Garden of Eden

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 6

2008-01-16T20:48:03Z

Dean was sick with fear, and trying vainly not to let his thin veneer of control slip in Bobby’s presence. He had a particular dislike for shape shifters—damn vultures, who preyed on familiarity and emotional bonds to get what they wanted. Sam may have been a hunter, but he was way too quick to expose his heart. He’d gotten especially mushy since Dean had made his deal with the crossroads demon. As the months slipped by, Sam had talked more and more of stopping hunting, holing up somewhere, just being together until the year was up. Dean had a hard time not giving into that temptation. It would be so easy to spend the days in bed with Sam; so easy to die that way.

Dean rubbed his hand wearily over his face and turned back to the task at hand. He and Bobby’d both agreed the shifter was probably working alone. Not that that made it any less dangerous, when it could put on any face it pleased. Dean and Bobby had circled Bobby’s small house. Bobby was headed for the back door and Dean was poised to enter the front.

Dean knocked on the door, as if returning to pick Sam up as planned. He wasn’t surprised that there was no answer. Carefully, he tried the front door. “Bobby?” he called, “I’m back! Little earlier than planned, sorry.” Silence greeted him. “Sam?” he ventured, voice close to shaking.

“In here, Dean,” Sam’s voice called from up ahead on his left—the library. Dean could hear the tension in his brother’s voice. He was definitely under duress. Ever so slowly, gun drawn, Dean edged down the hall until he stood in the doorway of the room, gun at the ready.

He’d expected Bobby, so finding his dead father using Sam as a shield and holding a knife at his throat came as a bit of a shock. “Hello, Dean-o,” the shifter quipped. “Nice of you to join us.” He gave Sam’s hair a little yank. “Sammy here was missing you.”

“Y’all right there, Sam?” Dean asked his brother, eyes never leaving the shifter’s face, gun never wavering.

“M’ok,” Sam told him. “Been better,” he stated the obvious. His hand was throbbing mercilessly with each heartbeat.

“So,” Dean asked the shifter. “What’s it gonna be?”

“You’re going to toss your weapons on the table,” the shifter told him. “All your weapons. And Sammy here won’t get hurt.”

“How 'bout this?” Dean’s voice was controlled. “How 'bout I shoot you in the heart? Right through Sammy’s shoulder? He won’t mind, will you Sam?”

“Not one bit,” Sam leveled his gaze at Dean. The hand holding the knife wavered at his throat. The shifter moved slightly to the right, placing the center of his chest behind Sam’s head.

“How about we stick with plan number one?” The shifter chuckled low in his throat. He drew the knife to rest near Sam’s jugular and it broke the skin. “Little brother’s not so little anymore, Dean. Might have a hard time missing a vital organ. The gun, now!” it ordered, jerking its head toward the table.

Dean sighed softly, as if in resignation. He put the safety on and put the gun on the table a few feet away. He backed up with his hands in the air.

“Any silver knives I need to know about?”

Dean shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint.” He shrugged diplomatically. “So, how about we all have a nice little talk about this?”

“I have Dean and Sammy Winchester alone and helpless,” the shifter informed him. “The last thing I want to do is talk.” He moved the knife to trace Sam’s jaw line, leaned to murmur in his ear, “This hasn’t been a night for talkin’, has it, baby boy?”

Dean’s eyes frantically scanned Sam for injuries. The light was too dim for an accurate assessment. “Where’s Bobby?” Dean asked. “What did you do to him?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” the shifter grunted. “Was kinda hoping you’d brought him with you,” un-John moved his other hand up Sam’s jaw.

At that moment, viper-like, Sam turned his head to the side and sunk his teeth into the hand holding the knife. The shifter gave a yelp of pain, trying to wrench the hand away, but Sam had latched tightly onto the base of his thumb. Un-John lost his grip on the knife and it clattered to the floor. Not to be out-done, the shifter grabbed Sam’s chin with his free hand. A little painful pressure from his thumb under Sam’s jaw, and Sam released his bite with an anguished cry. Dean recognized the maneuver. He was about to twist Sam’s head and break his neck!

“No!’ Dean’s cry of protest left his throat involuntarily, and he started forward.

“Don’t!” the shifter rose to his full height, nearly making good on his threat to break Sam’s neck. “I didn’t want to kill him first. Maybe not at all,” he ruminated. “But now I’m pissed off!”

At that moment, Bobby stepped into the room, the Colt in his hands. He had a clear shot at the shifter and he took it without hesitating. The crack of the gun was loud in the small room, as the shape shifter released Sam and fell to the floor, a smoking bullet hole between its eyes. “Well now,” Bobby prodded the corpse with his foot, “that was oddly satisfying.” He put a warm hand on Sam’s shoulder. With a relieved sigh, Sam leaned into it.

