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Dean knows he’s screwed when he sees the kitchen light on. As much as he wants to turn and run- maybe climb in through his bedroom window, maybe spend the night at a friend’s house- his father’s presence just behind him, silent and unhappy, makes it clear that bolting isn’t an option.
Neither of them speak as Dad opens the door, letting Dean inside before giving him a pointed look. Dean withers under it and looks down towards his feet, wondering how much time he’ll be able to waste taking his shoes off as slowly as possible.
“Your mother wants to speak with you.”
It isn’t a suggestion, so Dean gives a tiny nod and just kicks his shoes off, only pausing a brief moment to line them up neatly by the door. No reason to make his parents angrier with him than they already are. Dad leads him to the kitchen, but stops at the archway, leaving Dean on his own to shuffle towards the kitchen table. Mom’s standing by the counter, arms crossed over her chest, looking tired and upset, and Dean feels a twinge of guilt in his chest. He slowly sinks into one of the dining chairs, eyes fixed on the table now since he can’t bring himself to look anywhere else.
Mom’s voice breaks the silence, short and simple. “I can handle this, John. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
A short moment and some quiet footsteps later, and it’s the two of them alone in the kitchen. Dean wonders if she’s letting the silence stretch on intentionally, letting him sit in his own discomfort and unease until he cracks. He’s not sure exactly how much time passes, but it all starts getting to him and he swallows thickly before speaking. “Hi, Mom.”
She doesn’t waste any time after that. “You’re late.”
“Not that late.” He doesn’t need to look at the clock to know it’s a lie; his curfew has been ten o’clock since he turned sixteen, and it’s half-past eleven now.
Mom is as unimpressed with that as he’d expected her to be. “Fifteen minutes is late, Dean. An hour and a half isn’t late. You didn’t even call.”
“I meant to.” Another lie. He’d lost track of time, and that’s probably the worst part about this. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to forget about everything else that he hadn’t thought to look at his watch. He shifts uneasily in his chair. “I just… forgot.”
Mom sighs, and she sounds exhausted. “Sammy wanted you to tuck him in. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I had to tell him that you weren’t home yet. He wanted me to call the police, Dean.”
Dean shrinks a little bit. God, she knows how to hit him where it hurts. “I… I can go see him now,” he whispers. “I can say goodnight.”
“He’s already asleep, and I don’t need you waking him up on top of everything.”
He makes a mental note to apologize to his little brother. To try to make up for this, if he makes it out in one piece. “M’sorry.”
“Where were you?”
It occurs to Dean that Dad hasn’t told her yet, and that it’s now up to him to share. That just makes his cheeks burn with shame, though, because- because he never thought he’d have to tell his mom. He’d planned to be back before anybody noticed he was gone, but that all went to shit. “A… a bar.”
A long few seconds of silence have Dean taking a cautious glance upwards, only to quickly turn his eyes down again when he sees the disappointment and hurt on his mom’s face. “Dean, you’re not old enough to go to a bar.”
Because his mouth works faster than his brain does, Dean speaks without thinking. “Nobody there cared.”
It earns him a snort. “Right, I can imagine.” A short pause, and then she continues, more serious now. “Were you drinking?”
Finally, he can answer truthfully. “No.”
She seems to assess that answer for a moment before accepting it. “Good. Then why were you at a bar?”
It’s a stupid reason. It’s such a God-awful reason that Dean almost wishes he had been drinking, just so his mom would have something else to focus on. All he can think about now are delicate fingers curling around his arms, fake nails pressing sharp into his skin, high, raspy laughter. Feels like his embarrassment and anxiety are working together to choke him, and- are his hands shaking?
“A friend invited me.”
It’s a half-truth and it tastes bitter on his tongue. Charlotte was an acquaintance, at best, and the only thing he really knew about her was that she knew his baseball schedule by heart and attended more practices than half the team.
And- well, and that she’s probably twice his age.
“A friend.” Mom sounds skeptical, and then she’s coming closer, and Dean tries so hard to stop trembling, but then she’s right next to his chair and her fingertips brush his shoulder, making him flinch hard. “Dean, look at me. Please.”
He tries. He tries his damnedest to look up, but everything is too much right now and it feels like something is constricting around his lungs, making it hard to think and harder to breathe and he shouldn’t have gone out tonight, he should’ve stayed home and done something to make his mom happy instead of being an idiot and-
“Dean.” Her voice is softer now, and when she touches him this time, gently cupping his cheek, he doesn’t flinch. Closes his eyes and presses into it, letting it ground him. “Baby, what happened?”
Dean shakes his head minutely, and he tries to take a deep breath. Shudders through the exhale. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, because he doesn’t think he can tell her the whole truth while everything is so raw. When he still feels dirty and can taste second-hand cigarettes on his tongue. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
Mom sighs, and her fingers slide through Dean’s hair before she speaks again. “Let’s get you to bed, okay? It’s late, and we can talk in the morning.”
She guides him to his feet, and from there, leads him upstairs and all the way to his bedroom. Dean feels like a little kid as she produces some pyjamas for him and sits him down on the edge of his bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before slowly pulling away. “Get comfy and try to get some sleep, sweetheart.” She pauses for a short moment before breathing out slowly. “I’m glad you’re safe. I love you.”
She’s out the door and closing it behind her before Dean gets to respond, and his eyes are burning like he’s about to cry. He stares at the space she’d occupied a moment ago and tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Whispers so she doesn’t hear him, even if she’s lingering in the hall.
“Love you, too, Mom.”
His stomach is still twisted in knots by the time he falls asleep, and the only solace he has is that he’s home now. Everything else can wait.