Chapter 4
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."
"