.oO0Oo.

After releasing Sam from the tape, Bobby wrapped Sam’s injured hand with an Ace bandage. Sam was weak from the drug and seemed eager to sleep, so they let him. Dean would take him to a clinic in the morning for x-rays and the inevitable cast.

Tucking Sam into his bed, Bobby had a pretty good idea of the events that had taken place there in his bedroom earlier. Sam wasn't talking. The open tube of KY and stains on his sheets confirmed Bobby's suspicions. He’d figure out what the herbs and paint were used for in the morning.

Bobby and Dean salted and burned the corpse of the John-shifter deep in the salvage yard and covered the still-smoldering remains with dirt. Neither of them talked much, both lost in their own thoughts about John that had been newly-awakened by the shifter’s cruel idea of a joke.

“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” Bobby told Dean. “Get yourself a shower and go take care of Sam.” He touched Dean’s shoulder briefly and slipped down the hall without another word.

Dean took the fastest shower known to man and joined Sam in bed, carefully wrapping his arms around Sam from behind. Sam stirred only the smallest bit, “Dean, I love you,” he told his brother, leaning back into him drifting back to sleep.

“Right back atcha,” Dean whispered softly, burying his face in Sam’s hair. He breathed in the sweet, safe scent of home that spirited him away to his dreams.

-- The End

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 5

2008-01-16T20:47:35Z

Sam had always liked Bobby. Loved Bobby. There was lengthy period of time when he had hoped beyond hope that Bobby was his father instead of John. It made sense, somehow. Bobby was smart, frugal, no-nonsense and sexy in his gruff, aloof way. Sam tried to keep all of this in mind as he fought the pain of the shifter’s invading fingers, prepping him for an activity he’d occasionally fantasized about while jerking off. But not like this.

The shifter took his time, reaching below Sam’s hips with one hand and slowly stroking Sam’s cock to life, while ever so excruciatingly scraping over Sam’s prostate with one fingernail. The arousal, the pumping of adrenaline-filled blood, had also started shooting off the remaining sedative in his system. The world kept graying out on him, as not-Bobby shoved his thighs apart. Calloused hands grabbed his hips and the shifter ground his cock into Sam up to the hilt.

Sam could only manage soft whimpers of protest and pain as the shifter found his sweet spot over and over. Pretend it’s really Bobby, he told himself. Bobby fucking you. It’s what you both want. It worked well enough. The shifter milked his dick a final few seconds and Sam found himself cumming like gangbusters, even as he shook his head in denial. Shifter-Bobby grabbed Sam under his arms and pulled him backwards onto his lap. The rush of sitting up so quickly left Sam barely conscious. Bobby continued undulating his hips sinuously, pounding into Sam. He buried his face in Sam’s hair, whispering in his ear. “Might just have to take you along with me after I kill them,” and he came with fury, biting Sam’s neck, shoulders and digging fingers into the tender flesh of Sam’s hip.

There was no reply from the shifter’s prey. He’d surrendered again to the drug. And that was A-OK. The shifter lay Sam gently back down and untied him. He went to the bathroom and got a wet wash cloth and quickly cleaned both of them up. He found Sam’s underwear and jeans in a ball on the floor and, with a bit of huffing and puffing, managed to get Sam half dressed.

Non-Bobby was a little tired from his escapades, but there was no time for a nap. Not with Dean on his way. The shifter struggled with Sam’s bulk and dragged him into the library, and placed him in a wooden chair—the same chair, in fact, Sam had sat in while Bobby and Dean tried to exorcise Meg from his body. Bobby had always preferred duct tape to rope, and that was what he used to tape Sam’s wrists to the arms of the chair. He didn’t think much more restraint would be necessary, as Sam was limper than a rag doll.

The shifter opened the cigar box of photos on the table and took out a recent picture of John Winchester. It was time to change skins for the final phase of his extermination plan.

.oO0Oo.

Dean had made record time on the back roads leading to the Sandusky farm.

The hacksaw made short work of the chain tethering Bobby to the wall.

“Never expected you for a silk boxer man,” Dean patted Bobby on the shoulder with an amused chuckle.

“Hey now,” Bobby slipped into the burgundy sweat clothes Dean had brought in from the trunk, “a man is allowed a little mystique.” He found his discarded baseball cap and set it firmly on his head. “Any word from the salvage yard? From Sam?” he asked Dean, who shook his head.

“Let’s jam,” Dean handed Bobby a .22. “It’s got four rounds in it—silver. I have a few myself. And the Colt,” he showed it to Bobby, then tucked it into the rear waistband of his jeans, below his jacket and denim shirt.

