“I bet sisters never do this!”
July 15
“Rise and shine!”
Harry rolled on his stomach and groaned loudly in his pillow.
“Go away,” he complained, sweeping an arm out to try and hit Sam. “It’s early.”
“Come on, do you want to prove Dean right? I’m telling you, he’s freaking unbearable when he’s smug.”
No, Harry didn’t.
Dean had said it on the first day of July, two weeks ago, that Harry couldn’t keep up with Sam’s ‘training schedule’ for a single month.
“You’re soft,” Dean said, a wicked sparkle in his green eyes. “Sammy here will have you crying in a cup of tea before the month ends.”
Harry was not bloody soft, but he was sore and tired and sick of being dragged out of bed at five in the morning by his brother.
They’d been doing it for weeks. Every morning at five am, Sam would wake Harry up. Then they had to go for a run. Then they ate breakfast. Then Sam wanted to ‘spar’ (and Harry’s brothers could totally kick Dudley’s arse, that was what Harry had learned the first time he watched Sam and Dean ‘give a demonstration’).
Sparring was the worst of it. Harry liked to think he was scrappy enough, but Sam didn’t even sweat when he pinned Harry over and over and over. It was humiliating.
Usually Harry was in a right pissy mood after sparring and they would swap to weapons after lunch. Weapons was just a way of saying Sam didn’t like how Harry held a knife and Harry didn’t like holding a gun at all.
It was interesting to watch Sam - and Dean, when he felt like joining them - shoot targets in the car lot. Sam never missed, ever. Neither did Dean.
It was interesting in the way that it made Harry break out in a cold sweat. The gun felt slick in Harry’s hands, an unfamiliar and heavy weight, and it shook when Harry raised it.
Harry missed the target every time.
There were only a few good things about ‘training’, in Harry’s opinion. One was that Sam was brilliant and they were spending almost all day every day together. Sam would talk about ‘monsters’ and he would talk about Dean. One morning while they ran together, Sam talked about his Jessica.
Sam had clearly loved her quite a bit and Harry could understand why he wanted to kill the demon that killed her. If someone killed Sirius or Ron, Harry wouldn’t want to even sleep until he killed them. And maybe Harry was a terrible son for not killing Pettigrew (or allowing Sirius and Lupin to do it) when there was a chance, but the loss of his parents was a distant and old hurt. Losing someone Harry actually knew, actually cared about, would be different.
Another good thing about the terrible training was that Harry was actually going to be in excellent shape for quidditch season. Harry only spent a fortnight at his aunt and uncle’s home so he hadn’t lost a lot of weight like he usually did in the summers. And after just two weeks of being outran by Sam, out sparred by Sam, and freely offered three meals a day by Dean or Bobby, Harry was going to be in great shape.
Not as good as Sam, but not as terrible as he usually was at the end of summer.
It was that reminder that made Harry drag himself from bed and sleepily shuffle in his shorts and fresh tshirt. Harry pulled on his trainers Sam got him and the wave of wonder he felt was more muted than it had been the first few days Harry wore them.
The list of things that Harry wished didn’t make him want to cry like a baby continued to grow. It included cartoon fish, blue trainers, clothes in his size, and the way that Bobby continued to keep Harry’s secret.
Harry wanted to tell his brothers, he did. Harry had a very calm and rational explanation prepared while they had been on their vampire hunt. Harry was going to say that he was a wizard but he wasn’t dangerous (he firmly ignored the reminder of all those muggles… the blood… the screams….) and that Harry didn’t make hex bags or summon evil spirits.
In Harry’s head, it went rather well. Harry explained and his brothers were just as calm and rational as Bobby. Nobody wondered if it was possible to beat the medic from him (it wasn’t), nobody shot Harry with a silver bullet.
Then Sam and Dean returned from their case and said they didn’t kill the vampires they were hunting because they were good. And Bobby gave Harry a rather pointed look, but Bobby heard what they said first just as Harry did.
