Peace, by its Battles Told
By Scientist in the stars
AN: I've been reading fan fictions for a while and I never before have understood what the author meant about having a difficult time with a chapter…until now. This chapter was like a trip through Hell (poor Dean). And what came out wasn't what I had originally planned but hopefully it works. Please let it have worked, I'm too tired to rewrite it.
The truth, like surgery, may hurt but it cures -- Han Suyin
Sam was trapped in the eye of a tornado. The wind whirled around him; chaos swirled and destruction unraveled the steady peace that was attempting to take hold. As a muffled silence—heavy with desolation and regret—cast its shadow over the raging storm, he heard Dean's voice past through the eerie stillness:
Toto, I've got a feeling that we're not in Kansas anymore.
He felt like he was stuck in a moment, in a nightmare that wouldn't end. Darkness swamped his vision as murky shapes disappeared over an ebony precipice into icy waters. He couldn't breathe, his lungs screaming for sweet oxygen and his body succumbed to tremors as it slowly starved from lack of air. His heart was breaking, not from an invisible pain that claimed the wreckages of past loves and past lives but a physical ache that was ripping the muscle to shred.
His mind was awake but his body was paralyzed. Tendrils of fear snared him as he fought logic and continued his useless attempts at regaining control. Stubbornness was a Winchester trait, along with a duty, obsession, and faulted priorities.
So are brains, a strong sense of family, and classic good looks. Well, actually the last one was more from Mom's side. That's the reason you never inherited it. You take after dad.
Sam sighed, as his thoughts turned to his brother. Tears pricked at the corner of his useless eyes but they only fell in the corridors of his mind. Seeking refuge away from the mind-numbing pain, he retreated further in himself. He knew his dad would call it selfish and think of it as a coward's solace but he couldn't handle it anymore.
Suddenly, the darkness dissolved into a majestic hallway of stars, marked by many doors and paths, most that began in blood and ended in fire. Navigating through the hoary smoke and ash that was pouring from some of the opened door, he searched for a safe haven. Apparently though, his mind was suffering along with his body. As thunder roared above and lightning ripped across the desolate wasteland, a leaden landscape that once used to be a sophisticated oasis in the middle of Paradise, a magnificent library of an innocent soul, Sam ran.
Sam ran away from taunting first-graders, fourth grade bullies, his Dad's vehement comments, and his own teenage insecurities. He ran from his fears of failure, his depression, and his feelings of worthlessness. He ran until the dizziness returned, until his non-existent breath caught in his throat and clawed away at his insides, until his body slammed into an oak door and he fell backwards, unable to stand upright.
The door wasn't smeared with blood or scorched by fire; it wasn't submerged in gloom and touched by shade. Instead it was bathed in a comforting glow, marked with butterfly kisses and childhood lullabies.
Not fooled by the illusion but having no other choice, considering if he stayed a moment longer in the storm, he was sure it would rip him to pieces, he yanked open the door and plummeted headfirst into the ethereal light.
ooOOooOOooOOoo
Sam landed on the hard floor, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the inky blackness that surrounded him. He took a moment to catalog his injuries but then realized that not only didn't he hurt but he was pleasantly numb. The pain from before had completely disappeared, almost as if had simply been a figment of his imagination.
A steady stream of moonlight flittered through the dirty window and a sudden whimper caused him to shift his gaze to his left. Huddle in the corner, near the rusted metal hinges of a rotting wooden door, was a seven-year old boy. His pale face was streaked in dirt and wet smudges; he was small for his age and his whole body looked fragile, like he'd shatter no matter how tender the touch. It was his eyes that spoke the most; they were stained glass windows that looked into the empty cathedral of a tortured soul—one which had witnessed a great tragedy.
Sam climbed to his feet and cautiously approached the trembling figure. The boy seemed to shirk even further into the corner and into himself.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just was wondering if you could tell me where I—" His words died down as the sounds outside of the small room reverberated through it.
"You're a worthless piece of shit. The sooner you learn that you aren't going to amount to anything, the easier this life will become on you."
The words were punctuated by loud bangs: the thud of a fist as it slammed into flesh, the sound of a body hitting the floor, the shattering of glass, the cracking of bone.
"Damn kids. Charlene should have aborted you both." The words came out breathy, as if the speaker was winded, and slurred, as if speaker was drunk.