The two men hurried up the storm cellar stairs and got into the Impala.

.oO0Oo.

1:26 a.m.

Bobby’s home was quiet except for the sound of the refrigerator humming and Sam’s deep, even breathing as he dozed in the library. A puddle of goop containing shed flesh, blood, hair and teeth fouled the bathroom floor. The shifter had changed his appearance. He’d picked the most recent photograph from the cigar box—2006. Staring back at him from mirror over the dresser in Bobby’s bedroom were the coal black eyes of John Winchester.

He strode down the hallway towards the library with slow, steady steps. The youngest Winchester brother was just as he’d left him—shirtless, bound, head hanging loosely as he dozed. The shifter knelt before Sam and caressed his cheek. “How you doin’ there, baby boy?” he asked softly, cupping Sam’s chin.

The sound of John’s voice roused Sam immediately, and his eyes popped open. A sharp surprised intake of breath was the shifter’s reward. “You’re not him,” Sam tried to keep his voice even. “Dad’s gone. This is low, even for something like you.” He turned his face away, refusing to look the shifter in the eyes.

“Your pop was a fine looking man,” the shifter stood and grinned, “and talk about mad skills. I think I could kill you with one hand, if I wanted to.”

“I thought you did want to,” Sam reminded him.

“Nah,” the shifter purred. “Too quick, too quick.” He walked behind Sam, hands on his shoulders, his neck, in his hair. He leaned to kiss the top of his head and Sam pulled away.

The shifter chucked, “Someone’s on the property, Sammy. My perimeter alarms went off three minutes ago. Didn’t hear a vehicle, but then they’d never be that stupid. Could be Singer, or that pesky brother of yours,” he moved to Sam’s side. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” the curved knife reappeared from the sheath on John’s belt with a metallic ching.

Sam’s eyes widened briefly in fear, then he quickly managed to maintain his stoic face. “You going to kill us all with one little knife?” Sam wondered.

“Nope,” the shifter informed him. “This is just to get their attention. Do you have a scream for Daddy?” he asked, and suddenly slammed the handle of the knife down onto the back of Sam’s left hand. There was a snapping sound as one of the fine bones there broke, but Sam rewarded the shifter with only a pained exhalation of air through his nose and teeth. The shifter smiled and placed his own hand over the injury, leaning his entire body’s weight onto it. He ground his palm slowly. This time Sam couldn’t hold back a scream as white hot pain shot up his arm.

Dean, he begged silently, get in here and cap this fucker. He blinked and a single tear of pain slid down his face.

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 4

2008-01-16T20:46:49Z

11:30 rolled around. Dean had already had four beers and was sipping his fifth, his wallet $270 fatter than when he arrived. The jukebox was blasting out Foreigner’s “Urgent.” All in all, life was good. In his pocket, his cell phone buzzed. Bobby, the called ID flashed. Dean answered the call with an upbeat “Yo!”

“Dean,” Bobby’s voice was breaking up, “need you—cellar—shifter—“ and the line went dead.

Dean plopped a twenty dollar bill on the bar and trotted briskly out into the street. He quickly dialed Bobby’s cell, hoping for better reception. He was relieved when the phone was answered in one ring. “Signal’s bad here, Bobby, so talk fast,” he urged.

“My fault. I’m underground, Dean. Neighbor’s storm cellar,” Bobby told him. “Is Sam with you?”

“No,” Dean’s heart plummeted. “He’s with you, Bobby.”

“It’s not me, Dean,” Bobby told him what Dean hadn’t been hoping to hear. “Damn shifter got the drop on me yesterday. He wasn’t too happy about what you boys did to his pal in St. Louis and showed up here for a little revenge. Come get me, boy. And bring me some clothes and hack saw.” Bobby gave Dean directions to Sandusky’s.

Dean knew it’d take him at least an hour to get back out of town to the place Bobby was being held. Thinking back to the last time he’d found Sam alone with a shape shifter filled him with dread. He’d come painfully close to losing him then. His hands shook on the wheel and he urged the Impala forward.

.oO0Oo.

Shifter-Bobby hadn’t changed positions and Sam hadn’t awakened. He’d managed to subdue his erection, but Bobby’s thoughts still pinged through his head. He knew he’d never be able to rid the world of the Winchesters until he dealt with Bobby’s unfinished business.

Bobby and John had gotten chummy a few years after Mary died. Very chummy indeed. John had craved grounding, discipline. Bobby had always wanted John. It was a win-win situation for them both. Bobby had never married, never really wanted a woman. Memories of stubble, lunging, pawing, moaning and the strong physical bond the two shared swelled in the shifter’s mind. It was sex, it was therapy, it was friendship taken to the nth level.