“We should have chopped his head off, seen how he liked it.”
Harry lost his confidence after that.
It was for the best, really, he mused while he brushed his teeth that morning. Harry had his own toothbrush added to the bathroom, a yellow one with an ‘H’ on it. Harry’s plan changed some, be tweaked it, and he rather liked the final decision.
When Harry left for Hogwarts, he would ask Bobby to explain where he had gone. Harry’s brothers really liked Bobby, Dean spent most of his time with Bobby while Harry and Sam trained all day. Harry could see them laughing and talking while they worked on cars in the lot.
So if Bobby told them about Harry being a wizard then Harry could be safely back at Hogwarts in case they thought about shooting him. Harry could write, test the waters. Bobby could remind them that Harry spent a whole summer with them without being a threat, chip at them in case they were mad.
And with a little luck, Harry could return the next summer!
It was foolproof, except every time Harry thought that he sort of felt like Sirius. It was just a good plan was all.
Harry met Sam in front of the house and wasn’t bitter at all about how the sun wasn’t even up yet. It was worse than Oliver, honestly. At least when Oliver woke Harry up before the sun rose, Harry could moan about it with Fred and George. Sam never complained about the time so Harry was left to do it alone in his head.
“You ready?” Sam asked, handing Harry the odd water bottle backpack thing. It was camouflaged and had a little hose that wrapped around to the front so Harry could drink water while he ran and kept his hands free.
It was the dumbest looking thing and Harry flatly refused to use it the first day they ran together. Sam had one for himself the second day, and by the third day Harry could begrudgingly see the benefit in it.
“If I say no can we go back to bed and tell Dean we went for a run?” Harry asked even while he was already slinging the bag over his shoulders.
“Lie? To Dean?” Sam clutched at his chest through his white shirt and shook his head. “Never. Come on, we’ll start slow to warm up.”
Harry sort of mocked Sam in his head while they started their run. Sam’s idea of starting slow was still running and Harry despised it.
“Sleep okay?” Sam asked while they jogged down the lane, out toward the road. They followed the same path every day - down the road, back through the woods. It was easier to run on the road, but Harry could see why Sam trained by running in the woods.
“Fine,” Harry answered, mostly even meaning it. It was hard to have dreams of brothers shooting brothers or people screaming while they were consumed by flames when Harry was tired to his bones by nighttime.
Not impossible, but difficult.
Harry did have an odd dream about an old house and Harry thought he was a snake slithering around hunting for mice. It ended when Harry woke up with a pain in his forehead, but it hadn’t been unpleasant dreaming that he was a snake.
“Did you sleep?” Harry asked, eyeing Sam closely.
“Me?” Sam flashed Harry a smile that was just a spot of white in the dark they ran through. “Like a baby.”
Harry didn’t think he believed him, but he wasn’t going to call him a liar to his face.
They were quiet when they turned on the road. The only sounds were the crunch their trainers on the gravel and Harry’s breathing. When they first started, Harry had been embarrassed by his horribly loud panting, but Sam said he was the same way before he ‘got into it’.
How a person ‘got into’ running was beyond Harry. Sam seemed to actually enjoy it though, which was mental.
“You play any sports?” Sam asked after a few more minutes of silent running. Sam had subtly increased his speed and Harry was focused enough on keeping pace (why was Sam so bloody tall?!) that Sam had to repeat himself before Harry responded.
“Er… no,” Harry lied. Quidditch wasn’t really a sport Harry could explain and Harry didn’t know enough about other sports to claim any of them. “Did you? When you were in school?”
“Me? No.” Sam made a bitter sounding huff of a laugh. “I tried out for cross country when I was in seventh grade though, I made the team.”
“Oh?” Harry had no idea what that was, but he bet it involved running.
“Yeah. We moved a week later.”
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
Harry frowned while they continued running together. It probably would have been hard to much of anything if someone had to start a new school once a month.