"Especially that snot-nosed brother of yours. He killed my Char. Her death is his fucking fault. I don't know why I let that murderer live. Where is he? Hiding upstairs?"
An even more terrifying sound, the echo of heavy boots on the creaky stairs, followed the angry statement.
The little kid hiccupped, looking terrified, and Sam sighed.
"It's okay, kiddo. The monster won't hurt you. I'm here to keep you safe." It was the mantra his brother would chant whenever Sam awoke him in the dead of the night, afraid of the demons under his bed. It made him feel protected and less alone; so he repeated it now in hopes of providing some comfort.
"No, you bastard. Leave him alone. He didn't do anything and if you touch him, I will end you," another voice, pained but steady, entered the chaos.
There was a pause that stretched on for eternity and then a satisfied chuckle that raised goose-bumps on Sam's arms was heard. "Huh. Finally grew some backbone. You might not be a lost cause after all. In fact, once you learn to control that mouth of yours, you might just turn out like your old man."
This time the silence was shattered by a horrible crunching sound and door shook with force as someone was thrown against it.
A gravely voiced issued a final threat. "Backbone or not, boy, if you ever talk to me in that tone again I will make understand what it means to respect your father. Trust me, there are far worst thing I can do than this."
The little boy pressed his face against the door, listening to the fading footsteps. There was a sequenced knock—three steady raps and a pause, followed by a concession of four more taps—and the boy wiped the stray tears off his face before quickly unlocking the door and yanking it open.
Another figure, taller but just as scrawny, crawled in and the collapsed into the younger boy's waiting arms. The little boy's front crumbled, and waterworks returned as the salty tears he had just wiped away cascaded onto the older kid's ripped and bloodied tee. His body wracked with muffled sobs as his pain settled deep in small heart, fracturing it with each word that was said against him.
The other boy rocked his baby brother back and front, cradling him with practiced ease. Sam stepped aside, feeling uncomfortable, as if he was trespassing on a very private moment.
"Sshh, buddy. I'm okay and we'll get through this. Just like always. Don't worry, nothing's broken. I'm just a little banged up."
The boy shook his head and burrowed further into the older boy, who was still attempting to comfort him.
"No. He's right. I-I killed mom. I'm reason that Dad's so angry and you're sad. But I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. Please, don't hate me. I'm sorry."
Sam saw the rage and disappointment that colored the older brother's face. He looked a little bit like Dean did whenever Sam would come home bruised and beaten after some bully had picked a fight with him. Sam was perfectly capable of defending himself but he was also a bit of a pacifist. Besides 6 against 1 isn't the greatest of odds.
"It wasn't your fault. None of it. Forget what he says. I don't blame you and I never will."
ooOOooOOooOOoo
The scene shifted and the writhing darkness was replaced by dancing beams of golden sunlight. The musty smell of dust and mothballs steadily changed into the strong scent of antiseptics mingling with vomit. Venetian blinds were drawn across a wide window but the warm air indicated the afternoon hour and so light still managed to steadily stream through it. Two beds were situated in the middle of room, and apart from nightstand between the beds, a solitary chair was the only other piece of furniture.
Years of experience, however had familiarized Sam with the otherwise foreign hospital environment. Sam sighed. He couldn't wait for Dean to wake him up from this nightmare. He was even willing to start the biggest chick flick moment in history if it meant getting away from this phantasm.
There was a lot about the world that he didn't understand, like why his Mom had to die and why it was his family's responsibility to save the world from the supernatural, but this scared him, even more so than the unknown disease he was currently dying from, because he couldn't even rationalize it. Damn it, where was Dean?
His wishful thinking was interrupted by laughter. Scrambling off the linoleum floor he hid near the unoccupied bed, though he was pretty sure it was useless since he was sure that no one could see him, and waited. Voices floated and his stomach clenched as he realized they were the same ones that he had heard before.
"Dude I can't believe you pulled that prank. It was so uncalled for. I really believed I had leprosy. I was three minutes away from soaking my extremities in lizard urine."
The voice sounded petulant and a little bit more mature but Sam recognized the slight lilt and the careful speech. Glancing up, he realized that the crying seven-year old had steadily matured over the course of three years. He was still scrawny and small but he looked healthier and his eyes were brighter; when he smiled his whole face lit up.
"Well, you're the one who started it. I even got called in by the freakin' counselor because they wanted to know if there was I something I wanted to discuss. They thought I was having gender issues. Bullying and suicidal tendencies doesn't even register on these people's radar but a pink T-shirt sends up red flags. Go figure."