After John died, Bobby never recovered. There had been no one else in his bed, or in his heart. Seeing Sam and Dean, and knowing—just knowing—what they shared, was like a knife in his heart. Goddamn it! The shifter shuddered. He hadn’t signed on for this. He didn’t want to feel so much; didn’t want to care so much. All this empathy only made his mission harder to complete.

Not-Bobby realized that Sam was going to change back soon. The clothes would have to go, that was certain. He eased the sleeping boy back onto his side of the bed and went to get the scissors. Carefully, and as soundlessly as he could, he eased off the sweatpants, then incised the baseball shirt from waist to neck. Sam shivered involuntarily when Bobby accidentally allowed the cold metal to brush his collarbone.

Bobby pulled the blankets up to cover Sam, but not before one last conflicted glance at the boy’s body. It was easy to see the man Sam would become. Long coltish limbs with just a hint of burgeoning muscle. The well-formed hands, shock of brown hair—even the tiny mole next to his nose. The shifter felt another of those lustful rushes and had to turn away. Bobby was no pervert; he’d never hurt a child. Especially not this one.

The bedside clock read 11:25 p.m.

.oO0Oo.

Sam wanted desperately to run away. When he awoke, the room was dim and he was lying on his side, under the blankets, in Bobby’s bed. His clothes were gone. Oh my god, he thought to himself, what the hell did we do? When he tried to roll over, the dizziness returned and he had to lower his head to the pillow and wait out the black flowers that were blooming in front of his eyes. He ached, flu-like, deep in his bones. His whole body felt like he was mired in tar. Then he remembered. Bobby wasn’t Bobby. He was—

“Welcome back,” Bobby’s voice spoke from nearby. A lamp was switched on to reveal the shifter wearing Bobby’s skin sitting across from the bed in an armchair. He had a beer in one hand and a short, curved knife in the other. "Nice nap?"

“What’s your game?” Sam asked, using what seemed like someone else’s voice. Getting onto his back was a struggle. Sitting up would no doubt be impossible.

The Bobby-thing chucked. “I wish it was a game, baby boy.” He put down his beer and began cleaning his fingernails with the knife.

Sam winced at the name, so often used with affection by his father or Dean. It didn’t comfort him coming from this—thing. In fact, it was downright terrifying. “What are you planning?” Sam re-worded his question. He felt if he could keep the shifter talking he could stave off a fight he knew he was in no condition to win.

“It’s been a treat having you here, Sammy,” the shifter’s eyes cycled through their color changes and returned to Bobby’s warm hazel. “You’re not only a lively conversationalist and a joy to look at, but you make wonderful bait. It’s only a matter of time before your brother and Singer come back here to the rescue. I’m going to kill all three of you. But first,” un-Bobby stood up and approached the bed, “I thought we might have a little fun.”

“What did you have in mind?” Sam edged away a bit. “Checkers? Maybe Twister?” How did Dean make this bravado thing seem so easy?

The shifter chuckled. “It’s ok, Sam. I’m not expecting you to put up much of a fight.” Not-Bobby sat down on the edge of the bed. As if in a show of good faith, he put the knife on the bedside table, well out of Sam’s reach. “We won’t need that, I don’t think,” the creature purred, pulling the blankets away from Sam’s torso.

“Bobby—don’t,” Sam protested, but the shifter was on him in a second, straddling his thighs.

“Gonna roll you over, Sammy,” the shifter grabbed Sam’s biceps and had him on his stomach before Sam could plan any sort of attack. The remnants of the baseball shirt still hung on Sam’s shoulders. “Still some use left in this old thing after all,” the shifter commented. He pulled Sam’s hands together at the base of his spine, slid the torn shirt down his arms and used the torn cotton to bind Sam’s hands tightly.

“Please… you don’t have to do this,” Sam’s struggles were pointless. Fear coiled like a dark snake in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, but I do,” un-Bobby informed him. He leaned forward, one hand on Sam’s waist, the other in his hair. He brought his lips to Sam’s ear. “Bobby wants you so badly, Sam. Has for ages,” the hand on his waist moved to Sam’s ass. Sam swallowed audibly. “I would be remiss not to give him what he wants.” The shifter bit at Sam’s earlobe, then licked a line down his neck, to his mouth. Grabbing a bigger handful of Sam’s hair, he turned his head and devoured Sam’s mouth with a searing kiss.

Sam whimpered and tried to pull away, but the shifter had him overpowered. The creature growled deep in his throat and pulled away for air, smiling Bobby’s patented half-smile. “How do you feel about older men, Sammy?” un-Bobby nipped the nape of Sam’s neck and sucked a deep hickey there. “Ever dream ole’ Bobby here would put the moves on you?”

