A minor idea that kind of grew (yes, this is what I do in my math class. This is how productive I am). Yes, it is mainly about Adam, but Sam and Dean and other main characters (Cas, Bobby etc.) are featured. Also, there are spoilers for season six.
Prologue;
He didn't know how long it had been.
Ten years? A hundred? A thousand? He didn't know anymore. He didn't care. Time didn't exactly matter in Hell.
If he could laugh, he would. He wasn't even twenty-one yet and he'd already crossed into Heaven and Hell. Funny enough, he wasn't sure which one he actually preferred. At least in Hell, he wasn't being manipulated and lied to by fucking angels. Then again, being torn and cut apart every possible way every day wasn't exactly a cakewalk either.
He couldn't even die in peace. Living had been hard enough, and hell, he'll admit there were times, years ago, when his teen years took a bad turn, that he wanted to end it. But he hadn't. He couldn't leave his mom alone.
He wondered what would have been if he had followed though.
All he wanted was peace. Just to sleep forever, not have to worry about angels or the Devil or the Apocalypse or anything. But no, apparently that was too much to ask for. In the dark, back corner of his mind, he wonders about his brothers. Is Dean still alive? Is Sam down here with him? The thought momentarily sickens him. While the condescending, 'we are family' tone still rings in his mind, he knew Sam was only trying to help.
Besides, they were family, weren't they?
Amber Hamilton woke up, shivering, her head filled with images.
It wasn't the first time this had happened. In fact, it'd been a regular thing since her childhood that she'd wake up, freezing cold, shaking, searching frantically for her sketchbook.
Finally, after uprooting a pile of dirty laundry, she found it. Quickly flipping to a blank page, she held her favorite sketching pencil over it, and closed her eyes. Her hands work fast, flying across the paper with passion and deliberation. Just lines at first, then slowly, like a figure immerging from the fog, it starts to become clear.
It was a man – no, not even a man. A boy, maybe Amber's age. He lay, sleeping on the ground. In a field? On campus? In some poor bastards front yard?
The pencil flew faster, the picture coming together in record time. Two arches appeared beside the boy's shoulders. Slated downwards. Harsh, straight lines disappeared, replaced by soft curves and smudged lines.
Finally, her hand relaxed, and her mind fell quiet. Furrowing her thin eyebrows and brushing her straight, mahogany brown hair behind her ear, Amber studied the picture.
It was a boy, laying in a graveyard. Angel wings lay on either side of him, open like flowers in the spring.
The boy with angel wings.