Title: It's Tough, Being a Librarian.
Rating: G
Characters: Bobby, Dean, Sam, OMCs, OFC
Notes: For the prompt- 'A secret order of librarians plot revenge on Bobby for numerous crimes against libraries. Their attempts on his life go wrong, very wrong. (Does he even notice the attacks?)' I've only filled a prompt once before, so I hope I did well.
Disclaimer: Not mine, except for those pesky OCs.
Summary: Sometimes, even the most elaborate and best-laid plans can go wrong. And then there are plans like this.


The room was almost completely dark, save for the ring of candles that cast soft, flickering light on the few things within their reach. An old, wooden table here, a chair off in the far right corner, a few scattered books on the edge of another table. There was even a floor lamp, with a green-blue lampshade draped over a brass stand. Why it wasn't lit was anyone's guess, but the candles in their red glass holders seemed to give the place more ambiance.

The twenty or so people in the room wore cloaks of shimmering emerald, the hood drawn over their faces and leaving them in shadows. A golden crest was stitched carefully over their hearts. A dragon, wings folded close to one another, gripping a feather quill in its mouth and a large book in one of its clawed feet.

They were murmuring quietly among one another, lending a sense of reverence to the whole thing until one of the figures broke away and vanished to into the darkness.

A loud screech startled them into silence, and they swivelled as one group to face the noise. The figure that had vanished appeared in the circle of light, dragging a podium behind them and cursing quietly. Another screech made a few cloaked figured visibly flinch as the wooden podium scraped along the floor.

Finally the figure got the stand into place and stood behind it. He threw his hood back to revel a young, speckled face. He had searching blue eyes hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses, and sandy blonde hair.

"Hear me, friends." He said, and his voice was even now hushed. A few of the group began to mutter again, until one of them, a man with a British accent and a stooped posture, spoke up.

"Sorry, Reginald, could you speak up? Us chaps in the back can't hear a bloody thing you're saying."

Reginald, who really preferred Reggie but didn't mention that, bristled. "Of course, Rupert." He coughed, and when he spoke there was no audible change in the volume of his voice. "Hear me, friends. Better, Rupert?"

"Much, thank you."

"Good. Now, we, the council of the page, must discuss our next step." He crossed his arms, careful to keep the sleeves of his robe from catching fire on the candles. "Robert Singer is much more adroit at avoiding our attempts on his existence then we thought he would be."

"He does have a knack for escaping us." A woman spoke up, her hood bobbing emphatically. "He even managed to avoid getting a paper cut on the tome we coated with arsenic!"

"And the volume we sprinkled with microscopic glass shards we hoped he would absorb through his skin, cutting him to ribbons from the inside? He never even touched it." Another man said. "So unfortunate that Regina went through all the trouble."

"It was an honour to be a part of that plot, no matter its effectiveness!" A woman piped up, and scratched at her head with one heavily bandaged hand "I will recover. Eventually."

"This…Robert. His crimes are too many to properly document. And we have tried." Reggie rubbed his temples softly with his thumb and forefinger. "He copies priceless works with a photocopier, leaves books we would happily maim to protect scattered all over his house… His humid house."

"He does not share."

"That too." Reggie shook his head slowly, eyes lined with worry beyond his years. "We, the council, have been tasked with watching over books and saving them from those who would mistreat them. We saved works from Hitler's book burnings. But we cannot rescue them from this one old, inebriated fool?"

"Alcoholic." Piped up a woman in the corner.

"Drunk." Said someone who could have been Rupert.

"Yes, yes, that too." Reggie waved his hand. He hated having these meetings with the older members; too often they would shout out synonyms, like a polite form of Tourette's. "The point is I believe it's time for us to take a more direct approach."

"What did you have in mind, dear boy?" Rupert again. This time he shot the old Brit a scowl.

"I believe… We should stab Robert Singer."

The room broke into quiet murmurs, which was basically uproar for a bunch of librarians. Reggie watched the chaos with a sense of smug satisfaction. Finally, the group calmed enough for Reggie to speak.

"Our usual methods are ineffective against this madman. We must use more undeviating advancements. We cannot poison pages forever."

