SPN Fanfic: Five Options Bobby Didn't Pick, and One He Did
Title: Five Options Bobby Didn't Pick, and One He Did.
Spoilers: SPOILERS FOR 5.01 Do not read this if you have not seen 5.01.
Warnings/Rating: GEN, PG, Kind of silly and will probably be wrong, but what the heck.
Word Count: 600 words
Disclaimer: Kripke's world, my silliness.
Summary: It's important to make the right decision. A six-drabble tag to 5.01
(A/N: after cut due to spoiler for 5.01)
A/N: This started out as one drabble (guess which) and turned into six. I know I said I wanted Bobby to have a sword-cane near the end of my reaction post, but I've changed my mind. Now I want this instead. :-D
-
Five Options Bobby Didn't Pick, and One He Did.
by CaffieneKitty
-
Option One
Bobby sat at his kitchen table, leg aching, examining the cane they'd foisted on him the hospital; an aluminum one with a label that could be read from across the room. "Watbury Assisted Living Supply Company."
It had a seat that folded out, supported by three legs, just in case he should feel the need to park his ass in a hurry while crossing a room.
Crossing a room was all he'd do with it too; no way was he gonna be seen in public with the thing, not unless he was desperate.
Bobby was never going to be that desperate.
-
Option Two
He'd gotten this cane god knows where from god knows who over the years. Hunters kept leaving crap behind, but this had probably been found in one of the wrecks outside. Maybe.
Bobby stared at it. Damn thing had the head of a duck for a handle. Dead-eyed brass duck head.
"Why in the world would anyone want to hang on to a duck's head while they walk?" Bobby pondered.
The duck head stared blankly back at him.
Even though no test he was willing to run on the thing could prove it was evil, Bobby burned it anyway. Certain instincts were best heeded.
-
Option Three
Bobby finally unscrewed the last of the long-threaded cane handle and peered into the hollow reservoir revealed. Ancient trapped gin vapors wafted out.
The long-dead hunter who'd given Bobby the cane on his fortieth birthday was a smartass, but a practical one. 'Tippling canes' they were called way back before Bobby's time, during the Prohibition. A built-in flask, big enough for several ounces of booze. Or holy water.
Experimentally, Bobby walked around the room with it. It creaked. He sat again and looked at it.
He had flasks. He didn't need another. Not one that took ten seconds to unscrew.
-
Option Four
Bobby stood before the hall mirror, leaning lightly on the latest cane. He shifted his weight to his game leg, reached across to twist the handle quickly and whisked out three feet of sharpened steel with a triumphant "HA!"
The sword's tip swung wide, catching the edge of a pile of 14th century leather-bound manuscripts, sending the stack toppling domino-like into the next stack. Books cascaded from the hall table with a sustained ovation of fluttering thuds.
Hopping on his good leg, Bobby tried to regain balance without further sword-related mayhem. He looked at his reflection.
"Face it, Singer. You're no Errol Flynn."
-
Option Five
Some joker decided it'd be funny.
The stupid thing was seven feet long. When he'd seen it on the porch (on a pile of grey cloth which turned out to be a long robe and a pointy hat) it had looked like polished birch. Up close it was hard plastic. A gnarl of molded root-like branches festooned the top, clutching a fake crystal. When Bobby pressed the recessed button on the shaft, the 'crystal' lit up and a tinny voice exclaimed, "You shall not pass!"
Some joker had decided it would be funny. Some joker was gonna get his ass kicked.
-
Option Six
The four-foot-long stick looked like a frozen spume of demon smoke, lacquered to a fine sheen. A wrist strap dangled as it leaned against Bobby's desk.
"It's a Shillelagh," Bobby answered. "Traditional Irish walking stick. Sort of. Made of oak."
"That's not a cane," said Sam, "it's a club."
"Yeah, so?"
Dean picked it up, eyebrows raising. "Heavy."
"The big end's hollowed out. Traditionally full of lead."
"And yours is full of...?"
"Not lead. But not oak either." Bobby's eyes twinkled. "No matter what gets hit with it, it's gonna sting."
"You're okay with this?" Dean handed the Shillelagh back.
Bobby contemplated the knobbly black stick. "Yeah. I'm okay."
- - -
(that's it. *bounces*)
Post A/N: References in case people need them (a little haphazard in nature, sorry); Option One, Option Two, Option Three, Option Four, Option Five, Option Six
NO SPOILERS IN COMMENTS PLEASE. (For the definition of spoiler as applied in this journal see the sidebar to your right. *gestures*)
Spoilers: SPOILERS FOR 5.01 Do not read this if you have not seen 5.01.
