is? I can work on the car."

     Bowie sighs, glaring at Sam, "I told—."

     "I know, I know. You told me so," Sam grumbled. He pulls out John's phone, "But we do have something. It's what I came out here to tell you. It's one of Dad's old phones, it took me a while, but I crackled his voicemail code. Listen to this."

     Sam hands Dean the phone, and Dean puts it on speaker. Bowie leans in closer to listen.

     "John. It's Ellen. . .again. Look, don't be stubborn. You know I can help you. Call me."

     "That message is four months old," Sam explains.

     "Dad saved that chick's message for four months? Who's Ellen? Any mention of her in Dad's journal?"

     Sam shook his head, "No. But I ran a trace on the number, and I got an address."

     "Finally," Bowie placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, "I'm not the only brother who can track people down."

     "Ask Bobby if we can use one of his cars." Dean nods, "He always says yes to you."

     "That means I'm coming right?" Bowie perks up, "Why am I even asking. I'm coming."

     "Bowie, maybe you should—."

     Bowie holds a hand in front of Dean's face, "No me, no van. No van, no plan." He rhymed his demand, snapping his fingers twice so his words sank into Dean's skull.

     Dean blinked with each snap of Bowie's fingers. "Wait, wait, wait. Van?"

𖤐┊

     The old, rusted van squeaked with each hit of the break; even the break was faulty. It was blue with tan and white stripes, busted on the left window. Dean comes to a squeaky stop in front of a wooden bar. Harvelle's Roadhouse on the front in letter-lights. There were no cars in the dirt driveway.

     "This is humiliating," Dean complained, getting out of the car. Bowie jumps out of the back, closing the sliding doors, "I feel like a fucking soccer mom!" Dean goes on.

     "It's the only car Bobby keeps running, it's inconspicuous." Bowie defends, "Besides, at least the AC works and you didn't have to walk here."

     "The AC only blew out hot air." Sam rolled his eyes, walking around the side.

     Bowie crossed his arms, "You wanna walk home, Chewbacca?"

     Sam mocks his words, sticking up the middle finger before he walking around the Roadhouse to check the side.

     "Hello? Anybody here?" Dean bellows from the front.

     Bowie shook his head, "Just go inside."

     He puts his hand on the door, and Dean smacks it. "You crazy? Someone could be locked and loaded in there."

     Bowie blinked, "So?"

     "You wanna get your head blown off, smartass?" Dean put his hands on his hips.

     "Five bucks says I can knock down whoever's behind that door in two minutes flat." Bowie gloats.

     Dean scoffs, "You're on."

     Bowie brings his crossbow from behind his back to his hands, loading the bolt. He sets his watch for a two minutes countdown before he kicked the door open and ventured inside. Sam hands Dean a shotgun, both walking in behind him.

     The Roadhouse wasn't cozy, with wooden floors, beams, stools in front of a bar rail, a few tables scattered around next to a pool table and a jukebox.

     A fly hits a zapper in the corner, making all three brothers flinch at the spark.

     There was an unconscious guy sleeping on the pool table, rocking a mullet and a sleeveless shirt.

     "How tasteful." Bowie reeled at the guy's smell, stopping his watch before using his crossbow to shove the man's shoulder a few times, "Hey! Hey, buddy!"

     "Looks like the guy knocked himself out for you," Dean teased. "Does this mean I get five bucks?"

     "This drunk bozo doesn't count!" Bowie snips, "Plus, you still owe me fifteen bucks, I'm keeping tabs on that shit, you know."

     "I'm guessing that isn't Ellen." Sam joked drily.

     "Don't be so sure," Bowie grinned a bit. "You two check the back."

     He walks back into the main area, look at the pictures on the walls, running his hand along the tables, adjusting the chairs to his liking.

     Bowie hears the floorboards creak behind him, before the barrel of a gun is pressed into his back.

     Bowie grinned to himself, reaching down to start his two-minute timer again before adjusting her crossbow tighter, the adrenaline making him antsy, "Someone's real happy to see me."

     "Too happy." The gun cocks, ready to be fired.

     Bowie threw his crossbow up in the air.

     The person's line of fire falters upward, eyes looking away from Bowie for a split second. It was enough time for Bowie to turn sharply on his feet, grabbing the mussel of the rifle and shoving it back.

     The shoulder rest slams into the arm of a young blonde woman. He pulls the gun right out of her hands and the blonde stumbles back in surprise.

As the crossbow began to fall to the ground, Bowie turns around and back-kicks the crossbow full force into the blonde's stomach.

