“You should just kill me.”
October 22
Sam spent as long as he could in the shower, letting the water scald him and remove every trace of blood from his skin.
Sam had blood under his fingernails, on his neck. There were splatters that soaked through his jeans, leaving a bloodied pattern of evidence on his thighs.
The splatters didn’t bother him, it was the other blood - Ava’s blood - stained darkly on his hands that he couldn’t scrub away. And even when he couldn’t see it, he could feel it. Sam didn’t think he’d ever get clean, not really.
Hot water and soap could only do so much.
Dean met Sam in his bedroom the second Sam left the shower, which was expected. Dean was mad, Sam got it. Sam had been dodging his calls, only sending in texts to let his brother know he was fine.
Sam expected the third degree, a good old fashioned screaming match, something. But Dean only looked Sam over closely, probably seeing more than Sam wanted him to on his face alone, and shook his head.
“I got whiskey and pizza on the way,” Dean said. “Oh, don’t take it personally if the kid doesn’t remember your name. Doc said his memory’s jacked, but it should be fine in a couple of days.”
Yeah, Sam wasn’t going to take it personal that Harry had a traumatic brain injury and nearly died because of him. That was a reasonable request to make.
Sam scoffed quietly as he tugged a shirt on from his closet. With his back to Dean, he could feign nonchalance.
“They discharged him while his brain is still swollen?” Sam asked, thinking of his very basic medical knowledge. If Harry’s memory was meant to recover in time, then it wasn’t a bleed or permanent injury, which left swelling.
Sam groaned, rocking a pain in his head that had him seeing stars and wanting to vomit. His arm was on fire, felt like a break. Nothing major… nothing that was going to stop him from getting to Dean.
“Harry?” Sam had to swallow the bile trying to claw its way up his throat. When he was sure he wouldn’t puke on his little brother, Sam looked over to check on Harry.
Harry wasn’t there. Harry wasn’t in his seat. Harry had just been there.
“Harry?!”
Sam had to fight his way out of the car. His door was smashed in and folded up like an accordion and wouldn’t budge. It took what felt like a lifetime for Sam to slide up out of his seat and kick out what was left of the windshield to find…
“HARRY!”
A woman that Sam assumed was the driver of the other car was crouched down ten yards away by the very still, bloodied, and unmoving body of Sam’s little brother.
Sam slid across the hood, sickened by the trail of blood that had to have came from Harry’s body as he crashed through it.
How fast had Sam been driving? Why didn’t Harry have a seatbelt on?
“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HIM!” Sam shrieked at the woman who had reached out for Harry. She was sobbing and stupid, Harry could have a back injury or - or…
Sam could see a peek of white through the side of Harry’s head and he threw up beside him while the woman called 911. And then Sam begged Harry to wake up, begged God to save him.
Dean never believed in God, but Sam had to. If there were demons in Hell, there had to be a Heaven. And if there was a Heaven then there was a God.
And if there was a God, then surely he would save the boy lying in the road.
“Sammy?”
Sam jumped a foot in the air when Dean touched his shoulder. Sam had gotten caught up in his head, reminding himself to thank God that Harry was okay - even if his memory was ‘jacked’, as Dean so eloquently phrased it.
“Sorry.” Sam finished pulling his shirt on and turned to face Dean, though he didn’t meet his eyes. Dean had some sort of extra sense when it came to Sam, he didn’t need to know what Sam did. They didn’t need to talk about it, Sam just… Sam had to deal.
“Seriously.” Dean held Sam back when Sam tried to leave the room. Sam stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“You good?” Dean asked. “Cause I’m telling you, Sam, I can’t - I can’t deal with the both of you falling apart, okay? I need you to be good, at least until the kid is better.”
Sam swallowed and curled his hands up, touching his fingertips to his wrist. Those fingers had nearly beaten a man to death two days ago. Those wrists had been soaked in an innocent woman’s blood eight hours ago.
“I’m good.” Sam shook off Dean’s hand. “I’m not the one with the brain injury.”
His emotional maturity exhausted for the year, Dean immediately slipped into his usual cocky older brother crap.
“Oh, I dunno about that,” he said lowly while they left Sam’s room, headed to the dining room where Sam could hear Harry talking. “Harry ain’t the one showing up covered in blood.”
Sam didn’t bother to remind Dean that Harry did, but Harry had been covered in his own blood and Sam was always soaked in someone else’s blood. It said something about him, he was sure, but he was too drained to think about it then.