“Did you ever ask your dad to stop moving so much?” Harry asked.
“Our dad,” Sam stressed their connection, making Harry feel included, “wasn’t someone you could just ask things of, you know?”
Harry did, actually.
“My uncle’s like that,” Harry said understandingly. “He has a temper.”
“Yeah?” Sam flicked his head and looked down at Harry once his fringe was out of his eyes. “Is that a nice way to say the guy’s an asshole?”
Harry laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
Sam hummed and didn’t say anything else for a while. When they reached the spot where they usually turned around to run back through the woods, Sam told him ‘not yet’.
“Oh my god.” Harry couldn’t help but groan when he said that. That was what he said a week ago about the last spot where they used to turn around at. It meant that they were going to make the new spot their usual and it just kept getting further and further.
Sam laughed loudly at Harry’s complaint. He never seemed offended by Harry’s blatant complaints over the ‘training’ he insisted on. That was probably why Harry never bothered to keep his complaints to himself.
“You know you’re averaging a nine-minute mile, right?” Sam asked. “You started at twelve minutes.”
“Really?” That was surprising. Harry didn’t actually think he was doing that much better. Maybe he wasn’t loudly panting as much, but he made up for that with his miserable muscles.
“Yeah, you’re pretty athletic,” Sam said, sounding proud enough that Harry wanted to beam. “When school starts I bet you could play soccer or track or something.”
That wiped away Harry’s desire to smile and he kept his face impassive when he murmured a noncommittal type of noise.
“Why do you do that?” Sam touched a phone pole, apparently marking it as their new spot, and turned to jog carefully through the ditch so they could run back in the woods.
“Do what?” Harry asked, keeping his eyes on the ground. Harry tripped more than once when they ran through the woods, it was embarrassing.
“Get weird when anyone mentions school.”
Oh. Harry didn’t know he ‘got weird’. He had been aiming for uncommitted and casual.
“I just like my school,” Harry hedged. “But… yeah, maybe high school would be brilliant too.”
It wouldn’t, of that Harry was sure. Harry was a wizard, he was meant to learn charms and transfiguration and how to defend himself in a duel. Harry didn’t even know what a muggle high school would teach - math? - but he wasn’t interested in learning either.
Probably.
It was difficult, managing the warring desires in Harry’s mind.
On the one side, Harry had a family that wanted him around. Sam went out of his way to spend time with Harry, get to know him. Dean said he wanted Harry to stay, not return to Britain. Bobby even called Harry family, and he said it proudly like Harry was someone he was pleased to add to his family. Harry wanted to stay, be part of their family. It was something out of his wildest daydreams.
On the other side, Hogwarts. Hogwarts was Harry’s first home, his best one. It was a home he never worried about losing, even when Uncle Vernon would scream about Harry going to his ‘freak school’. Everyone at Hogwarts was equally ‘a freak’. Harry fit in there, Harry didn’t have to have secrets there, Harry had his friends there.
It was magic versus family and Harry didn’t know which side he wanted to win.
Sam chatted about high school while they ran back, racing the sunrise. Sam made it sound fun, interesting, and boring in equal turns.
Which… was kind of like Hogwarts, Harry supposed. If it also included mad situations like possessed teachers, basilisks, and escaped convicts.
Returning to the house meant doing cool-down exercises, familiar to Harry from quidditch training. They didn’t talk much, and Harry did a lot of squinting with the run rising in his face, and Sam finally called it.
“Let’s eat,” Sam said cheerfully, ruffling his fingers through Harry’s hair.
Harry loved that, just a little bit.
Dean, surprisingly, met them at the kitchen table, already eating a stack of pancakes that it seemed s as if he made. Harry looked around the kitchen and pulled a face, Dean was a messy chef.
“I cooked, Sammy cleans,” Dean said, his mouth full of food. “I’m teaching you how to fight.”
“I’ve been teaching him,” Sam said, rolling his eyes and stacking pancakes on two plates. He handed one to Harry and they both joined Dean at the table.