     She yells, and the metal crossbow makes a small slice into her chest before falling to the ground.

     Bowie examines the ruffle, his hands moving at rapid speed for a few seconds before he held it above his head so she couldn't reach it, his other hand dipping into his pocket for a split second, "Don't ever point a gun to someone's back, always aim at distance," Bowie educates, "Before I ever turn around, shoot next time. Remember that."

     The blonde punches Bowie square in the nose, causing him to loosen the grip on the gun. She grabs it back in record time, aiming it at his throat and lifting up his chin with the barrel, "Good advice, but there won't be a next time." She replied.

     Bowie laughs, wiping the blood from his lip with a smile, "Cute." His eyes glanced at the watch on his wrist, licking his bottom lip, "But I'm running out of seconds here."

     He smacks the gun away and lunges for his crossbow. The blonde was too slow with her turns, giving Bowie the time to roll for his weapon and get back on his feet. Bolts and bullets aim at each other in a deadly threat.

     He steps forward, and the girl steps back.

     "Don't make me shoot you." She hesitates. "Bullets are faster than arrows, you know."

     Bowie tilts his head, examining her behind his line of fire, "Not mine."

     "Wanna test that theory?" She spoke, trying to be brave, but her thick swallow betrayed everything to him.

     "I sure do, Peppermint Fizz." Bowie smiled.

     She scoffs at the nickname, "You're a dead man walkin' when you talk like that."

     "Something tells me you've never shot more than a few beer cans." He concludes. "You can't kill me."

     "What makes you say that? Because I'm a girl?" She snips, narrowed her eyes.

     "No," Bowie shifts on purpose, letting his bolt loose and slam into the glass above her head. In the millisecond it took for her to flinch at the glass, Bowie ran up and slammed his leg into the side of her kneecap. Glass cuts her skin, and she buckles slightly.

     Bowie spun around, using his momentum to kick at her wrist, sending the gun across the room. She's on her knees in front of him, Bowie aims the crossbow right at her face, "Because you hold your gun loose and I took your bullets."

     She watched as Bowie reached into his pocket and dropped the bullets in front of her, "What are you waiting for then?" She snapped, "Go on, kill me!"

     Bowie narrowed his eyes at the suggestion, throwing his crossbow on the floor beside the gun, trying to wave a white flag between them, "I'm not a killer." He raised his hands up, "In fact, I'd consider myself a pacifist if I could help it."

     The blonde gets up and charges at him.

     Bowie steps to the side, using his foot to trip her, "Guess you're not."

     She stumbles again, getting annoyed. She swings at him but he grabs her hand, twisting it up. He purposefully tugs her outward, making her spin along his arm before spinning her back into his chest.

     Bowie used her confusion to roll her small figure under his arm, cause her to get disoriented and fall into a chair. He groaned when the timer goes off.

     "This isn't a dance! Just fight!" She yelled in annoyance.

     "You're a little too eager for a broken jaw." He raised an eyebrow. "You're also a horrible dance partner and you just lost me five bucks."

     Sam and Dean come back into the main room with their hands on their heads.

     An older woman, with brunette hair and a mean frown, walked them in by the muzzle of her silver pistol. They looked between Bowie, the blonde, and the gun on the ground.

     "At least Bow's having better luck." Sam grumbled.

     When Bowie noticed the pistol in the woman's hands, he wasted no time, grabbing a bolt from his back quiver and going behind the young blonde.

     His fingers dug into her blonde hair, tugging it back to expose her neck as he pressed the sharp point of his bolt into her neck, knuckling the shaft. The girl screamed at the sudden movement, calling for her mom.

     "Drop it or she dies." Bowie demands lowly, pressing the knife deeper into the blonde's neck. "Ten, nine—!"

     "I thought you weren't a killer." The girl choked out, clawing at his hand.

     Bowie pressed the bolt deeper into her neck, talking in her ear, "That was before your friend put a gun to my brothers' heads. Not my favorite thing to see. Three, two—!"

     The older woman immediate falters, looking between all three of the boys, "Bowie?" She tilts her head, "Sam and Dean?" She clenched her jaw slightly, her tone turning into a bitter drawl, "Winchester?"

     "Yeah." Bowie tilts his head, glaring. "You Ellen?"

     "I am," She puts the pistol down, "You can let my daughter go now."

     Bowie narrowed his eyes, "Should I?"

     "Please." Ellen emphasized.

     Bowie let the blonde go, shoving her forward before putting his bolt back in his quiver beside his crossbow. "All right, only 'cause you said please."