Harry increased Sam’s guilt tenfold when he lurched from his seat at the table the instant Sam walked in the room. Harry looked healed, healthy. The only thing off in his genuine pleasure at seeing Sam was that he seemed tired and he had a tightness in his expression that made Sam think he had a headache. But he was still smiling at Sam as if Sam didn’t risk his life over and over.
Did Sam’s intentions matter? Not really, not when Sam had driven fifty miles before the shock of the accident wore off and he had started bawling like a damn baby. Sam had been in between a rock and a hard place after the wreck - stay with Harry or go to Dean? Sam only decided after Ava told Sam what she had seen, explosives and Gordon Walker with Dean tied to a chair.
It had still been a bad call, but it would have been either way.
“Hey…” Harry trailed off and Sam saw proof of what Dean said when a flash of confusion washed over Harry. Even standing directly in front of him, Harry didn’t know Sam’s name.
“Sam,” Sam reminded him gently.
“Yes, Sam.” Harry laughed and Sam didn’t point out that it was strained, Harry was tense in general. Sam also didn’t point out the frown that was there and gone in an instant or the way that Harry touched the side of his head.
There had been bone exposed… Sam didn’t know how he was alive.
“Sorry,” Harry said, as if be needed to apologize to Sam for a single damned thing. “Er… your arm… it’s broken?”
Sam lifted his arm, showing off the cast he had put on him when Harry’s teacher told him and Bobby that Harry had been moved to a magical hospital and ‘it might be best that they not mention anything’ since he erased Harry’s visit from the minds of the hospital staff. He had offered to take Sam to the hospital with Dean and Harry, but Sam had refused.
Gordon Walker had still been wasting oxygen and Sam clearly couldn’t do anything for his brothers.
“Broke my wrist,” Sam told him. “It’s no biggie.”
“I can fix that.”
Sam looked at where Harry’s godfather sat at their table, looking as casual as if it were an every day occurrence. Sirius grinned at him and shrugged his shoulders upward.
“It’s an easy spell,” Sirius said. “Harry could probably do it if you’d rather.”
“Uh…” Sam tried to find a rational way to explain why he’d rather just keep the cast. It was a pain to work around, but it made a decent reminder that he couldn’t be reckless when it came to his brother’s life.
Dean pushed Sam toward the table and answered for him.
“Sounds good,” Dean said. “Freddie, you want a drink?”
“Freddie?” Sam sat at the table with Sirius to his right and Harry taking the chair across from him. Sam looked to where Dean was pouring whiskey in four glasses - oh he so wasn’t going to give the fourteen year old with a brain injury alcohol…
“Dean!” Sam snapped his name and scowled when Dean looked to him, the bottle still in hand. “Dude, brain injury and booze? Seriously?”
Yeah, Dean thought liquor washed away pain, but Sam thought he knew that was for emotions and minor injuries. Not freaking brain surgery and near death experiences.
“Ah, my bad.” Dean downed the cup he had poured for Harry and grabbed a water out of the fridge to bring back with the whiskeys. “Sorry, kid, once you know your name you can have a ‘I cheated death’ drink.”
Harry only shrugged and watched Sirius closely with narrowed eyes. Sam watched him, feeling like he could actually see thoughts turning in his head. Sirius didn’t notice, he had been busy thanking Dean for the drink.
“Your name isn’t Freddie, is it?” Harry asked suddenly, clearing up the matter for Sam.
Hysterical. Tell the brain damaged kid a fake name.
Sirius grinned at Harry unrepentantly.
“Can you prove it isn’t?” Sirius teased him.
It wasn’t Sam’s relationship to butt into, it really wasn’t. Except Sam felt a flash of hot anger that Sirius was joking around about something that had to be terrifying - not knowing anyone’s names? what else did Harry not remember? - and that he even had the audacity to make it a joke. How many times did Sam see Harry call Sirius and lose his excitement immediately when Sirius greeted him with the wrong name.
At least Harry had a freaking head injury to blame his memory loss on.
“It’s Sirius,” Sam said, spitting the word with more venom that he would have liked. Sam would have liked to take a swing at Sirius, honestly, but he didn’t like the looks he got just for snarling some.
Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam and Sam ignored him. He ignored the curious tilt of Sirius’s head too and threw back half of his drink. The burn in his throat, settling low in his stomach, didn’t do much to ease the itch of his skin, but it would.
“Who’s Freddie Mercury then?” Harry asked.
Dean chuckled, focusing on Harry instead of Sam thankfully.