The young man who next pushed his hood back was one of the newest members, a genius from Atlanta whose father had been an essential member, but who had yet to show the same kind of dedication to the order. He had dark brown hair, almost black, and hungry brown eyes. His jaw was clenched firmly.

"Yes George, what is it?" What kind f person named their kid George in this day and age? Reginald had to hold back a laugh at the thought.

"I'll do it. I will stab Robert Singer."

More murmurs of shock. Reggie considered this carefully. He had planned to do it himself, but was he slightly afraid of Singer, and didn't want to get his robes all bloody.

Decision made, he nodded at George. "As you wish. I will give you the honour of destroying the abuser of our birthright." He smiled down at the new member, looking kind and wise in his head but smug and conceited to everyone else.

Suddenly, lights flared into existence from all corners of the room, the fluorescents above flickering to life with a low buzz. The room was suddenly exposed as a library with long, low seats and a row of computers with an 'Out of order' sign stuck on the front of each one. The members all turned towards the back of the room, where Regina stood with one of her heavily bandaged hands on the light switch.

"Sorry, I dropped my glasses."

Reggie sighed as the collected members stooped to help find the fallen spectacles.


George was terribly, unbearably nervous as he stood behind the corner of a tiny grocery store, watching Robert Singer and two young men walk down the street with paper bags of food in their arms. He was beginning to sweat under the heavy fabric of his robe, but put that down to his anxiety.

He'd been watching Robert Singer and his sons for the past three days, following them as discreetly as he could, and now was the time to act. It was early morning, so he could just stab the old man and run before giants managed to figure out what was going on. He could do this.

You so can't do this.

He growled a little in his throat and pulled out the knife Reginald had given him to use, which he suspected was an elaborate letter opener but had decided not to ask. Reginald didn't like him, and to prove his worth he would use whatever blade he was given. The blade itself was about the length of his hand, the guard curved downwards and nestled against his fingers. It was simple steel, with no real decorations or embellishments. The grip was cool against his damp fingers.

Robert was close now. George took a deep breath as the older man barked something at the two boys, who shared a small smile and then headed towards a shiny black car. Robert was still headed in his direction. He gathered his wits. In his mind, he would swoop forwards and stab the old man in the stomach, then swoop away while the two boys ran over.

What actually happened was he stumbled and fell flat on his face, knife still concealed by his robes, when he managed to step on his own hemline and topple over his feet. He blinked when he realized there was a sharp pain in his right side.

"You alright, son?" Robert Singer set his grocery bag on the sidewalk beside him and crouched next to him, sounding concerned. George was still trying to get over the fact that he had stabbed himself.

"I-I-...Uh…I…" He stammered over his words as a strong hand wrapped around his cloak-covered bicep and hauled him to his feet. He immediately covered over where the bloodstain was going to be with the other hand. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you!" He squeaked and tried his best to slowly walk away, avoiding people on the street with careful steps. He needed to find a hospital.

Bobby watched as the weird kid in the cloak ran off, picking up his groceries with a frown.

"Hey Bobby, who was that?" Sam called from the car. Dean revved the engine impatiently.

"Yeah yeah, hold onto your skirt, ya ijdit." Bobby stuck the bag in the trunk and closed it with a bang, then slid into the backseat. "Dunno who it was. Some weird kid trying to make a fashion statement, I figure." He shrugged. "Did I tell you? That hunter I sold the book about angels to bit the dust. Damn fool went and got himself poisoned."

"You don't say." Dean put the car into gear and nosed out of the parking space, frowning a little. "Any idea who poisoned him?"

"He wasn't exactly a loveable bunny, now was he?" Bobby rolled his eyes. "Probably one of the hunters he pissed off by trying to kill them."


Reggie sighed and stared at George, who was lying in the hospital bed and glaring at him.

"I quit! I never even wanted to be a librarian; I wanted to be a lounge singer! You know who never gets stabbed? Lounge singers!"

"George, please." He really was causing a scene. Reggie adjusted his robe primly. He knew it made him better looking because the nurses were all staring at him, unabashedly admiring how regal he looked. Regal Reggie (Who was almost certain those two words were similar for a reason, and vowed to look into it again later) was almost embarrassed about George's behaviour.

"No!" George looked like he was about to hyperventilate.

Reginald wondered if it was too late to recruit Regina into stabbing Robert Singer.