     "You skipped six numbers, asshole!" She glared at Bowie, rubbing at her neck, "Mom, you know these guys?"

     "Yeah, these are John Winchester's boys." Ellen explained, "I'm Ellen, this is my daughter, Jo." She turns to her daughter, noticing the bleeding cuts and bruises, "Are you okay, Jo?"

     Bowie turns to Jo with a grin, "Josephine? Ouch."

     "Don't let him bully you, his name is short for Bohemian." Dean mutters to her.

     "Bohemian? Ouch." Jo bit back. "And it's Joanna." She turns back to Ellen, "I'm fine, mom. That guy is just a barbarian."

     "Ouch." Bowie replied genuinely, stepping toward Dean with a frown. "She's mean as hell."

     Dean waved a finger around Bowie's bloody nose, "You got a little something there."

     Bowie rolled his eyes, wiping his blood on his sleeve, "Don't start. You also owe me five bucks."

     Dean narrowed his eyes, "She looks conscious to me."

     "I almost slit her throat, I deserve a million bucks."

     "You're not gonna pull a gun on us again, are ya?" Dean smiled awkwardly. Ellen shook her head, "You called our dad, said you could help, help with what?"

     "Well, the Demon, of course." Ellen answered, "I heard he was closing in on it."

     "Was there an article in the Demon Hunter's quarterly that I missed?" Dean looked around, "I mean, who are you? How do you know about all of this?"

     Ellen raised a hand, her demeanor casual, "Hey, I just run a saloon, but Hunters have been known to pass through now and again, including your Dad a long time ago. John was like family once."

     "Great, we stumbled upon a Hunter's bar run by Hunters." Bowie takes a seat.

     "How come he's never mentioned you before?" Dean frowned.

     Ellen's face grows hard, her eyes distant. "You'd have to ask him that."

     "So, why exactly do we need your help?"

     "Hey, don't do me any favors." Ellen sassed, "Look, if you don't want my help, fine. Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out. John wouldn't have sent you if. . ." Ellen stands straighter, catching onto their truth, "He didn't send you." She swallows her emotions, "He's all right, isn't he?"

     Sam and Dean couldn't bring themselves to answer her.

     Bowie gave Ellen a gentle look, "He died last week. Heart attack."

     "It just got him before he got it, I guess." Sam adds on, tears forming in his eyes.

     "I'm so sorry—."

     "It's okay. We're all right," Dean immediately cuts off.

     "Really, I know how close you and your dad—"

     "Really, lady, I'm fine." Dean snipped.

     Bowie steps in between them, almost like he was shielding his brothers, "Look, if you have any information that could help us end this, you gotta tell us. We need to kill that demon before it does any more damage to my family."

     "Well, we can't." Ellen smiled, "But Ash will."

     "Who's Ash?"

     "Ash!"

     Finally, the unconscious man on the table wakes up at the sound of Ellen's voice, the pool balls rolling around as Ash got adjusted, "What? Closing time?"

     "That's Ash?" Sam points to him.

     "He's a genius." Jo smiled.

     While Ash went to go grab a few things, Jo went into the back to grab some top-notch liquor. Bowie sighs to himself, walking in behind her with heavy feet. He watched as Jo attempted to clean herself up, using a cloth to scrub the blood from her cuts.

     She was too rough with it, making her face and arms red and irritated, not to mention the little shards of glass in her hands making it harder.

     "Sign says employees only." Jo snipped the second she saw him.

     "Look, I'm sorry for, uh. . that, back there." Bowie waved his hand around before giving a small chuckle, scratching at his ear, "Hard to tell whose friend or foe these days. I'm just protective, I guess."

     "You almost killed me." Jo glared, wincing when she attempted to close her hand.

     "Almost," Bowie nods in agreement, taking small and cautious steps toward her, "And to be completely fair you pulled a gun on me first, triggers my fight response." He drags out, "Sneaking up on a deaf person should be criminal."

     She scoffs in annoyance, the very small smile on her face betraying her true feelings, "Whatever. We both you felt me coming a mile away." She mutters, putting the Band-Aid across her cut.

     "You're doing it wrong."

     "You don't tell me what I do wrong, I know what I'm doing." Jo glares, "I'm independent."

     Bowie shrugs, leaning against the wall. "Oh, all right, Ms. Independent. Then you'd know that you're supposed to put your band-aids vertical so your cut closes and you heal quicker." He says aimlessly, shrugging casually, "But, you knew that, obviously."