“One hell of a singer,” Dean told him. “You remember that song you liked? ‘We Will Rock You’?”
Harry blinked, “No.”
Sam went ahead and finished the rest of his drink. Harry had thought that song had been ‘brilliant’ when he heard it in the car. Dean had been acting goofy and did the stomping and clapping motions, egging Sam and Harry into joining him.
They had been in California and it made Sam laugh even when he didn’t want to. Of course Harry wouldn’t remember it.
Dean and Sirius started tag-teaming Harry, telling him all about Queen’s greatest hits. It turned to a debate between them over who ‘kicked ass harder on a mic’ between Freddie Mercury or David Bowie.
Sam chose to take the bottle of jack from Dean and refill his drink while he watched Harry. When a timer in the kitchen went off, Sam could smell pizza in the oven, and it made Harry twitch in his seat, Sam made an educated guess.
“Headache?” Sam asked, instantly ending Sirius’s rant about Bowie.
Dean had been three steps toward the kitchen and he turned around to sniff at Harry like a bloodhound on a hunt.
“Harry!” Dean began lecturing him before Harry could even deny the pain Sam was sure he had. “You heard the doctor - wizard, whatever. He said if you have a headache to tell me!”
“He also said I couldn’t leave the hospital until I knew my name, so…” Harry sent Dean Dean’s own ‘I’m charming and we both know it even if I’m being an asshole’ smile. “I wasn’t sure which advice we were ignoring.”
Sam considered that for a moment while Dean said he would get Harry his potion after he saved the pizzas from burning.
“Dean…” Sam suddenly didn’t think there was enough alcohol in the world to fight off the irrational anger he felt. Sam couldn’t even look at Dean, he chose to close his eyes and tilt his head up to the ceiling. “Tell me that you didn’t break Harry out of the hospital. Tell me that he was discharged and cleared to come home.”
Sam and Dean never stayed in a hospital past waking up, but that was usually because they had injuries that couldn’t be explained or insurance cards that were going to come back as bogus. Harry had been in a car accident - Sam saw his skull - there was no reason to take him out of the hospital early.
“He was discharged,” Dean said from the kitchen, soothing Sam’s anger.
“We tricked the mediwizard,” Harry added, sounding so freaking smug about it.
Sirius chuckled quietly, Sam hated him a little more.
“Grow up,” Sam snapped at him, deciding abruptly that Harry’s crappy godfather made a good target for his anger. Sirius looked surprised by Sam’s anger, but Sam wasn’t done.
“It’s not funny that he’s got a fucking head injury and left the hospital early,” Sam said, two octaves away from screaming. “It’s not funny to lie about your name to him. You know, when you don’t know who Harry is, he doesn’t fucking lie to you about it!”
“SAM!”
Sam was breathing hard and he had a thousand more things he wanted to say to Sirius, but Dean brought Sam’s attention to the room in general. Harry sat entirely still, his face scrunched up in what was probably pain. Sirius looked grey, actually grey. They were both looking at Sam like - like Sam was a monster.
“I’m - sorry.” Sam shoved away from the table with his good hand and snatched the bottle of jack to take with him before he tore out of the house.
He didn’t feel a drop of guilt for what he said to Sirius, he meant every word. It was the way Harry looked hurt that had Sam swallowing down whiskey like it was his job.
Over and over, Sam hurt that kid.
Sam didn’t go far, he didn’t have shoes on, just sweats and a tshirt. Sam sat in the bed of John’s old truck, really living up to the Winchester name as he steadily made his way toward drunk. It wasn’t even noon yet and Sam couldn’t feel his toes- worthless.
It wasn’t like he did anyone any good sober though. Sam nearly killed Harry, he got Ava killed. Sam had a gun to a man’s head and nearly pulled the trigger.
There was something wrong with him, something that John must have known was there. Everywhere Sam went, every person he touched, he hurt them. How many lives did he have to save before he wasn’t the bad guy anymore? Did it even work like that - a tally board for the people he hurt and the ones he helped?
Why couldn’t Sam help the people he loved and only hurt strangers? Why was it always reverse for him?
Life was a joke and Sam wasn’t laughing anymore.
Sam didn’t know how long he had been outside, long enough to finish most of the bottle on his own and to be hot despite the cool weather, when Dean joined him. Dean didn’t say anything at first, just climbed in the bed of the truck and settled down beside Sam to lean on the cab.
“You owe me twelve bucks,” Dean said, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s. “That was my jack.”