Warnings/Rating: GEN, PG, Kind of silly and will probably be wrong, but what the heck.
Word Count: 600 words
Disclaimer: Kripke's world, my silliness.
Summary: It's important to make the right decision. A six-drabble tag to 5.01
(A/N: after cut due to spoiler for 5.01)
A/N: This started out as one drabble (guess which) and turned into six. I know I said I wanted Bobby to have a sword-cane near the end of my reaction post, but I've changed my mind. Now I want this instead. :-D
-
Five Options Bobby Didn't Pick, and One He Did.
by CaffieneKitty
-
Option One
Bobby sat at his kitchen table, leg aching, examining the cane they'd foisted on him the hospital; an aluminum one with a label that could be read from across the room. "Watbury Assisted Living Supply Company."
It had a seat that folded out, supported by three legs, just in case he should feel the need to park his ass in a hurry while crossing a room.
Crossing a room was all he'd do with it too; no way was he gonna be seen in public with the thing, not unless he was desperate.
Bobby was never going to be that desperate.
-
Option Two
He'd gotten this cane god knows where from god knows who over the years. Hunters kept leaving crap behind, but this had probably been found in one of the wrecks outside. Maybe.
Bobby stared at it. Damn thing had the head of a duck for a handle. Dead-eyed brass duck head.
"Why in the world would anyone want to hang on to a duck's head while they walk?" Bobby pondered.
The duck head stared blankly back at him.
Even though no test he was willing to run on the thing could prove it was evil, Bobby burned it anyway. Certain instincts were best heeded.
-
Option Three
Bobby finally unscrewed the last of the long-threaded cane handle and peered into the hollow reservoir revealed. Ancient trapped gin vapors wafted out.
The long-dead hunter who'd given Bobby the cane on his fortieth birthday was a smartass, but a practical one. 'Tippling canes' they were called way back before Bobby's time, during the Prohibition. A built-in flask, big enough for several ounces of booze. Or holy water.
Experimentally, Bobby walked around the room with it. It creaked. He sat again and looked at it.
He had flasks. He didn't need another. Not one that took ten seconds to unscrew.
-
Option Four
Bobby stood before the hall mirror, leaning lightly on the latest cane. He shifted his weight to his game leg, reached across to twist the handle quickly and whisked out three feet of sharpened steel with a triumphant "HA!"
The sword's tip swung wide, catching the edge of a pile of 14th century leather-bound manuscripts, sending the stack toppling domino-like into the next stack. Books cascaded from the hall table with a sustained ovation of fluttering thuds.
Hopping on his good leg, Bobby tried to regain balance without further sword-related mayhem. He looked at his reflection.
"Face it, Singer. You're no Errol Flynn."
-
Option Five
Some joker decided it'd be funny.
The stupid thing was seven feet long. When he'd seen it on the porch (on a pile of grey cloth which turned out to be a long robe and a pointy hat) it had looked like polished birch. Up close it was hard plastic. A gnarl of molded root-like branches festooned the top, clutching a fake crystal. When Bobby pressed the recessed button on the shaft, the 'crystal' lit up and a tinny voice exclaimed, "You shall not pass!"
Some joker had decided it would be funny. Some joker was gonna get his ass kicked.
-
Option Six
The four-foot-long stick looked like a frozen spume of demon smoke, lacquered to a fine sheen. A wrist strap dangled as it leaned against Bobby's desk.
"It's a Shillelagh," Bobby answered. "Traditional Irish walking stick. Sort of. Made of oak."
"That's not a cane," said Sam, "it's a club."
"Yeah, so?"
Dean picked it up, eyebrows raising. "Heavy."
"The big end's hollowed out. Traditionally full of lead."
"And yours is full of...?"
"Not lead. But not oak either." Bobby's eyes twinkled. "No matter what gets hit with it, it's gonna sting."
"You're okay with this?" Dean handed the Shillelagh back.
Bobby contemplated the knobbly black stick. "Yeah. I'm okay."
- - -
(that's it. *bounces*)
Post A/N: References in case people need them (a little haphazard in nature, sorry); Option One, Option Two, Option Three, Option Four, Option Five, Option Six
NO SPOILERS IN COMMENTS PLEASE. (For the definition of spoiler as applied in this journal see the sidebar to your right. *gestures*)