vanillafluffy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vanillafluffy) wrote2007-12-31 07:50 pm
vanillafluffy) wrote2007-12-31 07:50 pm
Entry tags:
SPN fic -- Fresh Produce - 1/1
Title: Fresh Produce
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: Inky/Ragnar (implied), Bobby
Rating/Work-safeness: PG for the birds and the bees
Approximate word count: 1200
Disclaimer: I own only the neurons and electrons I composed it with
Summary: Companion piece to It Happened One Night. Bobby wonders why things keep disappearing around his house. The latest thing is a bagful of green peppers.
Fresh Produce
Helping out your neighbors is how Bobby was raised. He knows Oren Meeker is on a fixed income, so he cuts him a break on parts for his ancient Rambler. And Oren, knowing he's on the receiving end of Bobby's good will, brings homegrown vegetables---surplus, he calls it---and presents it as a gift, because that's how he was raised. He sold off most of his farm when he retired a few years back, but still tills a few acres to keep his hand in, and it's always good stuff.
Yesterday, Oren's pride-offering was a half-dozen green peppers, a good-sized bag of them. Bobby's been thinking he'd fry one up with an onion and some tomato sauce and have it with rice and some of that leftover sausage---except he's looked everywhere and can't seem to find the danged things. He know he brought the sack into the kitchen after Oren left. Remembers putting it on the kitchen table when the phone rang...
He thought they were on the table, but they're not. He's checked the bins where he keeps vegetables, the refrigerator, the cabinets...maybe he absent-mindedly took the bag with him into the study, because the caller had been a hunter with a question about sidhe and he'd had to look up the answer. Nope, not there.
This is ridiculous. He returns to the kitchen, pushes his cap back and scratches his head. Looks into the trash bin, crazy as that seems, because maybe he was having a senior moment...and there, wedged into the corner between the garbage pail and the fridge is the crumpled brown paper sack. Empty.
Automatically, he checks the salt line at the back door---it's fine---and he wonders what has a taste for peppers that could've gotten into his kitchen. It's not the first thing that's gone missing lately, now that he thinks about it. His dress belt with the brass buckle, his John Deere cap, shirts he was sure he'd baled into the laundry ---stuff that's too big for a garden variety packrat to thieve, and there aren't any raccoons out this way.
Inky paws at the back door, and he lets her in. Her prior owner had persuaded Bobby to adopt the Newfoundland when he'd moved to Florida. For the most part she's been no trouble, aside from eating rolls of toilet paper if she gets into the bathroom. She's a so-so watchdog, but good company. When a vicious tornado had swept through a couple months ago, she'd been caught outside, and Bobby had been sure she was a goner. He was trying to think of how to break the news to his ex-neighbor, when she'd emerged unscathed in the company of Dean Winchester's hellhound.
Things have finally gotten back to normal---the insurance paid up for the damages, he has windows again instead of plywood and he's putting together a new collection of tools, since his shop was torn apart and scattered around for several miles. Of course, that was too good to last. Now he has something sneaking around and---
As he watches, Inky sniffs the bag and tugs it out of his hand. She settles down under the table and eats it all as he stares at her. When she's done, she burps, rests her muzzle on her paws and goes to sleep.
"Okay, I'm that much closer to having seen it all," Bobby mutters as he looks at the slumbering Newf. He heads outside to do some further investigation. Sure enough, he locates evidence in the form of turds with an unusually high fiber content and scraps of leather. The buckle is probably out in the yard somewhere. One cluster is speckled with pepper seeds...bet that burned her butt. But as long as he doesn't leave her in the house unsupervised...
"Stop that!" he bellows when he reenters the kitchen to find her in the alcove with the washing machine, snacking on a used dishtowel. She dashes out the door, tattered towel flapping from her jaws, and Bobby shakes his head. On the bright side, at least he doesn't have to contend with any spooky goings-on.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that evening, with the June sky a colorful backdrop, Inky begins whining and howling, and Bobby wonders if she's being attacked by coyotes as he races out of the house. He grabs the shotgun from the rack by the back door, and heads toward the sound of yelping.