Sam looked at the bottle and figured if he was going to replace it then he might as well finish it. Dean sighed and waited for Sam to swallow down the remainder before he carefully pried the glass bottle from Sam’s hand.
“Alright, Sammy, what’s going on in that head of yours?” Dean asked. “I’m not sayin’ it was my best idea to break the kid out early, but I figured he’d be more comfortable at home.”
Yeah, that made sense. Sam could recall a voicemail Dean left him on Harry’s second day in the hospital, saying that some reporter put in the paper that Harry was in the hospital. If Harry needed rest, he could do it at home.
“I saw his skull, Dean,” Sam said. He tipped his head back against the cab and sighed loudly. “His skull, I saw it.”
“They’re on their way.” The woman who had been driving the other car called 911 and then carefully put her ear beside Harry’s blood soaked throat. “I don’t - I don’t think he’s breathing.”
Sam was careful and quick as he cradled Harry’s neck and lower back in his hands to flip him on his back. Paralysis was better than death.
“C’mon… c’mon…” Sam had his ear to Harry’s throat and thought he heard a gurgling breath being taken.
Why did he do pre-law? Why not pre-med?!
Sam knew first aid, but he didn’t know it to the extent that he suddenly wished he did. Should he start CPR? Risk making internal injuries worse to keep his lungs pumping?
Dear God, please… he’s just a kid…
Sam lifted Harry’s chin with one - definitely broken - hand and kept his airway open before blowing in his mouth. It was two breaths, thirty compressions.
“This was so not in my vision.”
The woman began rambling in a hysterical way about who she was, why she was there. Sam hadn’t been listening to her at first, he was more focused on listening for sirens - listening for Harry to breathe on his own.
I’ll do anything, please, God… if you’re there, just save him…
Dean had listened to Sam slur his way through a recount of performing CPR on their brother silently. Dean was a warm shoulder to lean on, a good listener.
It usually came at a cost and Sam waited for the ass chewing he knew would be coming —
“Why the hell were you driving so fast?!”
“Why didn’t you check that he had on a seatbelt?!”
“Why are you so damned stupid?!”
It didn’t come yet, Dean probably wanted Sam nice and sober for it.
“Damn, Sammy.” Dean shifted around so that the side of his body pressed against Sam’s, as much of an embrace as Dean would do. It was meant to make Sam feel better, but Sam didn’t want to feel better.
Sam wanted to be better.
“So what happened yesterday?” Dean asked, speaking quietly to coax Sam like they did witnesses. “Who got to bear the weight of Sam Winchester’s infamous guilt complex?”
“Not a complex,” Sam protested. He couldn’t even look at Dean, it was so much. “He could have died, De. ‘S not a guilt complex if I’m guilty.”
Over and over, Sam hurt people he loved. Sam killed them too, if not by his own hands then by his existence. It wasn’t a question of why John wanted him dead, Sam only questioned why he didn’t do it himself.
Dean rolled his eyes - Sam didn’t see it, but he felt it.
“Dude, could you have been more vigilant? Yeah,” Dean said bluntly. “You screwed up, Sammy, I ain’t taking that from you. He’s a kid and kid’s gotta be reminded of shit like seatbelts and vegetables, which usually you love to bitch about. But you didn’t ask for that car to be there and you didn’t tell Harry it was alright to not wear a seatbelt. And,” Dean took a deep breath when Sam tilted his head on his shoulder, wanting Dean to be right even if he didn’t feel like he was, “you did right, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes prickled and he didn’t want to cry - he shouldn’t have drank so much. It was crushing him, the whiskey and Dean trying to absolve Sam of his guilt. Dean did so much - Dean always did.
“Wish I was more like you,” Sam told him, knowing he could only say things like that when he was drunk. Dean would let him then; maybe Sam knew that before he started drinking.
“Yeah, that’s because I’m awesome.” Dean grinned when Sam snorted. “Now tell me whose blood you were wearing, Sam.”
Sam twisted his lips for a second, fighting the urge to cry again. Sam was a grown man, but it was Dean and he didn’t want Dean to hate him.
“Gordon,” Sam said, admitting half of the truth.
Dean went rigid, but he didn’t push Sam away. Not yet, he would.
It took every bit of two days to track the bastard. Sam used every bit of tech he could and even called Ash, offering him a pretty good part of his next check to help him.
Ash didn’t ask any questions and he was effective - between the two of them, Sam had him.
“You wanted me? Here I am.”
Sam only had one good hand, only needed one. Gordon was fast, well-trained, cruel. Sam was pissed though and pissed usually worked for him.