“Actually,” Sam breathed, “I used to think about it a lot,” he confided.

“Is that so?” the shifter laved Sam’s shoulders with his tongue, then ran his free hand down Sam’s back, pausing at the shiny pink patch mid-spine. “Hmmm, someone got you good, didn’t they boy?” the shifter surveyed the knife wound from the encounter with Jake. “Getting stuck like that could kill a man.”

“I lead a charmed life,” Sam snarked. “And Dean’s a whiz with sutures,” he added. Sam watched nervously as the shifter reached back towards the bedside table. He opened a drawer and pulled out a tube of KY.

“You are just adorable when you’re terrified, you know that?” Bobby patted his ass affectionately. “Eyes the size of dinner plates. I know you’ve done this before, Sam. No way Dean bottoms for you, am I right?”

“I really don’t want to talk about this with you,” Sam tried in vain to buck the shifter off. “Just… just get it over with. The sooner you fuck me the sooner my brother and Bobby can come in here and ventilate your sorry ass.” Sam snuck a glance at the digital clock. 12:23. No way in hell Dean was anywhere close to heading back. He was so screwed.

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 3

2008-01-16T20:45:58Z

The smell of burning sage filled the small, sparsely-furnished bedroom. The beast disguised as Bobby Singer sat on the edge of the bed, grinding something up with a mortar and pestle. He’d just added the tiniest amount of Sam’s blood to the fine powder. He hadn’t hurt him, just made a small incision on his thumb, milked out a few drops, then covered the cut with a band-aid.

Once the mixture became the consistency of paint, the shifter got out a small home-made brush and dipped it into the tincture. He painted several sigils across Sam’s chest and the plane of his stomach. Smaller ones were soon placed on his forearms and the backs of his hands. The copper-colored liquid glittered in the candlelight. He double checked Sam’s pulse and breathing, finding both to be strong and regular. Gently brushing the bangs away from Sam’s face, he painted a final shape on Sam’s forehead. It was intricate, shaped much like the head of a falcon.

Not-Bobby placed the bowl on his dresser and picked up a small, very old book. His voice barely above a whisper, he began reading the incantation he’d marked. It wasn’t long before the room grew slightly colder, slightly electric, slightly—magical.

He didn’t dare watch what was happening on the bed. He was too afraid that all his preparation would be ruined if he made a mistake in the reading. The language was ancient, complicated. He read for a solid five minutes, confident that he’d done so accurately. His self-discipline paid off. When the shifter turned to the bed, he found, swimming in too large jeans and the remnants of Sam’s t-shirt and hoodie, a ten-year-old boy.

.oO0Oo.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Bobby was able to begin surveying his surroundings. He’d actually been to this place before. It was his neighbor Silas Sandusky’s storm cellar. He’d helped Silas rebuild it back in 1993 after a T-4 cyclone had blown through. Bobby was comforted to know he was less than a mile from home. God knows what the shifter was doing, right at that moment, to his guests.

Near the stairs leading up and outside, Bobby spotted his cell phone and the rest of the contents of his pockets on the top of a barrel. It was only 8 feet or so away, but with the shackle on his ankle, it might as well have been a mile. He’d tested the bolts, the welding; they were all too secure. He was stuck, but the phone offered a small beacon of hope.

Bobby began removing his clothing. Flannel shirt, wife-beater, socks. The jeans proved problematic with the cuff as an impediment. He didn’t hesitate, however. He grabbed his inseam and, with a grunt, began ripping. Shivering in his boxers, he began tying the clothes together in a long rope, end to end, with skillful knots. He just prayed it was long enough to reach the items on the barrel.

.oO0Oo.

A mostly-unconscious Sam was shivering, un-Bobby noted. It was cold in the room. He had removed Sam’s adult clothes and used a warm, wet washcloth to remove the blood paint from his body. The age transformation wouldn’t last more than an hour, his research had taught him. In the back of his closet, he had a box of the boys’ old clothing he’d kept. It was always good to have extra on hand when John brought the boys over unexpectedly. He found a pair of sweatpants and a size 12 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles baseball shirt. With Sam so much smaller, it wasn’t difficult at all to dress him and put on a thick pair of socks.

A soft groan from the boy startled the shifter. “Bobby?’ Sam asked weakly, “what’s going on?” His mossy eyes were huge under that shock of dark soft hair Bobby couldn’t help petting every chance he got. Sam tried to push himself up onto his elbows and failed.

