Three Decades of Heartache

Banner By: Eva
Title: Three Decades of Heartache
Rating: PG-13
Author: Sxymami0909
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings: John/Mary Bobby/Karen Ellen/Bill Dean/Jo
Word Count: 1,380
Prompt: Week #17 of Fandom_Friday’s “I was off to drink you away.”



Ellen watched John toss back another shot. His glazed eyes falling on the patrons of the bar, searching…waiting. Every year he rolled in around this time like clockwork. For the first three years she had served him his liquor and left him be.

On the fourth year though, she couldn’t tamper down the curiosity inside her anymore, so she’d asked him what brought him back every year. When he looked up, the breath had rushed out of her at the depth of anguish behind his brown eyes.

She didn’t know if it was the buzz from the alcohol or the fact that he’d been holding it in all those years, but in a matter of minutes John Winchester had been pouring his heart out to her. He told her about his ignorance, living a normal life, his wife’s death and his boys.

The tears had come fifteen minutes into the conversation and Ellen had done what she could to console him. It had been the night John became family to her and her husband Bill. A rowdy customer had her eyes momentarily shifting from the back booth to the center of the room.

When she glanced back at the corner another shot had been emptied and she sighed. One night a year he came here and drank himself into oblivion hoping to drink her away, praying that the face of Mary Winchester would stop haunting him even if it was only for a moment.

Wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness that he would eventually get from the bitter taste of the bottle he was drowning himself in. His eyes widened, mouth slightly agape as he followed something that only he could see.

Ellen swallowed hard, fear creeping through her praying she’d never have to know that kind of pain.


*****

Ellen watched Bobby throw back another shot. His glazed eyes roaming over the patrons of the bar, looking, studying, but never truly seeing them. Every year he rolled in around this time like clockwork. She’d known Robert Singer for close to five years now.

She didn’t need to ask why he came here, everyone knew the story about how he got into hunting. Ellen still remembered the first time he walked into her bar, eyes red-rimmed, at least a week’s worth a stubble on his face.

She’d served him his scotch and when he’d looked up to thank her, she’d almost stumbled back at the raw emotion in his blue eyes. She didn’t know if it was the buzz from the alcohol or the fact that he usually sat there silent as a stone, but in a matter of minutes Bobby Singer had been pouring his heart out to her.

He told her about his wife’s possession, how he hadn’t understood what was going on. How he stood, feet rooted to the wooden floor, shot gun in shaky hands, as he met eyes that he no longer knew and pulling the trigger and watching black smoke rise before his wife’s lifeless body hit the ground with a thud.

The tears had come fifteen minutes into the conversation and Ellen had done what she could to console him. It had been that night Bobby became family to her and her husband Bill.
She glanced back at Bobby two more empty shot glasses lined up on the table as a waitress moved through the throng of people toward him carrying three more and she sighed.

One night a year he came here and drank himself into oblivion hoping to drink her away, praying that the face of Karen Singer would stop haunting him even if it was only for a moment.

Wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness that he would eventually get from the bitter taste of the bottle he was drowning himself in. Ellen swallowed hard, fear creeping through her praying she’d never have to know that kind of pain.

*****

Jo watched her mother as she brought another glass up to her lips, head jerking back quickly. She sat in a booth with her Uncle Bobby. Her watery eyes looking at the bottle in front of her and nowhere else. Every year around this time like clockwork, her mother got in one of these moods.

For the first three years Jo hadn’t understood why, she hadn’t known what was making her mother so upset that she’d cry for hours on end, but she was older now, understood more. Her Daddy was dead and he wasn’t ever coming back.

When her mom finally looked away from the clear liquid and up at her, Jo wished she hadn’t. She swallowed hard at the depth of grief behind her mother’s brown eyes.

She wasn’t sure what to do to make that look leave her mother’s face, and Ellen must have known because after a minute she turned away from her daughter.

She ignored Bobby’s words as he tried to talk some sense into her. One night a year Ellen drank herself into oblivion hoping to drink him away, praying that the face of William Harvelle would stop haunting her even if it was only for a moment.

Wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness that she would eventually get from the bitter taste of the bottle she was drowning herself in. A part of her had always known this moment would come, she’d prayed it wouldn’t, but in the end it always does.

*****

Bobby watched Dean knock back another shot. His glazed eyes falling on the bookshelves in his living room, watching…waiting. It had been eight years since the Winchester boys stepped back into his life and every day that went by Dean had started to resemble John more and more.

Every year he rolled in around this time like clockwork. Bobby didn’t need to ask why he came here, he knew. It had been three years since Ellen and Jo sacrificed their lives so Sam and Dean could kill the devil.

Bobby still remembered the first time he showed up on his doorstep, eyes red-rimmed, clothes dirty and rugged, at least a week’s worth a stubble on his face, no Sam or Castiel to be found. He had looked like hell.

Bobby hadn’t questioned him, just poured a glass of whiskey and placed it in front of him. He remembered what it felt like to lose.

Dean’s eyes fell to the half-empty bottle in front of him as he brought the shot glass to his lips, savoring the burn of the alcohol in his throat. It warmed his body, filling the chill inside of him, the emptiness.

When Dean had finally looked away from the amber liquid and up at Bobby, his heart clenched. He swallowed hard at the depth of torture behind Dean’s green eyes. He didn’t know if it had been the buzz from the alcohol or the fact that he’d thought he’d understand, but in a matter of minutes Dean Winchester was pouring his heart out to him.

He told him about missed opportunities, second chances, and a love he hadn’t realized was there. How he hadn’t understood what she represented to him and how he’d never get a chance to see if he had been right.

The tears had come fifteen minutes into the conversation and Bobby had done what he could to console him. It had been that night that Bobby finally saw what Dean had always kept hidden from the world.

Bobby shook the painful memories from his head glancing back at the young man who was like a son to him. Two more empty shot glasses lined up on the table as he grabbed for the bottle bringing it to his waiting lips.

One night a year he came here and drank himself into oblivion hoping to drink her away, praying that the face of Jo Harvelle would stop haunting him even if it was only for a moment.

Wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness that he would eventually get from the bitter taste of the bottle he was drowning himself in. Dean had never wanted to fall in love, because he’d always known this moment would come.

Three decades of heartache, five lives lost, and only two left behind. He’d prayed it wouldn’t come to this, but in the end it always did.