“Give me one fucking reason.” Sam stared in Gordon’s bashed face and bared his teeth in a full snarl. That man tried to kill Harry, he took Dean and used him as bait. Sam saw in his cold eyes that he didn’t regret it, he would do it again.
Sam clicked the safety off and the gun didn’t shake in his hand. Sam would kill him, he should.
“One reason,” Sam hissed.
Gordon smiled, his teeth covered in blood from where Sam smashed his fist in his face over and over.
“Do it,” Gordon taunted him. “Show me I was right, Sammy-Boy. Big brother says you’re not a monster, not a freak. We both know different, don’t we?”
“Yeah.” Sam clicked the bullet in the chamber and his finger was tight on the trigger. “We do.”
Sam turned the gun at the last possible second, sending a bullet flying from the barrel and out the window of the building Sam had lured Gordon to. When he heard a second window shatter, Sam didn’t hesitate.
“And don’t call me Sammy.”
It took one hit with the butt of the gun to Gordon’s forehead to knock him out cold. Sam could hear sirens and he moved quickly, placing the gun in Gordon’s hand and knowing the cops who were eating in the diner that just lost a window would be there any second.
Sam ran out the back door of the abandoned building, sprinting down an alley to the truck.
When he pulled around, it didn’t take long to see Gordon semi-conscious and being dragged to a cop car in handcuffs. Sam met his eyes through the windshield of the truck and Gordon Walker hated Sam - would see him dead if he could.
Sam put his middle finger to his forehead in a salute and smirked when he swung it outward.
Then Sam put his foot to the floor to race to Indiana, to go check on Ava. Gordon said a lot of shit about Sam being a part of a group of demonic witchcraft; he said he had been killing them all and Sam needed to check on Ava.
“So I just left,” Sam said, finishing the story to Dean. “I almost killed him, Dean. I wanted to. How could I do that? If I were like you, good, how could I want to kill a man?”
It scared Sam, how easily he had been ready to kill Gordon. Sam had been able to taste the want, he felt it singing in his veins: kill him, kill him.
“First off, I’ve never met a man I didn’t think about killing at least once,” Dean said. He jostled Sam a little, trying to lighten his mood. “Hell, I think about killing you at least twice a week.”
“You should.” Sam sat up and pulled his knees to his chest to hold, not making Dean be his comforter and executioner. Sam was too drunk to hold his head up, but he rested it on his knees and looked at his brother through his bangs. “You should just kill me, Dean.”
Dean blanched like Sam struck him. Dean was too good, too honorable and loyal. If he had any sense, he would take Sam out before Sam did kill someone who didn’t deserve it.
“You’re drunk,” Dean said, trying to brush it off like he did everything. “Tell me what happened with Ava, is she okay?”
“She’s dead,” Sam said, not sure that the words were the truth. Sam found her house and he found her partner, dead in his bed. There had been so much blood though, it had to be Ava’s. There was no body… but Gordon had said he killed a witch, killed a ‘demon freak’ too… it had to be Ava.
Sam should have went to her first, but he put revenge above her safety because he was always choosing wrong. Sam was no better than the man he judged his whole life.
“Everyone I meet…” Sam sucked in air and didn’t know when he had began crying, but he could taste the tears when he opened his mouth. Sam’s lip wobbled, “I hurt everyone, De.”
“Sammy…” Dean looked like he was in pain; they’d always been too in tune with each others pain. When they were kids and Dean would get hurt, Sam would cry. When Sam cried, Dean would crumple his face and look miserable.
It was why Dean wouldn’t kill Sam, even when he should.
“You gotta do it,” Sam said, ready to beg. “Dean, you gotta.”
“Sam, I’m not gonna kill you,” Dean said, shrinking away from Sam - from what Sam asked him for. “You’re having a shit time, dude. You don’t wanna die.”
Sam closed his eyes, hiding the truth from Dean. It would hurt Dean and Sam had done that enough.
If Sam had let Dean see in his eyes, Dean would have known that he was only half-right. Sam didn’t want to die; Sam did want to stop hurting people. It wasn’t on Sam - or Dean - that it seemed as if people could only stay safe if Sam was dead.
Dean let Sam sit outside until the sun started to set and Sam had passed out. Sam didn’t know how Dean moved him inside, but Sam woke up in his own bed with a splitting headache, a dry mouth, and a bottle of water and two ibuprofen on his nightstand. It was dark out, so Sam slept most of the day, but his alarm said it was two o’clock.
It was the wrong time for a hangover- it made Sam feel worse than he already did.
