Since Jo's death, Cox's daily life had consisted of two things – drinking and making certain Jack stayed put in this mess. The former had involved steadily drinking his way through the bar's stock, sometimes alone and sometimes with the Winchesters' help. The latter meant there were periods of drunk that still allowed him to execute tasks such as going to the corner store for food. Sometimes meals happened because of Cox and sometimes Jack could be found wandering the building with a ketchup sandwich and a Twinkie in his hands after having helped himself.
Right now was a period of the former, Cox slumped at the bar with his unshaved face propped in his hand. He'd been about to pour the next drink when Jack dashed across the bar toward someone who had just entered.
"We're not open for business," he said, turning on the stool to eye the intruder and launch in to an, albeit drunken, rant. Instead, he paused, stared at the figure Jack was clinging to, and then looked skyward.
"I can't even drink to forget?" he demanded of the ceiling. "You son of a bitch."