Dean was at the door in clothes he’d obviously slept in, practically sweating alcohol, practically exuding it instead of carbon dioxide when he breathed. Mary didn’t bother to hide the furrow of a line between her eyes as she gave him a quick once-over and then reached out to brush something that looked like crumbs (pie crust?) off his shoulder.
She tried to keep the frown fixed on her face as Dean stumbled over an invitation to come inside but she couldn’t help softening a bit. Her son looked more tired than hung over despite the scent and the rumpled state of his clothing. His features didn’t so much form a frown as settle downwards, as if gravity had increased its hold in a tiny circumference around him. It was an expression she knew not just by sight but by feel, one that came after the mental equivalent of pacing a cage, peering between the bars for an escape, a solution, and meeting nothing but too-tight iron bars until you finally lay down and accepted the trap. Combined with her uncertainty over the situation (how can I ask him to accept what I wouldn’t? How can I tell him I failed him and then lecture him on how he chooses to clean up my mess?) it was enough that she needed to brace herself for a moment before she smiled slightly, clearly making an effort, and nodded. “Thanks,” she said, words brusque but no actual sharpness in her tone, as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Once inside she looked around the hopeless mess of a kitchen, the careless way evidence of several nights of drinking was strewn around the visible surfaces of the apartment, and the furrow was back before she could think about it. She’d bought a parenting book when she was pregnant, determined to learn, to prepare, and laughing to herself as she’d tackled What To Expect the way she’d tackled research for a hunt, careful notes and typed copy. There’d been a notebook of plans, a journal of thoughts and tactics that John had teased her endlessly for keeping only for her to chide ”When you walk outside and catch him smoking a joint you’ll be glad one of us prepared.” There’d been something in there about drinking, she was sure, but it was probably pitched at the parents of teenagers and, besides, the book had burned along with the notebooks, along with...well, everything.
While her mind wandered back and forth over the years her gaze came back to rest on Dean and she crossed her arms, tried her best to seem certain (mothers were always certain weren’t they? Her own had always seemed to be. Steady as a rock, regular as a metronome, cutting bananas for fruit salad with the same gestures she used to attack a demon.) but was sure she wasn’t quite succeeding, too much earnest, helpless worry creeping in around the edges. It was like she’d told Ruby, it was too hard to be severe with the boys when you never knew what would happen, if you’d go to meet your father one morning and find Azazel waiting.
“Dean,” she said softly, “how many nights this week have you been drunk enough to wake up like this?” No use in beating around the bush.