     Jo slowly removes the band-aid and fixes it, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

     Bowie starts chipping away at the paint on his fingertips, "And you also know that soaking your hands in some hot water with soap will get those little pieces of glass to loosen up, put anti-bacterial cream on, wrap them and boom. Which, again, you know."

     Jo rolled her eyes, swallowing her pride and following his every instruction. Within a few minutes, she began wrapping up her hands, "You know, most men around here would jump at the opportunity to try and help me themselves, get all up and personal."

     Bowie smiles to himself a bit, "One thing about me, I value my personal space. Have to assume you do too. Hate when people touch me, makes me want to set them on fire, so." He replied and she laughs through her nose, "Besides, it looks to me like you can handle yourself fine. . .to a certain extent."

     "I'll keep that in mind," Jo narrows her eyes, her voice spoke with an edge of teasing, "And I made you bleed, in case you forgot."

     "Yeah. You throw a good punch but it was a cheap shot," He agrees, before his eyes burn more serious, "We both knew you couldn't kill me back there, Jo. Not saying it's a bad thing, 'cause once you kill you can't go back."

     "I'm just as capable of being a hunter as everyone else in this bar."

     He leans forward a bit, talking low. Jo doesn't tear her eyes away from his, she can see the softness that made the hazel in his eyes so welcoming, but if she looked too long, Jo could see the wicked darkness in the black of his iris, which made his gaze deep and cold, "I believe you, Jo. Doesn't mean you have to be."

     "You knew there were no bullets in that gun, after the first time you snatched it," She steps forward slightly, "Why'd you humor me? Make me think there was?"

     "Because I knew what choices you'd make." Bowie spoke like it was oblivious, "Your footing was off, your line of sight wasn't straight, you got distracted real easy. I could spot a rookie from a mile."

     She scoffs a bit, "You don't look much older than me, Bohemian."

     "I've been in the game a lot longer than you." Bowie corrects, "Been learning about this stuff since I was five, been fighting monsters since I was thirteen and just never stopped."

     Jo looked at him like she was seeing him in a different light, a flash of recognition in her blue eyes before she started to grin, "Oh my god, you're the Butcher, aren't you?"

     "Excuse me?"

     "I can't believe I didn't put it together 'til just now; the way you act, your bows and arrows. It's all a dead giveaway. People talk about you, y'know, they even got stories." She tilts her head in amazement, "They say you're a legend in the making."

     "Great, that doesn't give me anxiety or anything." Bowie mutters, "The Butcher? Really?"

     "Yup, hunters that come into this bar call you the Butcher," Jo laughs a bit, confirming it. "It's cool."

     Bowie's face slacks a bit, "Why?"

     "It's your, uh, skills of choice that get people talkin'. Most of them use guns or machetes for their hunts but not you, seems like if it's not your arrows then it's your bare fists. When you leave an arrow behind, it's like a trading card for Hunters, whether it's stuck in a monster's skull or launched in a tree." Jo continued. "You always seem to get there before they do."

     Bowie leans back in thought. Sure, he knew other Hunters were posted all around the USA, maybe even all over the world. He's met a few and helped a few. Living with Bobby Singer meant knowing what it meant to have connections but it was never something Bowie cared about. He never wanted to get that deep into this life; where everyone knew his name. It didn't matter if he was being raised by some of the most well-known hunters in the game.

     He didn't want any part of it.

     Bowie scoffs to himself. He began to wonder what John would be thinking if he was still alive; hearing how the Hunters he's come to know have clearly ranked Bowie at a higher regard than the man who trained him.

     Would John blow a gasket, or in some twisted way. . .be proud of him?

     Bowie had to remind himself that he stopped caring what John thought of him a long time ago.

     "When Hunters come across the aftermath of your hunts, you can always spot one of those sleek silver things" She crossed her arms, amused, "They say, it always looks like a crime scene, real bloody. You leave monsters looking completely unrecognizable. Legend has it, that the Butcher had a rough upringing and trained every day and every night. Those were the years that the Butcher killed the most monsters that the community has ever seen. Then, it all just stopped for six years."

     Bowie turned his gaze. His fingers scratched at the cuffs around his wrists, remembering all the nights he spent awake for days; sometimes completing two hunts in less than 48 hours.

     He only did it because he had to, because it meant being away from John.

     Dean would hate that Bowie was allowed to go on solo hunts by the age of seventeen, spending days at a time away from home. Sometimes, John would be gone for weeks. He'd call the motel just to send Bowie somewhere else; leaving Sam and Dean by themselves.