Sam groaned and did the hangover shuffle to the bathroom so he could throw up the toxins he had willingly chugged. Sam held on to the sides of the toilet and threw up until it cleared his system and he could think more clearly.
The other door to the bathroom creaked open and Sam lifted his head, made direct eye contact with Sirius Black, and then dropped his head down to throw up again.
What God did Sam piss off that was using him as a chew toy?
Sam didn’t care that Sirius freaking Black was waiting to take a leak, or whatever. It wasn’t his house, Sam didn’t know why he was there, and Sam needed a shower. Sam also needed to brush his teeth, twice, and shave. When Sam finished shaving, he thought he needed to floss as well. There was an impatient knock on the door and suddenly Sam wanted to clip his nails.
If Sam didn’t think Dean would give him shit for the rest of his life, he would paint his nails too.
Screw Sirius.
Sam felt like a new, slightly less hungover, man when he left the bathroom. Harry’s bedroom door was open when Sam passed it and he hid a smirk when he saw Sirius notice him then rush in the bathroom.
The petty amusement died pretty quickly when Sam made it to the living room and found Harry scowling at him with Dean’s shittiest look from the sofa.
“He’s not hurting you,” Harry snapped at Sam immediately. Sam didn’t bother playing stupid, clearly Harry knew that he was being a jerk. Harry had his arms crossed and his legs folded up beneath him, looking both young and twice as mature as Sam.
“I…” Sam was too sick to fight with Harry, he didn’t want to anyway. Sam deflated, his shoulders drooping and he nodded, feeling like the kid in the situation.
Sirius wasn’t hurting Sam, but he was hurting Harry and that hurt Sam in a secondhand way. If Harry didn’t want Sam getting involved, he wouldn’t. Sam couldn’t purposefully hurt Harry, which he would do by antagonizing Sirius.
“Sorry,” Sam muttered, turning and hauling ass to the kitchen to get away from the green-eyed glare.
Dean was in the kitchen, half-awake and yawning while he cooked something on the stove. With all the back and forth travel to England, the binge drinking, the hunts… they all had their internal clocks screwed up. Dean’s was apparently screwed up enough that he had eggs and sausages in a skillet, bacon filling another one.
“God, open a window.” Sam groaned and slid open the window behind the sink, trying to get the stench of grease away before he died.
“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean turned around and held up the greasy spatula with a shit-eating grin. “Belly a little upset? Aww, poor Sam. You were trashed, man.”
“I feel like trash,” Sam admitted. It was fuzzy in his mind, but he thought he remembered crying on Dean in the bed of John’s old truck. Sam was lucky that he wasn’t being mocked for that yet, it must have been too pathetic for even Dean to make light of.
Sam went back before that and felt like an idiot and an asshole when he remembered that Harry had some sort of amnesia or something. And what did Sam do? Drag Dean’s attention away from him to deal with Sam and his nonsense.
“How long is Sirius staying?” Sam asked, breathing in the fresh air and focusing on washing away the nausea.
“Dunno, I didn’t ask,” Dean said airily. “Wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes on Harry though, I don’t want the kid forgetting not to walk out in traffic and restarting the whole process.”
Sam scoffed, both at Dean’s incredibly terrible joke and the idea that Sirius was somehow going to be of any real help.
“Insulting him ain’t gonna get your wrist fixed,” Dean said. Sam could hear his grin and it made Sam scoff again.
“I don’t want him to fix it,” Sam mumbled petulantly. It was a pain, it was literally pained, but Sam would rather break his other wrist than let Sirius fix the break.
“You’re being a baby,” Dean lectured him. “Can you just…” Dean turned and smacked Sam’s shoulder with the spatula until Sam glared at him over his shoulder. “Look, Harry wants him here, Harry’s supposed to be taking it easy. Can you stop pretending Sirius is Dad and get along for a few days?”
As much as Dean accused Sam of using ‘puppy eyes’ as a weapon, it was nothing to the guilt trip that Dean could trigger with his green eyes looking earnest and tired and pleading.
How was Sam supposed to say no to that?
“Yeah, whatever.” Sam huffed and pushed his face all the way against the window screen. “I’ve got work to do anyway.”
“See?” Dean adopted a cheerful voice that didn’t suit him. “This’ll be fun. A couple days, Sam, that’s all I’m asking for.”
A couple of days was all Dean would get because Sam could hear Sirius chatting away with Harry in the living room and it made Sam want to either hit him or puke.
Both, maybe both.