“Nothing, kiddo. Nothing at all,” Bobby crawled into the bed next to Sam and sat next to him against the headboard. “You just had a nightmare, is all.” He extended his arms and pulled Sam into them, and onto his lap. He pulled the blanket around them. “Go back to sleep, Sammy,” the shifter encouraged, hand entangled in Sam’s hair.

“Alright,” Sam murmured, burrowing his face into Bobby’s shoulder. He spent a brief moment readjusting his position before drifting off to sleep again. The shifter planted a kiss on his forehead and willed the erection he was sporting to recede. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sammy. Not like this. I’ll just hold you for awhile,” he assured the boy, breathing deeply the clean scent of Sam’s hair Bobby craved. “We’ll save the good stuff for when you’re a big boy again.”

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 2

2008-01-16T20:45:22Z

Bobby Singer couldn’t have been more pissed off. He’d always prided himself on making his home a fortress. Nothing that went bump in the night would ever come calling and get the jump on him. But he’d let his guard down. He’d been out in the salvage yard, harvesting some parts from a ’74 El Camino, when Dean Winchester strode up behind him.

“How you doin’, Bobby?” Dean smiled a winning smile.

Bobby nodded in his direction. “Didn’t hear you drive up, Dean.” He scanned the area for the Impala.

“Parked her out a ways…” Dean shrugged. “Last time she got a few dings on the way in. Listen, Bobby, I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice about a hunt.”

“I’m listenin’,” Bobby leaned against the fender of the vintage auto.

Dean scratched his head. “Could we go inside? It’s a possible basilisk sighting over in Nebraska. Was hoping you might have some literature? Maybe a beer or two?”

Dean had said the magic word. “Sure thing, kid. C’mon in,” Bobby turned to lower the hood of the El Camino.

It was then that Dean struck, fast as lightning. Bobby barely saw the blur of movement behind him before something hard hit him over the back of the head. His vision flashed a bright white and his head exploded with pain. He never even felt himself hit the ground.

When he regained consciousness, his surroundings were unfamiliar… dark, chilly, candle-lit. Someone’s basement? He moved his left leg and felt a tug. He reached down to discover a thick metal cuff around his ankle. A chain ran off somewhere into the darkness. Tentatively he stood, testing his boundaries. Six feet tops, in any direction. Nothing weapon-worthy was within reach. His head was throbbing. And, as he soon discovered, he wasn’t alone.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” a voice spoke from the shadows. His own voice. “I brought you some breakfast fit for a hunter.” Bobby tried not to show his shock as a shape-shifter strode towards him from the shadows, looking like his clone.

When Bobby didn’t reply, the shifter continued to speak. “You’ll be here a few days, Mr. Singer. I hope you find the accommodations adequate.” He nodded towards a bucket in the corner, which Bobby supposed he was supposed to use as a toilet. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you fed, and alive. I just have a little business to attend to that requires me to be you for a bit.”

“What sorta business is that?” Bobby finally spoke up, voice husky from non-use.

“Oh… a little of this, little of that,” the shifter shrugged. “Gave the Winchester boys a call. Invited them down for a day or two. I know how much you love having them around. Especially Sammy. Am I right?” the shifter leered. “Boy, you are one twisted fella,” the Bobby-clone paced. “But hey, I can work with that.” He pushed the tray across the floor towards Bobby. “Yeah, I can definitely work with that.”

Without another word, the shifter turned and left Bobby alone and stewing.

.o0O0o

Sam was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Sure, the drive had been long, but he had been raring to go only an hour before. Maybe it was the reading, the old notes poorly written on archaic papyrus, that was fogging his brain. He yawned hugely, then chuckled. “Sorry, Bobby. Guess this stuff’s putting me to sleep.” He stood up to stretch his legs. Suddenly, he was hit with a rush of dizziness.

“Oh, it’s not the books, Sam,” Bobby said in a low, soothing voice. “It’s the Flunitrazepam. I put it in your Coke.”

Sam grasped the back of his chair in an attempt not to sway, “Fluni… huh? Bobby, what gives?” He blinked several times to clear his vision.

“Rohypnol, I believe, is another name for it. They call it a roofie on the street,” the shifter got up and began walking towards Sam. “Main side effect: major cooperativeness.” Now that he was only two feet away from Sam, the shifter chose to reveal himself with a flash of those urine colored eyes.

“No!” Sam tried to back away. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. “Where’s Bobby?”

The shifter’s answer didn’t surprise Sam in the slightest. “Now, Sam….I wouldn’t worry about him. I’d worry about you.”

Do these guys learn this stuff in Shifter School? Was Sam’s last coherent thought before he slid to the floor.

.oO0Oo.