“You fight like a bitch though,” Dean told Sam. “That kung-fu shit? Biiiiiitch moves,” he half-sang.
Harry grinned despite himself while Sam sputtered a defense over his sparring lessons. Sam and Dean just fought, all the time. It never seemed cruel, not like when they screamed at each other at the Roadhouse, just something to do.
Sometimes, like then, they tried to drag Harry in the middle of it. Without fail, like then, Harry tended to back Sam.
“Harry, tell your brother that I’ve not been going easy on you,” Sam huffed.
“He’s not,” Harry said drily. If Sam went easy on Harry, maybe Harry wouldn’t feel like he was consistently getting his arse kicked. Sam was nice about it, but Harry knew he wasn’t anywhere near Sam’s skill.
“Yeah?” Dean grinned, but it wasn’t necessarily friendly. It wasn’t mean, just too amused to be comfortable. “Great. Then you should have no problem holding your own against me.”
Harry swallowed the bite he had, loudly, and held Dean’s eyes.
“Fine.”
It was not fine.
“I told you he’s going easy on you.” Dean looked entirely too gleeful when he offered Harry a hand. Harry petulantly smacked at it and picked himself up off the ground for the tenth time in as many minutes.
“You’re too tall,” Harry snapped, knowing that wasn’t why he was losing so easily. Dean was taller than Harry, but he was also faster, stronger, smarter.
It was infuriating.
Dean laughed and fell back in a casual pose with his hands opened at his sides.
“Sammy’s taller,” Dean reminded him. “C’mon, little brother, get mad.”
Harry was mad.
“Hit me.”
Harry lunged and tried to land a properly made fist (because there was a proper way to make a fist, apparently) on Dean’s chest and he wound up face down in the grass.
“GOD DAMN IT!” Harry yelled. He smacked his hand on the ground and shoved himself up to give Dean a filthy look. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
“I thought Sam was teaching you something,” Dean laughed. “Be honest, you two just do yoga, right?”
Harry had no idea what yoga was.
“No, we do not do yoga,” Harry mocked him with a sneer. “At least Sam’s teaching me something! What the hell are you teaching me?”
“How to bounce back after taking a hit?” Dean suggested with a crooked grin.
“I already knew how to do that,” Harry complained. He mimicked Dean’s pose, open hands and all. “Teach me how to not get hit.”
“Like this…” Dean reached out and put his hands on Harry’s shoulders, pushing them down in a more relaxed position. “Watch my whole body, not just my hands, and try and guess when I’m aiming at, okay? Then move, hit back if you can.”
“If you’re hitting me with your hands, why would I watch the rest of your body?” Harry asked curiously.
“Okay, watch.” Dean turned to the side and punched out slowly, exaggerating his movements. When Harry didn’t make any sort of face of understanding, Dean did it again. “Watch my stomach.”
Harry did and there was only a flex of muscles. It was odd time to show off, really.
“See where my feet are aimed?” Dean asked, drawing Harry’s attention to the boots he wore. “You gotta watch the whole picture, kid, not just my hands.”
Harry backed away and watched as Dean threw a punch a few times in a row. It took him a minute, but Harry thought he understood.
They faced off again and Harry was ready that time. He watched Dean’s body, knowing Dean would hit first. When the punch came, Harry dodged.
And caught a fist directly to his face.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Harry fell backward, though he stayed on his feet, and clutched at his face. Dean didn’t catch his jaw, but square in his left eye. His eye was streaming tears beneath Harry’s fingers as he bent over and groaned at the hot pain that radiates from his face.
Sisters.
Harry wished he had sisters.
“Let me see, I’m sorry. Shit, here comes Sam. Listen, tell him you fell, okay?”
“I DID NOT FALL!” Harry dropped his face even if he couldn’t open his eye and shoved hard at Dean. “You’re a prat!”