     It was one of the big reasons why Dean and Bowie never got along.

     But Bowie knew he wasn't treated that way because he was special to John, and it took Dean a long time to see that.

     John trained Bowie to be a killing machine because John would've had an even worse conscious if he put his own flesh and blood sons through those same trials. John wanted a guarantee that if he could get revenge for Mary, Bowie would certainly finish the job in any way necessary.

     By eighteen Bowie had gone through every torture method in the books; just so John could prepare him for the inevitable.

     Still, after all that time trying to make Bowie invincible, John always hoped that one day Bowie didn't come home from a hunt.

     That one day the exhaustion would wear the boy down and he'd take one miscalculated step.

     Thankfully, Bowie never miscalculates.

     Jo tugs at the crossbow strap on his chest, causing it to snap back into his shirt, waking him up from his thoughts, "Is that all true, Butcher?"

     Bowie swallows, "First of all, these are bolts, not arrows." He corrects her. "Second, don't always believe random drunks that walk into your bar, okay?"

     Jo shook her head in amusement, "From the way you made my life flash before my eyes back there, I'm starting to think they're right."

     Bowie raised an eyebrow, "So you're saying I live up to the hype?"

     Jo scoffs bashfully, stepping in his space a bit more. Bowie pulled at his fingers, taking a wide step back. Jo laughs a bit when he does, "Back there, yeah. Right now, you kinda look like a anxious dork though."

     "I'm just Bowie." He corrects.

     "Bohemian." She drags the name out, teasing it, "You know, the more ya say it, the better it sounds. You should start going by that. Makes you seem like a badass."

     "Makes me sound like a terrible person, which isn't far off." Bowie attempted to joke, grabbing the bottles off the counter and opening the door, "After you, Josephine."

     Jo shook her head with a smile, "Yeah, because terrible people hold doors open like 1940s gentlemen."

     Bowie just smiled.

     "You gotta be kidding me, this guy ain't no genius." Dean crossed his arms, glaring at Ash. "He's a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie."

     Ash leans back, "I like you."

     "Thanks." Dean nods.

     "Just give him a chance." Jo encouraged.

     "All right," Dean sits down, sliding over Bowie's massive folder, "Well, this is all the stuff Bowie simplified. It's about a year's worth of our Dad's work. So, uh, let's see what you make of it. And don't worry, Bowie dumbed it down for people like you to read."

     Bowie leans forward, "You're insulting yourself because I made it for you to read, remember?"

Dean reeled back; eyes wide. "Oh."

Ash grabbed the folder, opening it up. He shifted through Bowie's laminated tabs, his color-coded sections, his sticky notes and grammar corrections, even all the things Bowie added himself.

"It's well made," Ash praised, "But this crap ain't real. Nobody can track a demon like this."

Sam smiled in amusement, "Our dad could, and our brother does."

"These are nonparametric statistical overviews, cross-spectrum correlations." Ash explained, shocked.

Bowie groans in excitement, rounding the counter to sit next to Ash, "Yes, finally someone who speaks my language. I love you. Do you like all the cross-match heat signatures I added?"

"I love you, too." Ash nods, "It was a nice touch."

Bowie practically jumped.

"All right, take your indica, nerd." Dean shook his head at Bowie.

"These are signs, omens. If you can track them, you can track this demon. You know, like crop failures, electrical storms." Ash continued, "You ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun."

Bowie tilts his head, "Crop failures? Why did I think that? That's genius."

"Can you track it or not?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, with this? I think so. Even with that it's gonna take time." Ash nods. "Give me," He calculated in his head, "51 hours." Ash collected his things, "You," He points to Bowie suddenly.

Bowie points to himself, too, "Me?"

"Yeah, you. You're with me, let's go." Ash stands up.

Bowie immediately grabs a bottle off the table, following after Ash.

"By the way, I dig the haircut." Dean compliments.

"All business up front, party in the back." Ash flicked his hair over his shoulders.

Dean leans in to mutter at Sam, "I think our brother is about to get some tonight."

Sam hits his shoulder in disgust, "Shut up. Bowie's never been with anyone like that, we all know that stuff isn't in Bowie's cards."

Jo leans in curiously, "Liking relationships or liking sex?"

Sam does a double-take when he realized Jo was listening in, "Uh, b-both I guess. I-I'm not sure, he doesn't talk about stuff like that. All I know, is that it's not really my business."

𖤐┊

Through the back-ways of the Roadhouse, Ash leads Bowie somewhere new.