She's out by the new shed, laying across a couple of old bench seats, surrounded by the rest of his missing shirts, writhing in pain. Something's got her, Bobby thinks, and hopes he'll be up to the doctoring of it, whatever it is.
Then he gets a little closer, sees what's happening, and he knows exactly what got ahold of her. "It's okay, big girl," he says, kneeling down beside her and running a hand along the thick black fur on her shoulder as the first puppy emerges. "You're doing fine."
The bitch calms down with Bobby present, and she produces two more puppies as twilight fades to true dark.
Ain't that a kick in the head? he thinks as he goes after the laundry basket to tote the little bastards into the house. Leave it to him to have a bitch that gets herself knocked up by a hellhound. It explains the peppers, though. Pregnant ladies are known for having odd cravings.
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"Oren? Bobby Singer. How's she running with that new fuel pump? You don't say...well, good. Glad to hear it. You wouldn't happen to have any more of those peppers, would you? Oh, say a bushel, if you can spare 'em? I don't know, what's the going rate on bell peppers these days? Yeah, they're damn good, even my dog likes 'em. Uh-huh, that big black dog Ed Peters used to have before he took off for Florida. I know, I know, me too, but his sister lives down there, and she was having some problems, so...I can come by and pick them up, any time. Fresh picked? I really appreciate that, Oren. Great, be there in a little while."
He hangs up the phone. "Now, can you manage to stay out of trouble for a half-hour?" he says to Inky, who knows she's in disgrace after knocking his percolater off the counter to consume both the coffee and the coffee grounds. He's moved the washer out to the back porch, and boarded over the bottom two feet of the opening. It's low enough for the bitch to get in and out, but high enough to keep the day-old puppies in. With the kitchen door latched, there's not much she can get into, he hopes as he departs to his neighbor's for more fresh produce.
The End
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The idea of Bobby coping with Ragnar/Newfies was too freaking cute. The green pepper story is actually true, but the dog in question was a standard poodle who wasn't pregnant, just omnivorous.
***
Comments are shiny!
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: Inky/Ragnar (implied), Bobby
Rating/Work-safeness: PG for the birds and the bees
Approximate word count: 1200
Disclaimer: I own only the neurons and electrons I composed it with
Summary: Companion piece to It Happened One Night. Bobby wonders why things keep disappearing around his house. The latest thing is a bagful of green peppers.
Helping out your neighbors is how Bobby was raised. He knows Oren Meeker is on a fixed income, so he cuts him a break on parts for his ancient Rambler. And Oren, knowing he's on the receiving end of Bobby's good will, brings homegrown vegetables---surplus, he calls it---and presents it as a gift, because that's how he was raised. He sold off most of his farm when he retired a few years back, but still tills a few acres to keep his hand in, and it's always good stuff.
Yesterday, Oren's pride-offering was a half-dozen green peppers, a good-sized bag of them. Bobby's been thinking he'd fry one up with an onion and some tomato sauce and have it with rice and some of that leftover sausage---except he's looked everywhere and can't seem to find the danged things. He know he brought the sack into the kitchen after Oren left. Remembers putting it on the kitchen table when the phone rang...
He thought they were on the table, but they're not. He's checked the bins where he keeps vegetables, the refrigerator, the cabinets...maybe he absent-mindedly took the bag with him into the study, because the caller had been a hunter with a question about sidhe and he'd had to look up the answer. Nope, not there.
This is ridiculous. He returns to the kitchen, pushes his cap back and scratches his head. Looks into the trash bin, crazy as that seems, because maybe he was having a senior moment...and there, wedged into the corner between the garbage pail and the fridge is the crumpled brown paper sack. Empty.
Automatically, he checks the salt line at the back door---it's fine---and he wonders what has a taste for peppers that could've gotten into his kitchen. It's not the first thing that's gone missing lately, now that he thinks about it. His dress belt with the brass buckle, his John Deere cap, shirts he was sure he'd baled into the laundry ---stuff that's too big for a garden variety packrat to thieve, and there aren't any raccoons out this way.