The shape shifter wearing Bobby Singer’s skin was practically vibrating with desire. When he’d downloaded Bobby’s memories and thoughts, he was blown away by certain little secrets the man had buried deep. One in particular was his unrequited lust when it came to Sam Winchester. A lust that had been growing since Sam was well below the legal age of consent. Bobby would have never, never acted on those thoughts. But then, Bobby wasn’t here right now.

He’d been hoping to use Bobby’s form merely to rid himself and his shape shifter brethren of the Winchesters once and for all. But now that he’d inherited Bobby’s looks, his skills and desires had become part and parcel of the deal.

Shifter-Bobby had spent the afternoon researching an age-regression spell. Bobby’s stores were so well-stocked he hadn’t even needed to go shopping for ingredients. And the final ingredient had just dropped on Bobby’s library floor.

He slid his hands under Sam’s armpits and dragged him into the bedroom. He had given Sam a bit more of the drug than he’d wanted to, but he had to make sure Sam was unconscious early enough for him to squeeze all the evening’s festivities in before Dean returned to pick him up. He grunted and pulled Sam’s lanky frame up onto Bobby’s bed, positioning him on his back. He removed his shoes and socks, then used a pair of scissors to cut open Sam’s shirts from the waist to the neck. Peeling back the layers, he revealed Sam’s chest. For a brief moment, he dared only to stare. Then, he reached out a trembling hand and placed it on Sam’s abdomen. Heat rolled off Sam in waves, as it always seemed to. The shifter moved his hand to Sam’s pecs, his neck, until he was cupping Sam’s chin in one hand. He cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out just young he wanted Sam to be before he began molesting him.

Sweet Bird of Youth - Chapter 1

2008-01-16T20:43:52Z

Early January twilight, and the Impala’s engine growled low as Dean guided her into Singer Salvage Yard. They’d come with a dual purpose: Sam needed research material that only Bobby’s extensive library contained, and Dean planned to spend the night visiting old Sioux City haunts, possibly doing a little pool hustling. Bela’s reward money wouldn’t last them forever, after all.

“Well, here we are, bro,” Dean put the car in neutral and casually put his right arm up onto the seat back. They were feet from Bobby’s front door.

“You sure you don’t want to pop in, just for a minute?” Sam placed his hand on Dean’s thigh.

“Nah,” Dean tossed his head. “Daylight’s wastin’.” He idly played with the hair at the base of Sam’s neck. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he assured Sam. “Besides, once you get your nose buried in a book, I might as well not be here anyway.” He leaned in for a quick kiss on Sam’s cheek, but ended up lingering a little longer.

Sam raised both hands to cup Dean’s face. “It’s just a few hours,” Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. “Bobby has the Shifter information already pulled from his library. I just have to spend some quality time with it.” Sam’s dimple briefly popped with his half-smile. “You’ll be bored out of your skull. Go make us some dough.” Sam dove in, capturing Dean’s mouth with his own. “And behave,” he remanded, his thumb caressing Dean’s cheekbone.

“Can’t make any promises, Sammy,” Dean popped the trunk, smiling mischievously.

Bobby had stepped out onto what served as his porch. He offered Dean a quick wave, which Dean readily returned.

“Take care, lover man,” Sam whispered so only Dean could hear. Dean was glad he wasn’t getting out of the car, as the words had gone straight to his dick. “And watch your back.” Sam patted his shoulder affectionately and got out of the car. He grabbed a small duffel bag, shut the trunk and tapped the Impala’s fender as a signal that Dean could be off.

A brief toot of the car’s horn and a nod of his head, and Dean was navigating his baby back out onto the access road. Sam watched after him for a brief moment, then turned to Bobby.

“Hey man,” he offered a warm smile, “long time no see.”

Bobby held a beer in one hand, but caught Sam up in a one-armed hug with the other. “Good to see you, Sam,” he gruffed. “We need time to catch up.” He handed Sam the beer and a look passed between them.

Bobby chuckled, “This one has a double shot of holy water in it, just to be safe.”

Sam grinned and raised it to his lips, “Cheers, Bobby,” he downed a huge gulp. He turned to his host expectantly.

“C’mon in,” Bobby opened the door. “I put some books and papers that I thought might help out on the library table,” he motioned toward that particular room. “I actually have a little research I’m working for Ellen to get done, so I hope you don’t mind if I camp out there too.”

“Course not,” Sam stowed his bag near the couch. He placed his beer nearby on an end table. He wasn’t a huge fan of the beverage, only drinking it to placate Bobby and Dean. Bobby noted the discarded beverage.

“Something a little stronger, perhaps?” he cocked his head in the direction of the liquor cabinet. “Jack and coke?”