The boy turned solemn. "I'm sorry, Mattie. I didn't mean for you to get in trouble."
The grin slid off the other boy's face as he realized what he had just said. "Don't worry about it kiddo. Those pencil pushers wouldn't know abuse if it smacked them in the face. The jeering I got from Casey however is another story. That is the reason why I painted your hands and feet green."
"So, did the doctors say when you could come back home?"
"Umm, not for a while. They still need to give me more medicine and stuff. Are you avoiding Dad like I told you to?"
The 10-year old nodded. "I either go over to Cameron's house or hang out at the library. Otherwise I lock myself in the room. He usually doesn't get home until late and then he just passes out on the couch."
"Okay. Well, Nurse Kelly is on duty and so she'll definitely let you stay pass visiting hours, maybe even the night. The dinner tray will get here around 5. Until then, how about we call a truce and watch some TV?"
"Deal." The boys spit into their hands and shook on it, before the younger one swiped the remote and laughed as his brother attempted to get it back.
Sam grinned. He and Dean used the same handshake to seal deals and call truces in their own prank wars. He couldn't remember when they started using it but Dean had mentioned something about how Dad had taught it to him in the pre-fire era.
His smile faded though as Sam realized that he still had no idea how what he had seen was relevant to his predicament. He remembered having trouble breathing, his heart stopping, and Dean panicking and hitting the floor. After that everything went dark and he woke up inside of his head.
All he could figure was that he was probably an astral projection of some sort, because he was pretty sure he wasn't dead. Yet.
Sam was smart. He was good at research, he knew a lot of things other people didn't, and he had enough sense to survive in the world. Up until now his general knowledge of random facts had only served a useful purpose in annoying Dean.
But piecing together the fragmented emotions he had been feeling, the disarray state of his mind, and the weird hallucination he was currently experiencing, he was able to utilize his useless library of information to form a substantial theory of what the fuck was going on.
In between looking up the thirty different ways to kill a Wendigo, fire being the primary method, and the most common exorcism practices in Western Europe, he had done extensive research on Celtic traditions, especially on the druids. They were a priestly and highly learned class in the ancient societies; the druids practiced both science and sorcery. Surprisingly, most of modern medicine and present-day technology is based on druid practices.
What piqued Sam's interest the most were their principles on time and energy. Apparently, druids studied for many years, preparing for a journey deep into their own unconscious. Here they would learn to yield the psychic energy that forms thoughts, memories, dreams, and emotions. Most would reemerge as healers, warriors, or scientists, taking their coveted positions in the hierarchy. A few, however would transform the energy into time and by traveling through the centuries, they would progress their society by preventing war and promoting progress.
In his desperation, Sam figured he had exactly undergone the same journey and the door he went through was probably a gateway, not into another memory but into another time.
A well-adjusted person wouldn't have been able to handle the pressure. Their mind would have broken a long time ago and they would have succumbed to insanity. Lucky for Sam, he was far from normal and his dad had trained him enough so that he didn't freak out at situations like this.
A thought, a possible solution floated across the thinning air but before he could contemplate it further the ground fell away and the nausea feeling returned. Sam tried to hold onto his stomach but it dropped away along with the rest of body as it fell through space and time. Maybe he should write a science fiction novel once he got out of this ordeal. Then again, he wasn't much a writer. That had always been Dean's forte—whether he admitted it or not.
As the abstract colors floated past him and splashed onto the pallid canvases, the world disappeared again and Sam nervously glanced around for an exit, a door—someway out of the wormhole.
He vaguely remembered a book that Dean had stole from the school library for him about strange creatures, a faraway galaxy, and a wrinkle in time. Apparently, the only way to travel through time was to utilize a tesseract—a matrix that existed in the mind. And the only way to navigate it was through thoughts. Figuring he had nothing left to lose, he closed his eyes and focused on a single thought—Dean waking him up and saving the day.
ooOOooOOooOOoo
The scene cleared and when Sam dared to open his eyes, he realized he was still in a hospital room but the figure that was slumped in the chair was far more familiar. The man was in his early forties, with raven curls that were sprinkled in gray—most of which Sam contributed to—and warm brown eyes. His skin was ashen and unshaven; he looked disheveled.
