Sorry Son, Love Daddy
The Reason
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Inspired by the Brian McFadden song, 'Sorry, Love Daddy". I do not own Supernatural or its characters in any way shape or form, I just like to play with them when I can.
Summary: John is sorry, and so he writes letters to his sons.
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He waited until they had fallen asleep to escape.
It was routine. Wake up, feed boys, dress them, and send them off to school. It was like being a marine again, but that was all he had. In the corps, nothing else mattered except the objective. Once he identified his objective he could make it though, because there wasn't another option. It was his very own personal war.
In Vietnam, he knew guys who had shot themselves in the foot to go home, and he would gladly shoot any appendage if it could mean he could stop fighting this war. But this was one he couldn't escape. Every single day was a brand new assault on his soul, but he couldn't let the boys see that. He'd sworn to her once, that if something, an unspeakable something ever happened...their children would be the first priority.
She made him swear that to him the night Dean was born. He still remembered it, he remembered her like it had just been yesterday. She was in the nursery with the tendrils of white blonde hair slipping over her eyes, and he just stood there and watcher her for a moment. Really watched her. She was so beautiful.
It was that night, as he took the baby from her arms, and set him into the bassinet, that she looked at him with that serious determined look in her eyes and told him to promise, that if anything ever happened to her, that he wouldn't...wouldn't what?
Take care of him, John.
Do exactly what it was he was doing now.
He pulled up his chair and looked at her picture. The only one left. When the house burned to the ground they lost everything. He lost the only thing that mattered in life...except for his boys. They were the only reason he had to live.
He had always thought they'd have forever, and he couldn't forgive himself for that.
The picture was of her and the boys, Sammy couldn't have been older than two months, and Dean was at least four and a half. She'd been reading to them, he didn't even remember the book, but that was insignificant. It was just one of those perfect moments. He thought it was just dumb luck when he had the picture developed, no one is lucky enough to score a picture of such perfection.
A true Kodak moment.
Since then, he'd decided, it had to be compensation
A sick joke on behalf of the universe. Some ten years of perfection and then when he buried his wife....the irony of it was when she died, there was nothing left to look at.
"Mary, I am so sorry." He whispered to the picture.
He pulled out the paper and pulled the pen out of his pocket, and for one night he pushed the whiskey and gin to the center of the table and he wrote.
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