John knew the concern, justifiably, would be very centered on Claire because she had been the one to suffer under that sadistic bastards tools, and John was concerned for her a hell of a lot, but Mary was his focus. She had suffered something that most wouldn't ever be able to understand, not watching people die in a war, or watching family members be injured in fights, but watching someone she cared about systematically ripped apart over and over.
Even John couldn't really understand that because he'd never watched it. His nightmares had Dean in them a lot of the time, being torn apart, but John had never witnessed that in the flesh. Mary had witnessed something like that.
He didn't know how to make it better for her.
The pattern of her touches puzzled him a moment, but then sharp and sickening realization set in, followed by her grabbing into him tightly. Abandoning the idea of finding pants for bed for himself, he just steered her toward the bed and then shucked off his jeans before getting them both into bed, the covers tucked around her with short, efficient motions. Even now, he let her set the position for contact, if she wanted to lay close, side by side, stretched across him or, the one he braced himself for, far apart from him.
"Do you want to talk?" he asked, the question a quiet rumble in his chest. God knew he hadn't wanted to talk for a long time about Hell, but that had been because he'd been guilty, not an innocent.