Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.
(.comfort)
You never thought you'd cradle the bottle so lovingly. You're swimming in stinging liquor, her name upon your tongue. But the name gets cast aside when your whiskey saturated voice grates across your palate. And your mouth, the one that shaped itself around Mary's cheek- neck- lips, rounds itself around unforgiving glass. Now you're drinking more than you should.
wWw
[Before Mary, before Nam, before John began to wonder why he wasn't good enough for his father to stick around, he was happy.
He supposes he's known happiness plenty of times and more still than others, but it's hard to hold onto that when his heart squeezes so comfortingly with the dulling of alcohol. Because it really is just a drink. A glass or a bottle, as long as he's built up a tolerance what does the count matter?
Childhood was a mother with love and sad eyes (and John's heard her cry for a man who's name John has never needed to know, though he does know; Henry). Then John was a soldier and stood tall through deployment and back again. Like a boomerang on fire and back home he held onto sanity, burning psyche cast aside.
But the hope to grow into more, surpass the expected and a mother's legacy, died with Mary. He can't see a family affected by happy normalcy any longer when he haunts them with his own sad eyes.
And he's got no one to whisper away the nightmares or handle the gun smoke in his soul. And there are no hands pulling him away from the front door on his worst nights. And he just wants to hold his wife more time, but not let go this time.
When it hurts so much, does John really have to pretend he's alright?
The bottle pours sweet nothings down his throat and at this point, he'll take what he can get.]