Inky paws at the back door, and he lets her in. Her prior owner had persuaded Bobby to adopt the Newfoundland when he'd moved to Florida. For the most part she's been no trouble, aside from eating rolls of toilet paper if she gets into the bathroom. She's a so-so watchdog, but good company. When a vicious tornado had swept through a couple months ago, she'd been caught outside, and Bobby had been sure she was a goner. He was trying to think of how to break the news to his ex-neighbor, when she'd emerged unscathed in the company of Dean Winchester's hellhound.
Things have finally gotten back to normal---the insurance paid up for the damages, he has windows again instead of plywood and he's putting together a new collection of tools, since his shop was torn apart and scattered around for several miles. Of course, that was too good to last. Now he has something sneaking around and---
As he watches, Inky sniffs the bag and tugs it out of his hand. She settles down under the table and eats it all as he stares at her. When she's done, she burps, rests her muzzle on her paws and goes to sleep.
"Okay, I'm that much closer to having seen it all," Bobby mutters as he looks at the slumbering Newf. He heads outside to do some further investigation. Sure enough, he locates evidence in the form of turds with an unusually high fiber content and scraps of leather. The buckle is probably out in the yard somewhere. One cluster is speckled with pepper seeds...bet that burned her butt. But as long as he doesn't leave her in the house unsupervised...
"Stop that!" he bellows when he reenters the kitchen to find her in the alcove with the washing machine, snacking on a used dishtowel. She dashes out the door, tattered towel flapping from her jaws, and Bobby shakes his head. On the bright side, at least he doesn't have to contend with any spooky goings-on.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that evening, with the June sky a colorful backdrop, Inky begins whining and howling, and Bobby wonders if she's being attacked by coyotes as he races out of the house. He grabs the shotgun from the rack by the back door, and heads toward the sound of yelping.
She's out by the new shed, laying across a couple of old bench seats, surrounded by the rest of his missing shirts, writhing in pain. Something's got her, Bobby thinks, and hopes he'll be up to the doctoring of it, whatever it is.
Then he gets a little closer, sees what's happening, and he knows exactly what got ahold of her. "It's okay, big girl," he says, kneeling down beside her and running a hand along the thick black fur on her shoulder as the first puppy emerges. "You're doing fine."
The bitch calms down with Bobby present, and she produces two more puppies as twilight fades to true dark.
Ain't that a kick in the head? he thinks as he goes after the laundry basket to tote the little bastards into the house. Leave it to him to have a bitch that gets herself knocked up by a hellhound. It explains the peppers, though. Pregnant ladies are known for having odd cravings.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Oren? Bobby Singer. How's she running with that new fuel pump? You don't say...well, good. Glad to hear it. You wouldn't happen to have any more of those peppers, would you? Oh, say a bushel, if you can spare 'em? I don't know, what's the going rate on bell peppers these days? Yeah, they're damn good, even my dog likes 'em. Uh-huh, that big black dog Ed Peters used to have before he took off for Florida. I know, I know, me too, but his sister lives down there, and she was having some problems, so...I can come by and pick them up, any time. Fresh picked? I really appreciate that, Oren. Great, be there in a little while."
He hangs up the phone. "Now, can you manage to stay out of trouble for a half-hour?" he says to Inky, who knows she's in disgrace after knocking his percolater off the counter to consume both the coffee and the coffee grounds. He's moved the washer out to the back porch, and boarded over the bottom two feet of the opening. It's low enough for the bitch to get in and out, but high enough to keep the day-old puppies in. With the kitchen door latched, there's not much she can get into, he hopes as he departs to his neighbor's for more fresh produce.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The idea of Bobby coping with Ragnar/Newfies was too freaking cute. The green pepper story is actually true, but the dog in question was a standard poodle who wasn't pregnant, just omnivorous.
Comments are shiny!