Robert "Bobby" Singer (junkyardgrouch) wrote in plentyofroom,
Robert "Bobby" Singer

Line 'em up.

Who: Bobby Singer (open)
Where: Hotel side lawn, well away from the building.
When: Early afternoon.
What: Target practice.

It had more or less sunk in, now, that he wasn't going to research his way out of this one. Dean, bless his whiskey soaked little black heart, had dutifully gone through the motions with Bobby until the older man had to admit defeat. He could tell that Dean already took all the same steps before him and damned if that didn't make him equal parts proud as if he was the boy's own daddy and mad as a hornet. He should still have something to teach the kid. What good were all the years and gray hairs, if not?

Up until now, he'd never believed that hunting was a young man's game. It took experience and seasoning before you earned your salt... so to speak. Most hunters didn't live long enough to call themselves old men. Even John Winchester had checked out right in his prime. Old hunters were few and, by God, they'd earned their scars and crotchety attitudes. Or, so he thought.

Now? Now, he wasn't so sure.

Still, whatever the situation, it never hurt to keep the skills honed. He could still recite six different exorcism rituals by memory. None of them in English. He could still draw a Devil's Trap faster than anyone he knew, except maybe Sam. He was still a better shot than anyone he'd known, except maybe John (and damned if Dean wasn't coming right up along behind his daddy's best record). None of that came easy. It all required practice, effort, and stubbornness. Since he seemed to have nothing but free time at the hotel, he figured he may as well put it to good use and get in some target practice.

That was why Bobby was out on the hotel lawn one bright, sunny afternoon. A low hedge had been pressed into service as the platform for which a handful of empty beer cans and bottles -- he and Dean were never in short supply of those -- had been set up in a more or less straight line. He stood a good 15 yards from the target line, his Beretta 9mm gripped easily in calloused hands. The brim of his trucker's cap was pulled down sufficiently to shade his eyes from the sun as he took aim and squeezed off each round one by one. Not one shot missed.

When he was done, he nodded to himself, set the safety on, and walked over to the hedge to set up another line. This time, he'd take them from further out.
Tags: *complete, character: bobby singer, character: malcolm reynolds, place: hotel grounds, post: open
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