Nineteen bottles of beer on the wall

Summary: John Winchester and alcohol, Part One. This one's warm and fuzzy and slightly hilarious: John's courtship of Mary Campbell. Teaser - Mary has a mean right hook.

Warnings: Very PG (or maybe PG-13 at the most). References a few episodes/quotes that I think might spoil some things in the story if I mention them here (or really, it's just more fun to try to figure out). PM me or review if you want to know the answer or if you just want to guess.

Punch-Drunk Love

John wasn't a hard drinker to begin with. The occasional beer by the lake with the rest of the kids from school, sure, but it wasn't all the time. It was just a little social drinking anyhow. No harm in it.

Then the war came, and things got rough. Liquor got real useful then. Shoot, John reckons he spent most of his down time buzzed up, at least. His tour finally ended, and he came back home. He kept drinking, worried his momma practically to death, but he needed the alcohol to numb his mind. The things he'd seen…

Mary changed things. They'd gone to school together, from the time they'd been tiny Mary Campbell fetching a stolen ball back from wee Johnny Winchester, and bringing him down to the ground with one well-placed kick to bring the toy thief to shame.

Well, they'd hated each other ever since, but somehow, in the sweltering jungles of 'Nam, he'd found himself wondering what ever became of her, if she'd married anyone, wishing he were back in Lawrence just so he could see her pretty smile in that angelic face framed by perfect golden waves. Then he'd wince and his hand would unconsciously go south to where she'd kneed him once as sophomores in high school over a comment that she deemed to be "overwhelmingly sexist."

That woman sure was something, he'll tell you that. Mean right hook, too.

Anyhow, he came home, a war-torn soldier older than his years warranted, and he forgot about the blonde angel who'd gotten him through so many agonizing nights. There were other women, easier women, who gave him what he needed without questioning him or frowning at the amount of whiskey he drank.

And then he saw her. Just walking down the street, head high in the air like she owned the town, and pretty blonde hair streaming behind her in the breeze. He fell, boy, did he fall. He got up from the bus bench he'd been sleeping off his daily hangover on and followed her in a daze. Three blocks from where he'd started, big bad war hero John friggin' Winchester got his ass handed to him by a hundred-pound woman in a lacy white sundress, wearing three-inch heels, no less.

"Mary, Mary, it's me," he shouted as best he could from where his face was mashed up against the alley wall.

The tight grip on the arm twisted up behind him eased, and John relaxed, only to find himself flipped over and pressed back against the wall. He gaped vapidly at the girl who'd been beating him up since grade school.

"John? John Winchester?" A wrinkle creased the flawless porcelain forehead. "What the hell are you doing, following me like that? You scared the crap out of me! I could've—" sputtered Mary angrily.

Oh, and she cussed too. Dirty. A slap to the face snapped John out of his dreamy musings.

"Winchester!" Mary all but shouted as she yanked on his shirt.

"H-have dinner with me?" he stammered out. Years later, John remembers thinking, Where on earth did that come from?

She recoiled, as expected. "What? Why would I want to have dinner with you?" She shoved him back against the wall and stepped away, a quizzical expression on her face. John thinks it should have been a clue as to who Mary Campbell actually was, when she spit "Christo" at him.

"My name's John, 'member?" he'd told her. Back then, he was a naïve idiot; no matter what he'd seen in Vietnam, boy, he hadn't seen nothin' yet.

Well, Mary, satisfied that he was one hundred percent John Winchester and not a demon, sighed, refused his offer, and dragged him to Jay's to get a cup of coffee to sober him up. Then she walked (more like frog marched) him home and dumped him on his momma's front porch with a stern, "Ask me again when you're sober. I don't feel right beating up on a drunk man. I like an even playing field."

Maybe he took that the wrong way, but he laid off of the alcohol, shaved his stubble and cut his hair, and got a steady job at his father's shop. Having done that, he put on a clean suit, bought a bouquet of roses with his first paycheck, and went the bakery where Mary worked.

The fresh scent of baked goods hit his nostrils as soon as he entered. Mm, pie. Then he noticed the girl holding the tray. Helloooo, Mary. She was just standing there, with that tray of fresh-baked goodness in her hands, and by god, he wanted to marry her then and there, she was that beautiful.

A pie to the face shook him out of his daydream, and he realized that he must have said that out loud because she was right in front of him now, the rest of the pies safe on the counter.

"I thought I told you to sober up before coming near me again," Mary was saying, hands on her slim hips.

"I am!" John cried, throwing his hands up. "If I'm drunk, I'm drunk on you!"

That stopped her cold. "What?"

"You do this thing to me, I dunno. It's just…You're it," he said quietly, not caring how lame it sounded. "You're the one."

"O-kay," she said, slowly, drawing out the vowels. A perfect eyebrow arched. Then her face changed, suddenly.

He didn't know what any of that meant. "Okay?"

"Okay." She tossed a dishtowel at him. "Wipe your face first. Wouldn't want to be seen with you in public looking like a horror movie reject."

He handed her the roses in return, blushing under the cherry pie filling. "Brought these for you."

Mary turned the same bright red John's face was as she stared at the bouquet. "Thank you," she said after a moment. "I like red roses."

And so she did. The first things she planted in the garden once they finally saved up enough to buy a proper house for their growing family were bushes of red roses. Mary loved those rosebushes, and John loved them because she did.

Now, it wasn't a fairy-tale marriage, the way John would like to think it was—it had its ups and downs, like any other relationship—but it wasn't as bad as some couples' he could name. Sure, it drove him right back to drink once or twice, but Mary always let him come home once he blew off some steam and knocked on the door with his tail between his legs, each time with a bouquet of red roses as a peace offering. It was the way things were between them…until that night.

That night, his world ended.