"Where are we going?" Bowie asked, keeping pace with Ash's long strides of confidence.

"I can only think of big problems in my mothership."

Bowie scrunched his face in confusion. He would've noticed a massive 'mothership' in the back of the Roadhouse, "Are you on something?"

"Usually." Ash opens the backdoor, out into a small parking lot next to a garage. Ash's space in the Roadhouse wasn't even inside the Roadhouse. Instead, it was a massive van out in the back next to the shed and a few dumpsters.

What was in Ash's van made the scenery fade away. It was a lot bigger on the inside, or maybe it was all the posters pinned around and the beanbags instead of seats that made it feel more spacious, a large pc he built himself toward the end.

"This! Is the mothership!"

Bowie gave a small whistle, "My first impression of you was that you were a bozo." He admits, "Now you're a. . .really smart bozo with a cool van. That's a step up for sure."

"I know, I heard you call me a bozo in my dream," Ash replied seriously, ducking into his van, "I felt you pokin' me, too. Not a good first impression either."

Bowie follows, closing the doors behind him. He crouched around a bit, finding a spot on a beanbag, "Right, right. Sorry about that." Bowie grins at the Lynyrd Skynyrd poster on the wall, "Dean really got you there, didn't he."

Ash's eyebrows knit together, studying Bowie in curiosity. He watched as Bowie shrugged his crossbow over his shoulder, placing that and his quiver on the floor. Bowie pulls out his sketchpad and a pencil. It took him four tries to adjust the pencil to his liking before opening Sam's laptop.

Only then did the Hunter let out a breath, feeling like he could finally relax into the beanbag and get to work.

"Wow," Ash says suddenly.

     Bowie didn't hear him at first. But after a few minutes, he looked up to see Ash resting a hand under his chin, eyes solely on him in awe, "What?" Bowie says with a small snip.

     "You, man." Ash rolled his eyes, like it was obvious, "I can't believe I'm meeting the Butcher and you're really just an anxious weirdo, I love that." He dramatically motioned to Bowie; his tone still slightly slurred from his booze nap. "This whole time you were a nerd."

     Bowie forced a chuckle, "Is this about what Jo was talking about? Look, I'm not some evil Superman okay?"

     "Yeah, yeah, sure man. I mean come on, the hunt you did in '98? The nest of Vampires you wiped out with a metal pipe and seven dead-man's blood bolts? You know two hunters that were following that same case said when they got there; there was no decapitated heads because you beat them in instead."

     Bowie shifts at the outside perspective of the situation. Not realizing that the trail of bodies he left behind were glorified, "I was seventeen, Ash."

     "That's even cooler." Ash points a finger at him.

     "I'm really starting to hate this hunting community." Bowie muttered.

     "Why? You're a legend and you're not even thirty."

     "Yeah? Well, I haven't heard any of you ask me what I wanna be known for." Bowie snips.

     "What do you wanna be known for, then?" Ash crossed his arms, easing into his chair. The man was fluid in his motion, not feeding into Bowie's short-temper. If anything, Ash found it funny. "If it's not the best Hunter in the business, then what?"

     Bowie relaxed his shoulders a bit, puts down the laptop and grabbing his sketchbook. He throws it to Ash's, and the Hunter catches it without a flinch, skimming through the pages. Every turn of the page was something new and extravagant. As if paints from the renaissance had been screenshot and plastered on paper.

     And yet, every painting and sketch was all free-hand.

     "That." Bowie motions to the sketchbook, "I don't want to be a killer, I want to do something that actually matters. That everyone in this world could remember me for." He explains softly, his heart hurting at the thought, "I want those drawings in a museum with my name plastered in gold letters."

     Ash smiled to himself, running a light hand through the bumps and curves of a beautiful landscape, "These are really good. Pretty big contrast from your line of work right now. Did you go to school for this?" Bowie falters, then nods. His stance alone warned Ash not to pry, but curiosity was always Ash's fatal flaw, "Could've made a career out of it, what happened?"

"Get off him! Get off him!" Sam screamed, trying to pry his big brother away. "Stop it!"

"You ruined my fucking life all over again!" Bowie cried, "You fucking bastard, you fucking asshole!"

Dean drops Bowie on his back, pressing his arm against Bowie's throat, his legs on either side of his little brother's stomach to keep him in place. He used his other hand to pin Bowie's fist down. He was restraining him.

"Calm down!" Dean demands through a mouthful of blood, his eye already swelling, "Calm the fuck down! What is your problem, huh?! What the fuck is your problem? What's wrong with you?!"