His father wasn't exactly the person he was going for but at least he was back in the present. Or so he assumed, considering the person whose hand his dad was holding was himself. While his mind was being torn asunder, his physical body was also suffering. Several IVs were threaded through the veins in his arm, a mass of wires were leading towards a machine that recorded his heart rate, and a breathing tube was shoved down his throat and taped across his mouth.
His father shifted and ran a slightly shaking hand across his face. "Sammy, why do things have to always be so difficult with you? It couldn't have just been a simple headache?"
Because I hate doing anything the easy way. I'm a complicated person. You would know that if you ever paid attention. The words fell on deaf ears but they made Sam feel better. For a millisecond, at least.
John sighed, a weary sound that spoke of a difficult life. "I'm sorry, Sam. For all the fighting and stuff. It was easier with your brother. His form of rebellion involved girls and bar fights. I could deal with that. But you're just different from that."
Sam rolled his eyes. His father was the only person who could make an apology sound like an insult.
"I always thought that Dean was the one who took after your mother. He's the calm, levelheaded one who'd give his life up to keep the family together. He's the one who takes care of both of us, who makes sure we eat, sleep, and don't kill each other."
Yeah, he's the one your proud of. The perfect little soldier who'd follow you into the bowels of hell and who you will never appreciate until it's too late.
"Truthfully, though you're the one who's just like Mary. Granted, you have the infamous Winchester fuse and stubbornness but you're temperament is hers. She was the one who'd talk to strangers without a second thought, who wore her heart on her sleeve, who was innocent and pure. She also loved school and books."
His dad cleared his throat and wiped away the moisture that was collecting at the corners of his eyes. "She was so smart and beautiful; I never did understand why she ended up marrying a loser like me."
Sam swallowed his protests and saw, for the first time, a grieving parent rather than an obsessed hunter. Figures he'd have to be at death's doorstep before his dad actually showed his human side.
"If she could see me now, she'd definitely kick my ass to kingdom come. I've really screwed up with you two; I know I never was a good father. The truth is I was scared. Growing up, my old man was—well he was more interested in the tequila bottle than fatherhood, and so the track record wasn't exactly great."
Sam shifted uncomfortably. He knew that his dad wasn't expecting him to hear these words. For so many years, the man had seemed larger than life and acted as much. For him to be vulnerable, even for a moment, it didn't seem real.
"When you mother was pregnant with Dean, she promised she'd help me be a good dad. Once she was killed, I didn't think I could do it on my own. I convinced myself that I was doing this for both your sakes. It was better for you to be safe and protected than happy and dead. What I didn't realize was how much I was becoming like the person I resented."
As his father paused for a second to readjust the blanket that was covering his shivering body (Sam hadn't even realized he was cold but now he couldn't seem to get warm) Sam wondered if the whole scene was another illusion. Or if maybe the lack of oxygen had caused brain damage.
"Your grandfather, he wasn't a good man. For most of my life, he made me feel worthless. He did things that I can never forgive. I swore I'd never be him…that when I had my kids, I would love them more than life itself and make sure they knew it. Things didn't go according to plan, though."
Geez, where was Dean? His brother was never cold, well except for that one time he was lured by a nymph into the freezing lake in the middle of a Wisconsin winter. Dean always was making fun of Sam for his hypothermic tendencies. He claimed he never felt cold because he was all muscle while Sam was just skin and bones; of course, he'd also surrender his blanket, claiming he didn't want Sam to freeze to death because then Dean would have to find another source of amusement.
"I'm used to disappointment. Life's never been fair for the Winchester clan—"
There was a knock on the door and both Sam and John jerked at the sudden interruption. The doctor edged into the room, giving John a sympathetic smile, one that had been practiced but still retained some sincerity, and walking through Sam.
"Sorry, Mr. Lawrence I didn't mean to startle you. I just need to ask you some more questions. "
John nodded and Sam shifted from foot to foot, rubbing his hands together to try and generate some warmth, but kept his attention on the doctor.
"I know you've been through the question and answer session in the paper work you filed but I just wanted to clear some things up. You mentioned when you first came in that Sam had a headache prior to the fall. Did you ever give him anything for it?"
"I was going to give him some Tylenol but we had run out, so I gave him an aspirin."
The doctor nodded and looked as if he was about to say something but stopped at the look on John's face. "Are you okay, Mr. Lawrence? You seem a little—'
"Exhausted? It's been a long three days."
