Peace, by its Battles Told

By: scientist in the stars

A/N: I'm currently on spring break and am attempting to not waste it as I have the past three spring breaks--studying. Since I'm done with the whole applying-to-med-school-which-is-equivalent-to-a-journey into-the-bowels-of-hell process and am now waiting for the semester to end, I decided to confront my worst fear and actually write my own fanfic...instead of just reading. So here is my earnest attempt.

WATER is taught by thirst; Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe; Peace, by its battles told; Love, by memorial mould; Birds, by the snow. Emily Dickinson

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The warm water sprayed down his back, cooling the heated skin. He turned his bruised face towards the nozzle, allowing the rest of the world to disappear as he concentrated solely on the water falling from the rusted metal shower head.

In about five minutes, Dean would be banging on the door, yelling at him to stop being a pansy and get out. Knowing Dean, he would further follow that by some expletive threat and a promise for revenge if he used all the hot water again. Last time that had happened, Sam had woken up in the middle of the night with his right hand in a bowl of warm tap water and his sheets soaked with something that was yellowish and gave off a funky odor.

At fourteen, Sam Winchester had wet the bed. Dean hadn't let him live it down for over a month.

Right now, though the moment was his and he could finally let his guard down. The hunt had been rough. He hated wendigoes and the fight he had gotten into with his Dad about moving again, had thrown off his concentration. That had resulted in getting him thrown into a tree.

It was bad enough that his father was mad at him but now the vegetation was also out to get him? He rolled his shoulders trying to work out some of kinks. Damn. For inhuman freaks, those monsters could throw pretty hard.

Of course, Dean had come in, his shining armor— a leather jacket, torn jeans and a tousled graphic T-shirt displaying the name of some random heavy metal band—blazing in the silver moonlight and his sword— 12-guage metal flare gun, aimed at the "supernatural shit who was going to end up worse then dead for touching his Sammy."

It did and when Sam regained consciousness, he heard the full version of the lecture on paying attention to his surroundings and not letting distractions cloud his mind while Dean kept a casual arm around him to make sure he wouldn't fall over. Or at least that was Dean's justification.

In reality, they both knew Sam's head was probably only a little bit softer then Dean's...whose head was probably a little bit softer then pure diamond. So the chances of Sam having a concussion were slim, especially since John had already checked for signs of one and had announced Sam to be sullen but fine.

Sam was too old to admit outright that he needed his big brother, especially in front of their father. Fortunately Dean had never required Sam to say the words. He had even regulated himself to the backseat, on the account of some heinous crime he had committed against the neighbor's rottweiler that liked to bay at the moon at 2 AM on Sunday mornings.

Dean spent the hour drive humming Metallica and telling Sam that maybe he should sleep for a little because he looked worse then Bobby did after he was possessed by the ghost of an OCD housewife and woke up to a clean, organized junk yard.

So Sam listened to his brother's voice, echoing deep in his chest in cadence with his heart beat, and the rain drumming on the roof of the Impala, the only home he's ever known, and nodded off.

His father had woken him up when he screeched to a halt on the graveled driveway, as Newton's second law—a body in motion stays in motion, even if its environment comes to a rest—caused him to fly forward and almost hit the back of the bench seat.

Dean easily caught him but this action caused the pain in his back to ignite and erupt like a fiery inferno, making him cry out loud. Luckily he managed to swallow back any further exclamations because Dean looked guilty as he muttered a quick apology and his dad looked border-lined pissed as he told the both of them to get in the house before they got sick.

His dad took out the first aid kit, checked his pupils once again for a concussion and then quickly bandaged up the gash in his back. The fact that it didn't require stitches was his only lucky break of the night.

He hated needles and getting his back sewn up would have been like coconut icing on a devil's food cake—which for the record is the only dessert that has ever made him puke. His first grade teacher had said it was because his angelic nature required even figurative evils to be purged from his body. Dean had said it was because of his weak stomach, which further proved him to be a girl.

So after his dad had once again proclaimed him to be okay, which by Winchester standards meant he wasn't lying on the floor with his intestines pooling out of him, bleeding to death, and he had beat Dean 2 out of 3 at rock-paper-scissors (Dean always went for the scissors), he clambered into the shower ready for some peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, five minutes had probably past because in the distance, he could hear Dean banging on the door; it actually sounded like a Zeppelin drum solo. Sam wanted to yell at him to go away or at least beg for a couple more minutes but he couldn't seem to get his voice to carry over the pounding. It was getting louder with each passing minute and was now accompanied by a strange roaring sound.

Maybe Dean was playing a prank on him. The shower was supposed to be neutral territory but it wouldn't be the first time Dean had broken the rules. After the Nair incident of '92, Sam had learned to lock the door but Dean could get past a complex security alarm within the span of a few seconds, so antique doorknob with a lock that creaked everytime someone used it shouldn't be so hard to pick. He reached for the shower knob but his hands met thin air as the steam billowed around him. Suddenly it became harder to breath and Sam couldn't help but wonder if there were some internal injuries his father had missed. After all, it wouldn't be the first time.

Before he could even start to panic about the lack of oxygen and the churning pain in the pit of his stomach, the world faded in and out, as Sam's differentiation between reality and nightmares became skewed. As shadows danced across his vision, Sam Winchester realized three things: it was close to midnight and he had a chemistry paper due tomorrow, Dean was going to kill him because there was no hot water left, and the floor was a lot closer than it should have been.

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Cliffy...I know they're evil and I hate when other people leave them...but they are the perfect way to partion up the chapters.

Please review and try not to leave too many flames...I've had way too many discouragments lately

PS...I love English but my grammer is atrocious so i apologize for any mistakes