Sam slowly bends down to pick up the shriveled envelope, reading it over, "Dean. ." He announced in shock, "You took the letter?"

     "Shit happened." Bowie settles back into the beanbag, trying to calm his mind, "Complicated shit."

"Eh, that's always the shit that's gets us the most." Ash agreed in a mutter, "Seriously, these are really good. I'm talkin' realism here man, you capture every detail in the smallest shit. Who's this guy? He's like half of this book."

Ash holds up a drawing of the mystery man with blue eyes he met just two weeks ago.

Bowie looks bashful for a second, "I don't know his name," He admits, "I don't know if he's even real."

"You're real talented, it's a shame."

"Could say the same about you," Bowie returns the sentiment, "You're a genius, couldn't have been from all the whiskey."

Ash shrugs, "I was at MIT but, like you said, shit happened."

Bowie nods, "Looks like we're both burnouts then, that makes me feel better."

"You know what makes me feel better?" Ash grabs a large bong off of the floor. Bowie raised an amused eyebrow, "Don't worry, I only get the authentic shit."

Bowie reaches into his bag, pulling out a zippo lighter. He flicks it on.

Ash grins, "Oh, we're gonna be best friends."

Within a three hour span, the files from Bowie's folder were strung up to the walls of Ash's van. Neon lights were bursting around the place, marijuana lying over a thick smoke. Bowie sat on the floor, his back against a bean bag and a computer by his side, being used as a flat surface for his mini oil-based paints that Sam bought him.

He was painting a replica of Claude Monet's waterlilies inside a big hole in Ash's carpet, exposing the metal. He was humming to himself, his body relaxed and mind content.

He was enjoying himself. Which was a rare sight.

All while Ash was sitting at his computer, typing away and doing actual work. Not that Ash seemed to mind, Bowie's company was entertaining enough. Ash didn't have many friends, spending his days at the Roadhouse.

Bowie takes a long drag of Ash's bong, passing it back with a cough, "Sure I can't help you with anything?"

"Nah, you already did half the work putting all this together, besides your boys hired me for a reason." Ash takes a long hit.

Bowie blinks, "We. . .aren't paying you, Ash."

"You're not? I should work a bit slower then."

Ash goes to turn on some music, raising his speakers up nice and high. After a while, Ash turns his chair to make more conversation.

"Hey, what do ya plan to do once you find the demon?"

Bowie doesn't respond.

"Aye, Bowie." Ash says louder.

Nothing.

Ash frowns for a moment, grabbing Bowie's zippo off the small table and throwing it at the Hunter. Bowie jumps at the contact, looking up in confusion.

"Whatchu plan to do once you find that demon?" Ash questioned over the music.

Bowie scrunched his face, "What?" He yelled even louder. He stood up and turned off the music, "What did you say? I'm deaf, you know."

Ash leaned forward, finally noticing the hearing aids in Bowie's ears. His eyes widen slightly, "This might sound insensitive but that makes the shit you do during hunts so much cooler."

Bowie rolled his eyes with a small smile, "Thanks. What did you say?"

"The demon, what are you gonna do?" Ash repeats, "You guys said you didn't have the Colt. How do you plan to kill him?"

"We haven't gotten that far yet." Bowie shifts a bit, "We just know we're gonna get it done."

"Well, after you get it done, what are you gonna do?"

Bowie thinks for a minute, "I don't know, maybe. . .go to the beach." He thinks with a light, far away smile.

Ash pretends to think, "Mmm, nah." He rounds a table, dragging out a box. Bowie watched as Ash grabbed a handful of steel platted bolts with color-coded heads, "You know, I always figured I'd meet you eventually, so I started playing around with these bad boys." Ash dramatically holds the bolts out to Bowie, kneeling on one knee; as if he was presenting a crown to a king, "It would be an honor if you used 'em."

Bowie grabbed the stack putting them on his lap as he inspected each one, "Cool," He muttered, weighing a bolt on his finger, "But why are they color coded?"

Ash gets excited, "You got a bolt for every occasion. The red ones explode, the blue ones break off in the air for a triple-hit, the green ones create a smoke bomb, the yellow ones are the most dangerous."

Bowie holds up a yellow one, "How dangerous?"

"Viper venom, so try not to break them."  Ash pulls out a vial from the box, "Saw this guy in Ohio that had a snake imported from Japan. Took some convincing but I was able to get enough venom for five of them, and this antidote in case you sit on it or something."

His eyes widen, "Ash, these are. ."

