Supernatural One-Shots (Actors and Characters)

I'm Here Now ~ Bobby Singer

     "Hey look. The crown prince decided to drop by for a late bite," said a man, sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper in his hands. He was referring to the young boy that had just joined him.
     "Oh, he – he was just washing up. So, who would like to say grace?" a woman defended nervously, dishing food onto each of their plates. They were a family, I suppose you could say. They were the Singer family.
     Mr. Singer just continued reading the paper, "To hell with grace. Pass me the biscuits."
     As the young boy, his son Bobby, reached for the biscuits so he could hand them to his father, his arm hit his glass of milk, knocking it over. The glass fell to the floor and broke in what seemed to be slow motion. Mrs. Singer gasped and they all watched it, unable to stop it.
     Mr. Singer closed his paper, glaring at his son as his wife went to clean it up. Bobby looked panicked, "I'm sorry," he stuttered out.
     "What is the matter with you?" his father asked, getting a mumble in response.
     "I don't know. I'm sorry," Bobby was terrified, anyone could see that.
     "You break everything you touch!" Mr. Singer roared.
     Mrs. Singer was still on her knees, cleaning up the glass. "Let's just have a nice supper," she tried to say, but she was interrupted.
     "A nice supper?" questioned her husband, to which she replied with a quiet "Mm-hmm." He swept his plate onto the floor, staring at her. "There's your nice supper," he told her. She closed her eyes, scared. Mr. Singer just picked up his glass of whiskey and took a sip, "I get no respect in this house." He turned and looked straight at Bobby.

     I stood just outside the doorway that lead to the kitchen. Bobby's back was towards me. Beside me was a man who I had known for a very long time. Since before this little scene in front us had happened.
     He stood, staring at the man who had hurt him so much. The hatred in his eyes were like flames. Flames that could not be extinguished. The man was Bobby Singer.
     The two of us were watching the memory unfold. We both knew what happened. The day after it took place, I had comforted Bobby to the best of my abilities. We were friends at school even though he was a year older than I was.
     He had changed a lot from when he was young. He was no longer the scrawny little shy boy. He was a strong, brave man. He had his baseball cap on as he usually did. His beard covered his chin and run up the side of his face to meet his hairline just above his ears. His mustache covered his top lip and connected with his beard.
     He glanced back at me. He was at least a foot ahead of me. I nodded at him, silently reassuring him that I was still here.
     "It's fine. It'll just take a second," Mrs. Singer tried to tell him. Her husband just downed his whiskey, pouring himself another glass.
     He looked at his son, who was still seated, frozen with fear. "You just gonna sit there? Get a broom or something!" Bobby quickly got up and left the room. His father stood and approached Mrs. Singer. "You know why he's like that?" when she didn't respond, he continued, "because you let him do whatever he wants."
     "It's okay. See? I'm almost done," she reassured him, smiling, then added nervously, "You just relax a-and have another drink."
     "Don't tell me what to do," Mr. Singer's voice was dangerously calm. Their son was watching them from the doorway on the other side of the kitchen.
     "No. Wait. Wait," Mrs. Singer pleaded, knowing what would happen next. Her husband slapped her across the face, knocking her down. When she raised her head, there was blood at the corner of her mouth. "Why do you always provoke him?" Young Bobby had fled from the kitchen. She was looking in our direction. She was speaking to her grown son.
     Bobby's father also looked at the grown man beside me, "Because he's a bad kid. That's why."
     Bobby looked taken back. "Well, that's a load of crap. Who the hell were you to say?" His father was surprised and somewhat angered by his son's tone.
     "I'm your father. And you show your father respect," he demanded.
     "The day he deserves it," Bobby nearly shouted, "you drunken bully. Punching women and kids. Is that what they call fatherhood in your day?"
     "Oh, you deserved it. Believe me. You were nothing but ungrateful," his father told him, shaking his head.
     "I was a kid! Kids ain't supposed to be grateful! They're supposed to eat your food and break your heart, you selfish dick!" Bobby yelled furiously, "you died, and I was still so afraid I'd turn into you I never even had kids of my own." The last thing he said made me look down.
     You see, I was Bobby's wife for many years. I knew that he had never wanted children. Sure, I did, but I wasn't about to leave the man I love because of that. Besides, I had helped him with Sam and Dean. I died nearly ten years ago and I was here to help Bobby. He didn't have much time left on earth. 
     I heard Bobby's father speak again, "Good. You break everything you touch." Mrs. Singer began to cry.
     "Uh-huh. Well, as fate would have it, my wife and I adopted two boys," Bobby put his arm around me, "and they grew up great. They grew up heroes. So you can go to hell!" he yelled the last word.
     His father swung around and hit his mother again. She had blood trickling out of her mouth and nose.
     "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeated.
     "Yeah, yeah, you say that every time," Mr. Singer mumbled.
     "Please just stop," his wife whispered.
     "No! This time, you listen!" he shouted.
     "Stop it," came a voice from the doorway. There stood young Bobby with a rifle in his hands. His parents watch as he cocks it. His father laughed.
     "You're kidding, right? You're not half enough man to use that thing. You leave the adults to sort this out... and I will deal with you later," he finished, pointing at his son, ignoring us again. He grabbed his wife by her hair and dragged her partway to her feet.
     "Ahh! Bobby, just go. Do what he says. Just go," she pleaded.
     "No. Leave her alone," Bobby said, pointing the rifle at his father. Without another thought, he shot his father in the head. His mother shrieked as Mr. Singer fell to the floor, dead.
     His mother looks at him, shocked and scared, "Bobby, what did you do? God is gonna punish you."
     "Hey," Bobby said, letting me go to walk over to the younger version of himself, "you did what you had to do. This is where you learn that... they pretty much never say thanks when you save them. Now go get a shovel. Bury the old man out behind the woodshed." Young Bobby quickly follows his orders.
     Mrs. Singer and her husband's dead body disappeared into thin air as the memory was over. It was only Bobby and I in the kitchen.
     "You never told me that you killed your father," I said to him, "you told me that he took off with another woman." Bobby's back was towards me.
     "I figured you'd be scared of me and leave," he confessed, looking down. I moved to stand in front of him. Placing my hand on one of his cheeks, I lifted his head up so he could look at me. He lay a hand on top of mine and gripped my other hand with his.
     "I loved you then and I love you now," I whispered, only a few inches away from him. "I would never leave you." I could see the pain in his eyes.
     "But you did. You died," his words made my eyes water.
     "Well I'm here now."