“How about mostly coke?” Sam smiled softly. “Until after I’m done reading?”

“You got it,” Bobby swiped the bottle of amber liquid out of the cabinet and headed for the kitchen.

Sam used Bobby’s restroom. The nine-hour drive had exhausted him, stiffened up his joints and over-taxed his bladder. He washed his hands and face, then made his way to the library.

Bobby was already seated on one end of the table, drink in one hand, ball-capped head buried in what appeared to be an ancient book. “I have a casserole in the oven,” he informed Sam. “Mac and cheese.”

Sam felt his stomach voice its approval, “Sounds great,” he sat down by the mound of books Bobby had placed out for him, taking a huge swig of soda. He was happy to note it was whiskey-free. “I can only handle so much roadside cuisine.” He raised his glass in salute to Bobby’s culinary expertise.

Sam had just pulled the top book off the pile and was about to open it when Bobby spoke up, “Oh hey—I meant to tell you this when you got here. Found a cigar box full of photos you might want to see,” he reached behind him to a shelf and pulled a faded red and white Swisher Sweets box onto the table. He opened it reverently and handed it to Sam.

“Oh, Bobby… wow,” Sam marveled, drawing the first photo up into the light. It was a much younger Bobby and John, standing in front of the Impala. John was wearing a dark leather jacket. Bobby, without his signature baseball cap and beard, had a flannel-clad arm thrown affectionately across John’s shoulder. Sam turned the photo over. Me and Johnny—1982, it read, in Bobby’s scrawling handwriting.

“You sure were a couple of handsome devils,” Sam remarked. He felt his eyes tearing up involuntarily, and he quickly looked away to try to quell the emotion.

“Had that affect on me too, Sam,” Bobby said softly. He picked up his chair and pulled it around to Sam’s side of the table. He sat down next to him. “He was my best friend.”

Sam nodded. “You knew him in ways I never got the chance to,” he admitted.

“Hunting brings people close, yeah,” Bobby put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I mean, look at you and Dean. The bond. You know,” he gave Sam a meaningful glance, dark eyes burning.

Sam caught his drift almost immediately. He wasn’t sure if Bobby’s confession made him entirely comfortable. He wasn’t even 100 percent sure what Bobby was confessing to.

“He looks a lot like you in this picture,” Bobby picked up another Polaroid of John sharpening a knife against a whetstone. The smile John sported in the photo was huge, inviting. Again Sam felt a stab of jealousy. Obviously this photo was taken by someone John loved, trusted. Bobby.

“Can fight your genes, can you?” Sam sighed wearily. He reached back into the box and pulled out the rest of the photos. Most were of John, John and Mary, John and Bobby. Or the car. Three of the pictures had a young Sam and Dean in them. Sam chuckled at one in particular of Bobby and his younger self, elbows deep under the hood of the Impala. Both had smears of grease on their foreheads and cheeks. Me and Sammy under the hood—1989.

“You weren’t very helpful, but you sure were cute,” Bobby seemed to soften. “You never stopped talking. Chirped like a little bird all the time.”

Sam blushed. “You never told me to shut up.”

“Didn’t want to. What a great kid you were, Sam. So sweet, affectionate too. You must have been starved for affection. Every time your dad brought you boys over you always latched on to me. Hugging, cuddling. God, you were like a freaking puppy dog the way you’d snuggle down on my lap.”

“Hoooo, okay,” Sam blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s way more than I needed to know.” He chuckled nervously, but couldn’t stop looking at the photo.

“I’m not telling you this to embarrass you, Sammy,” Bobby said softly. “Meant a lot to me, you know. Your dad’s trust of me with you boys. How you looked up to me. It’s not like I had any kids to take care of. I was more than happy to do it. Still am. I’m always here for you,” he lay his hand affectionately over Sam’s.

The warning bells in Sam’s head were quickly eclipsed by a rush of warmth. Suppressing a yawn, he asked Bobby, “You think we could get copies made of these? Dean would love them.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” Bobby ruffled his hair. His hand lingered a bit longer than Sam felt it should, but due to the very chick-flickish moment they were having, he didn’t complain. Bobby stood and stretched, then moved the chair back to the other end of the table. “Back to business,” he nodded.

Sam nodded back, crisply. To be honest, he didn’t know how much longer he could stay awake. Apparently the drive had taken a bigger toll on him than he’d thought. He took a few more swigs of the soda, hoping the caffeine would help. He took one more glance of the photo of John and Bobby in front of the car. His thoughts flew immediately to Dean.

He didn’t notice Bobby watching him, or the silvery-yellow flicker that stole momentarily over Bobby’s eyes before he turned back to his tome.