"Say you love them." Ash grins.

"I love them." Bowie firms, "I'll use 'em every day."

Ash leans back, cheering, "Yes! I'm adding on to the Butcher's arsenal, this is a dream come true!"

Dean knocks on the door of the van before pulling them open. He reeled back when a cloud of smoke hit his face and flew out into the sky. Dean waved it away in disgust, "Ellen's got a hunt, Sammy and I are gonna check it out."

"I'll come; it'll get done faster with all of us." Bowie stands up, putting the bolts in his quiver.

"What about your electrical storms?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Ash got it covered," Bowie turns the computer over, placing his notepad down. "Right, Ash?"

Ash gives a salute, "Like white on rice, brother."

Bowie grinned, "I'll be back by tomorrow." He grabs all his things in a scramble, "You got this, Ash." He steps out of the van, stumbling right in front of Dean.

"You reek." Dean complained, "And you better be on your A-game because we don't know what we're getting into."

"Do we ever?" Bowie pats Dean's shoulder with a wide grin when he walked past, "Just roll the windows down and let's go, I'm itching to kill somethin' with my new bolts." Bowie patted Dean's shoulder.

𖤐┊

"You gotta be fucking kidding me, killer clowns?" Dean shook his head, eyes on the road.

"Sammy loves clowns." Bowie laughs in the backseat, his head leaned back against the leather, spiraled out like a starfish.

Sam rolled his eyes, "He left his daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually."

"And this family was at some carnival that night?" Dean confirms.

"Right. The Cooper Carnival."

Bowie hummed, "All carnivals scream haunted. I mean have you been there at night? The lights alone are suffocating—"

"How do you know we aren't dealing with some psycho carny in a clown suit?" Dean cuts through.

Bowie gets the energy to reach forward and pluck the information out of Sam's hands, scanning over the papers in seconds, "Either way, we might as well get this fucker off the streets. Let's see, hmmm, no viable leads, all employees were closing shop, sounds like alibis all around."

"Plus, the girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air." Sam adds, snatching the papers back, "Cops are saying trauma, of course."

     Bowie's hand guide, rule number 3 of monster hunting; if a child says they saw something in the house, it means there's something in the house.

"No, we need to assume she's telling the truth until proven otherwise," Bowie firms, "We don't want another Jenny situation on our hands."

Sam and Dean immediately nod.

"Well, we all know what you're thinkin', Sam." Dean grins a bit, "Why'd it have to be clowns?"

Sam groans out, "Oh, can you both give me a break?"

"Hey, remember when he used to cry when the Ronald McDonald commercials came on the TV?" Bowie recalls, slapping Dean's shoulder rapidly at the memory.

Dean laughs out loud, "Or on Halloween when those kids dressed up as Pennywise?"

"At least I'm not afraid of flying and needles." Sam deflects.

"Planes crash!" Dean defends.

"Punctured veins and air-bubbles, Sam!" Bowie shouts, "Do you wanna know what happens when an air-bubble enters your blood? Because you'd be scared, too."

"Well apparently, clowns kill!" Sam rebuttals.

Point one to Sam.

Bowie crossed his arms, "Well, I'd rather fight a clown." He mutters.

"So, these types of murders, they ever happen before?"

"1981, the Bunker Brothers circus. Same m.o, it happened three different times, three different locales." Sam explained.

"It's weird though, if it is a spirit, it's usually bound to a specific locale, a house or town." Dean shook his head.

Bowie winched, "Can we not make locale a thing?"

Sam sighed, "So, how's this one moving from City to City?"

"Cursed object." Bowie suggests.

Dean nods in agreement, "Spirit attaches itself to something and the carnival carries it around with them."

"Great, paranormal scavenger hunt."

"This case was your idea," Dean shrugged. "By the way, why is that? You were awfully quick to jump on this job."

Sam shifts a bit, "So?"

"Everyone loves clowns." Bowie joked, trying to keep the mood light, "Am I right, guys? Huh?"

"It's just not like you, Sammy, that's all." Dean comments, "I thought you were hell-bent for leather on this demon hunt."

Sam shrugs, "I don't know. I just think taking this job is what Dad would have wanted us to do."

"What dad would've wanted?" Dean repeats.

"Oh, here we go." Bowie leans back, closing his eyes, "High ruined, thanks guys."

"What?" Sam frowns.

"Nothing." Dean looks away.

"You sure about that?" Sam pressed on.

Dean clenched his jaw, "Positive."

[ 8,947k words count. ]
[ 04 10 2025. ]