(MANIA – obsessive love; experience great emotional highs and lows; very possessive and often jealous lovers)
Mary had been everything. After her death, John had gone to pieces. He could feel the missing spaces where those pieces used to have been. He could feel them every time he looked at his sons. In a way he blamed them for her death, even though he knew in his heart that it was irrational to do so. If he had not been worried about them, if he had not been compelled to save Sam and Dean first, he could have gotten Mary off that ceiling. He should never have left the nursery, he should have stayed and gotten her down first thing. It should have been the first thing he had done.
But regrets wouldn't help him now. Nothing would help him now, except finding her killer, finding whatever son of a bitch had pinned her up there and set her on fire. It was all he could think about, all he could dream about. After every nightmare he would open his eyes to find her gaunt, pleading face staring at him from above the motel bed, and each morning it was what he would promise his beleaguered reflection in the bathroom mirror. He would find the demon.
Until then, he could do his best to appease her memory. By taking care of her children. By making sure they were safe. By proving to her that he had no regard for his own life by plunging blindly after anything with teeth and claws. By killing as many evil sons of bitches as he could possibly find. Anything to fill the hole. Anything to put Mary to rest.