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Fading Memories

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Summary: Memories of fire will remain scorched in three specific minds for all their lives even if they start to fade over time... 3 POVS with memories of the night of the fire.

Disclaimer: The usual... I don't own the characters or anything associated with the show...

Warnings: Season 4 spoilers and bad language

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POV2 : Johnny Boy

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He couldn't remember a time before Mary, but even worse than that – he couldn't imagine a life without her. Everywhere he looked, he could see her. The blond who turned away from him on the street, the scent of her perfume passing through the air, the sound of her laughter and her eyes… looking up at him, lost and confused, the eyes that she had passed down to their eldest.

Everything had fallen apart the night of the fire. Everything had just shattered… And each day, the only things keeping John moving, the only things keeping him breathing were his sons. Because each day, it just got harder and harder to even wake up on a morning. Anger mixed with grief, frustration mixed with hopelessness… a chaotic turbulence of emotions circling inside of him, causing his insides to squirm if he ever stopped to think about it too long. And that was why he had the whiskey… it numbed the pain, if only for a little while.

But every time the glass grew empty, the memories flooded back, bombarding him, tormenting him. He couldn't save her. Why couldn't he save her? If he'd just done things differently… Maybe it could have been him instead of her. It should have been him. She didn't deserve this, no, not Mary. She was the one with all the faith, the one with the angels. And where were they? Why didn't they save her? Why didn't they take him instead?

Clutching at his glass, John stared blankly into the amber liquid as it swirled from the movement, reflecting his reddened eyes and the tears that somehow slipped through unnoticed. This would be his last drink for the night. He needed to be at least halfway sober when he woke up tomorrow, needed a clear head for the journey that was ahead because come tomorrow morning, come the dawn, he was taking his sons and getting the hell out of Lawrence. He couldn't stay there anymore, not with the memories too fresh… not with the way everyone looked at him, pitying him, offering him their sympathies when they should have been angry – when they should have been telling him that he was right, that it should have been him and not Mary.

But that goddamn fire took Mary. It took her into its grasp and pinned her to that ceiling, lashing out when John had tried to claim her back. It was unnatural. It was crazy. And it only served to make John's chest ache even more to know that something had taken his Mary, stolen her and killed her… and that there hadn't been a damn thing he could so about it.

His hands left his glass, moving up to hold his head instead as his elbows rested at the edge of the table. He could feel the tears flowing freely even as he tried to force them back, taking in deep breaths in a vain attempt to stop himself from sobbing. And he just couldn't get a grip, couldn't control himself as the fury and the rage battled with the sorrow and misery that threatened to just consume him, each wanting his undivided attention. His chest hurt so badly, his body worn and exhausted from the crying and the trying… so tired of living. Tired of living without her.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat, still see the flames as they scorched their way across the ceiling… and she was always there, staring down at him… terror written in her eyes. "Oh God, Mary." He choked the words out, nearly losing them somewhere in his throat as another sob threatened to escape with them. Brushing his hands over his face and swiping angrily at the tears that clung to his skin, he let his fingers find his hair and stay there as he looked up at the ceiling, bitter venom coating his tongue as he asked why, why Mary and not him… why take her away from the family that needed her so much.

But the sound of an almost silent shuffle brought his gaze back down, his eyes instead landing on the four year old in the doorway… small hand clinging to the frame before resolution settled in those deep soulful eyes and his son moved forward. Tiny arms wrapped around John and tiny fingers stroked his arm and it was all John could do to hold himself together.

Silently, his son was consoling him and John fought back the tears as he buried his head into his eldest's shoulder… knowing deep down inside that it should have been the other way around, knowing that he was supposed to be the strong one… the one that was supposed to support his family and help them move on. But at that moment, he felt so damn useless… so damn miserable… And as his son whispered those small words, telling him that it was okay, that it would all be okay, he allowed himself to believe it if only for just that short while.

And he never once thought about just how much that fire would taint their lives… never once thought how much it would tear them apart. Because the truth was, it was easier not to think about it…

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Thank you for reading!