“You’re really freaking bad at dodging!” Dean cried. “Jesus, kid. Your face.”
Harry was embarrassed and in pain and Sam never punched him in the bloody face.
“Your face,” Harry spat back, making no sense and not caring. Harry turned on his heel to storm toward the house and ended up smacking himself in Sam’s chest.
“Dean, what the fuck?” Sam tilted Harry’s head back and Harry scowled and could feel a hot blush burn his face. Sam looked from Harry’s eye to Dean. “You punched him?!”
“Not on purpose! He jumped in front of my fist!”
“Why’d you hit so hard? I punch lightly because of shit like this!”
“Dude, I didn’t Hulk out on him, I hit lightly!”
Harry wasn’t going to stand there and be insulted. He also wasn’t going to spar with Dean anymore, not with one eye swelling shut. And Harry absolutely wasn’t going to train with any weapons and Sam could bite him.
“Get off me.” Harry jerked his chin out of Sam’s grasp and irritably began storming inside. Sam and Dean followed him, arguing the whole time about not hitting Harry hard because he was so soft and so pathetic and ‘really, Dean?’
Bobby met them in the kitchen and gave Harry an ice pack with a silent and sympathetic look. Actually, it was a rather amused look, but with one eye closed Harry could pretend it was sympathetic.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Dean said the second he entered the kitchen. “Would you two quit looking at me like I make a habit out of beating up kids?”
“I am not a kid!” Harry yelled, fed up with it. It was one thing to be punched in the face, it was another thing to be mercilessly mocked afterward. Harry glared at Sam and Dean both, a look dampened by the bag of ice he held on half his face. “I am not soft. I do not need you to go lightly on me. You’ve got - you just - I bet sisters never do this!”
It was quiet for a moment after Harry’s - admittedly - dramatic rant. Then Dean snorted, Sam’s lips twitched, and Bobby adjusted his hat. When Harry grinned, more out of embarrassment than anything, his brothers burst in loud laughter.
“Oh my God, dude, one month.” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder to stay upright as he laughed. “He’s known us for one month and he’s tired of us already.”
“Us?” Sam was laughing when he shoved Dean, making him grab a cabinet instead of Sam’s shoulder. “It’s you who broke him, Dean. Now he’s trying to trade us for chicks.”
They were the worst, really.
Harry only didn’t complain when Dean declared he earned a break from training because Dean looked so excited to have a ‘movie marathon’. Harry was ushered to the living room and Sam set up the telly while he promised that Dean would make lunch as punishment for punching Harry in the face.
When Harry sat on the sofa, he didn’t intend on becoming sandwiched between both brothers, one who actually brought sandwiches.
“Ham and cheese, eat,” Dean said absently, looking thrilled when the telly kicked on at full volume. He handed Harry a sandwich and Sam sighed before snagging a paper plate from the stack Dean tossed on the coffee table with the platter stacked high with sandwiches.
“We’re not animals, Dean,” Sam said reproachfully, giving Harry the plate then passing a plate with two sandwiches on it to where Bobby sat in his recliner.
“Speak for yourself.” Dean snatched the remote from the side table and - as far as Harry could tell with his one bloody eye - looked as giddy as a kid when the screen turned red with fiery black words. “‘Hell Hazers: give ‘em hell’,” Dean read from the screen. He bumped his shoulder against Harry’s. “You’ll love this.”
Harry, honestly, kind of did. Not the movie, bloody hell the movies (because there were three of them) were terrible. Each one worst than the last. But Harry sort of loved sitting between his brothers, slapping at each other over popcorn and candy that Dean snatched between movies. Harry sort of loved the commentary that Bobby gave, correcting some Latin pronunciation in the film or mumbling about ‘idjits’ summoning demons.
Even if Harry had a black eye, a heated hatred of running, and got popcorn kernels in his hair from when his brothers began throwing it at each other… well…
Magic versus family wasn’t really any more of a fair fight than Harry versus Dean, was it?