It was a little more than slightly embarrassing, Mom seeing him like this. He knew enough to be able to read disappointment and worry on her face, and he couldn’t help the cringe as she reached out to brush something off his shoulder, embarrassment and guilt joining forces to make his stomach churn like the hangover he was fighting off wasn’t strong enough to do. Apologies caught in his throat, choked him silent and he stepped back to let her inside, eyes flicking back over his shoulder to the rest of the apartment because it was a disaster and he knew it (at some point yesterday he and Hermione had thought it was a brilliant idea to make more pies, but both as drunk as they were that hadn’t gone very well, and he had a feeling that when he finally inspected it closely it was going to be really bad) and he edged towards the living room instead, hoping to draw her away from the kitchen, where the worst of the disaster was.
>“Dean, how many nights this week have you been drunk enough to wake up like this?”
That was a question he didn’t want to answer, settling on the couch and cutting his eyes away from her. This wasn’t something he was used to or comfortable with. He’d been in trouble before, sure, but not with Mom - not since he was a kid, at least. With Dad, he’d learned to just be quiet and take the lecture or punishment that was doled out, quiet apologies and yes sir and laps or drills and the crushing weight of his father’s glare. And then he’d realized that taking orders and acting like a mindless soldier wasn’t what he should have been doing, and he’d started sniping back - he felt bad for it, guilty little spikes inside every time he opened his mouth and said something he knew would hurt to his father who was back from the dead but he didn’t know how to fall into line anymore, couldn’t be that good son anymore.
But this? This was completely different, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do, here. Part of him instinctively flared up with defensive statements and what does it matter, how is that any of your business? - but the bigger part would be shredded apart by hurting Mom, because she was Mom, and she was here and he couldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t even lie, could he? He was sure she’d know, if he did, sure she’d somehow be able to read him despite the fact that she hadn’t been there to learn how to do it.
“’Couple nights,” wasn’t a lie, but it was still a sloppy attempt at minimizing it, followed by a “Why?” that bordered on defensive, sharp and uncertain but without the venom it would have carried if it had been aimed at anyone else, anyone at all.