"Yes, I heard about your other son's collapse. I talked to Claire um Dr. Cartwright. She said it was due to a preexisting condition and all the stress just aggravated it."
"Yeah, back when Dean was a kid he had some problems with his heart. Look, she told me that he was fine and they only medicated him was because he wouldn't rest otherwise, so if you don't mind…"
Preexisting condition? What the hell was wrong with his brother?
"Oh right. Well, I looked through the medical history you provided and I did notice that Sam's immune system is very peculiar. He does seem to attract particularly deadly viruses and such. I thought perhaps his defenses may be weakened due to another illness. You noted that you had a brother that died young."
"Um, yeah. He was fifteen," his father said, rubbing his forehead.
"The records claim that he had acute myelogenous leukemia. Now today it would have been very treatable but back in the sixties, it was considered an automatic death sentence. I am sorry it occurred."
Sam wished the doctor would stop apologizing and get to the freaking point.
"As you know, cancer is a very abnormal and difficult disease to understand. But there is promising information that claims cancer to be genetic. Since you do have a family history of it, I made sure to test Sam for it."
His father paled. Sam couldn't remember the last time he saw the man look so white. "He doesn't have it, does he?"
"The bone marrow aspiration proved him to be clean of any abnormal cell growth or cell numbers. However, this only indicates that it isn't a full-blown infection. Therefore, I preformed some more tests on his blood-work and once again discovered high IgE levels."
John took a deep breath and Sam tried to take one too because the room was spinning again and his breakfast, which Dean ate most of, was threatening to come back up.
"Doc, just tell me. Does my son have cancer?"
"No, but he does have allergies." The doctor was smiling now and Sam wondered if he was possessed or maybe a spirit. After all, he could have sworn the temperature in the room had dropped like fifty degrees since the man had walked in.
His father gave the doctor an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? Sam is basically two minutes away from dying and you're saying it's all because of a stupid allergy?"
"Mr. Lawrence. I know that it might seem insignificant but some allergies are known be severe and deadly. They can develop at any time and don't need to have a hereditary history. I believe that Sam here is allergic to drugs in the NSAIDs family, particularly aspirin. It's rare but has been reported to occur.
"I was unsure because the documented cases are sparse but now that you've told me that he took it prior to his collapse, I'm certain that is what the problem is. Once it runs through his system, the effects should disappear and he'll be back to normal, as long as he avoids aspirins and certain other NSAIDs. I'll give you a list before you leave."
John nodded. "Thank you, doctor. I really appreciate the effort."
"Not a problem, Mr. Lawrence. It's my job."
"And since, you've done so much to help my son I will overlook the majority of this conversation. Most people who mention Mattie don't get away so easily."
The doctor looked a little taken back but shook the offered hand. "My sincerest apologies. I didn't mean to unearth bad memories. I was just trying to explain—"
Sam however lost track of the conversation as the wind howled in his ear and the room was suddenly torn apart. The colors blended together to form a white void but unlike before, the numbness had reset itself and the pain was slowly returning. It was similar to the feeling of pins and needles after moving a sleeping limb.
However, Sam wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. Instead, he was considered his father's last words. Mattie?
Reality and realization slammed into him and Sam let out a gargled gasped. The abuse, the prank-war, the handshake—John had mentioned something about his old man being a rotten person who had done things he could never forgive. Sam had always wondered why his Dad, the hard-core Marine, never considered corporal punishment as a proper method of discipline. The brothers from his little voyage through time hadn't been strangers—they had been his father and dead uncle.
The white void was slowly dissolving into sinuous shadows that slithered like a nest of serpents and an abyss was forming, forcing his astral self to step into the darkness. The pain, which up until now was a sleeping giant, awoke with a howl and continued its destructive mission.
Suddenly, Sam couldn't breath. It was like before but instead of a lack of oxygen being the culprit, this time there was something stuck in his throat, blocking his windpipe. He was chocking. Damn it. Why did it always have to be him that was strangled?
As he fought for each life-affirming breath, the erratic beeping of cardiac monitor and the swishing of the breathing tube faded into the background and his father's smiling face came into the forefront.
In the back of his mind, Sam Winchester sighed. There's no place like home.
Was it confusing or lame? Please review. I am anxious to know what your thoughts are. At the moment I feel as if I'm twirling the baton in the Stupid and Dumb parade, so please leave some feedback.