Title: Static Cling [7/?]
Author: morkhan
Warnings: Cursing, teeth-rotting cuteness, violence! In that order.
Characters: Bobby, Sam, Dean, Adam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5100
Summary: Sam and Dean commit a heinous invasion of privacy. Adam takes his privacy pretty fucking seriously.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.

Author's Notes: VIOLENCE! Finally, there is some action in this story. XD I can't seem to write a story without throwing in a gratuitous action scene or two. Probably being raised on all those violent video games… ah well. It's a violent world. Well, it's a violent show, anyway. ;) Reviews are greatly appreciated.


The drive to Windom from Sioux Falls is a little under two hours, going the speed limit. Which means that even in Bobby's clanking pile of scrap held together with duct tape and magic wishes, he does it in an hour twenty-five. And only because he got stuck behind a chicken truck at one point.

"I'm on my way," Dean says into his cell.

"I take it your pow-wow didn't go too well?" Sam replies from the other end.

"Like a triple somersault high dive into an empty pool."

"Ouch," Sam says.

"Tell me about it. So, exactly where are you guys?"

"At the home of Kate Milligan," Sam says, sounding slightly distracted.

"…the Hell? It's still there? They didn't sell it?" Dean asks.

"They can't, because Kate Milligan isn't 'dead' yet. We burned her body, and the bodies of the ghouls. No body, no death certificate, so under common law, nobody can touch her stuff for a few more years."

"Huh," Dean says. He never really thought about what happened to people after he and Sam blow through. Well… he occasionally thinks about what happens to the living. He never thought about the dead ones past cremation. "And what exactly are you doing at Kate Milligan's house?" Dean says as he turns left at a red light.

"Why, digging through dead people's possessions to find objects of value to use in an occult ritual, what else?" Dean knows that Sam only sounds sarcastic—this is practically just another day on the job for them. In a way, it feels almost nice. Not being followed around by the smell of teen spirit, no longer floundering for answers that may or may not exist… just identifying a problem, finding a solution, and putting it into action. It's a hunt again.

Only you're hunting family, Dean's asshole brain reminds him. All the forces of destiny and the afterlife seemed determined for him to hunt down and destroy his brother. And now, apparently, they're long past caring about which brother it is.

"Any luck?" Dean says, jumping back into the conversation after he realizes Sam is probably wondering if the line went dead.

"None whatsoever," Sam cheerfully informs him. "For one thing, we don't know Adam from… well, Adam, but to make matters worse, the place has been broken into and robbed. Several times."

Dean shakes his head. "Ah, humans."

"Gotta love 'em," Sam finishes. "Anyway, they didn't take everything, so there's bound to be something here we can use. The search should go a little faster with your help. You know the way?"

Dean shrugs. "You kidding me? I'm like a human GPS. I am a freaking navigational savant, dude. Surely you know that by now."

"Yeah, Rain Man, you're an excellent driver," Sam quips. "See you soon."

Dean flips his phone shut and drives on. It's the darkest part of the night—just before dawn, of course, fucking symbolism. He takes a look at the speedometer, and decides he's still underachieving in the law breaking department. Pushing the pedal to the floor, he lets the momentum push Adam to the back of his mind. Hopefully, he'll stay there for a while.


Haunted houses are creepy. Of that, there's no doubt. The older ones are almost a cliché at this point, but there's still something that just gets Dean's skin crawling about a place, obviously once lived-in, slowly falling to pieces with everything inside still intact. If the actual bodies were corpses of people, the houses were the corpses of the lives they lived, both slowly rotting into mockeries of their former selves before crumbling into nothing.

But the old ones, imposing though they are, have nothing on new haunted houses. Places that look like you could've lived there—that anyone you know could've been living there, just a little while ago. It's the uncanny valley, or whatever it's called. The closer something is to the way it's supposed to be without quite being there, the creepier it somehow becomes. From the outside, it looks like anyone's house. A few of the windows are taped up where they've been broken, and there are no lights on, but other than that… it looks just like any other house on the street. And yet… there's just something… off about it.

"Hey," Dean says, as the phone connects to Sam. "I'm here. Where're you?"

"Attic. Come in through the back." The call ends there.

Inside, of course, is even creepier. Dean enters through the door to the kitchen. There's a layer of dust, almost thick enough to be a film draped over pretty much everything. At a glance, it seems like a normal kitchen in the darkness. It's only a thorough second look that reveals several objects to be illusions—shapes of things that used to be there, perfectly outlined in dust, the looters taking what they wanted and not touching a damn thing more. Place stinks to Hell—a pungent mix of mold and mildew and old, rotten food. Dean is willing to bet that whatever was in the refrigerator the last time he was here is still there, rotten and oozing out of its containers. With his luck, it'll congeal into some kind of monster and try to kill him. Attack of the Fucking Leftovers.

Dean remembers this house. It seems like forever ago since he was last here, with that sick fuck of a monster masquerading as their blood to get a taste of Sammy's. He remembers the pictures of John, smiling like a jackass with a boy he had never met in his fucking life, remembers and most definitely does not look at those pictures as he passes by. Instead, he looks at the wallpaper, which has already started to crack in places, peeling away like sunburned skin. Dead. Toast. Finished. It's strange what a couple of years of no heat in winter or air in summer will do to a place. It's easy to take stuff like this for granted. You don't miss it 'til it's gone.

The attic is easy enough to find—it's open and waiting for him, after all. It's one of those things that's almost too convenient, and while Dean doesn't really think he should expect any bad surprises, given the general ambience of the place, he decides to keep a hand on his weapon just in case.

When he reaches the top of the ladder, he finds Sam and Bobby… watching TV?

"Dean," Sam nods. "Pull up a seat."

"What're we watching?" Dean asks.

"Home movies," Bobby says in a voice that tells him all he needs to know about the excitement documented here.

"Okay… little creepy, but I'm guessing there's a reason for this," Dean says, sitting down in front of the TV. On it, a much smaller Adam runs around a much cleaner version of the kitchen he was just in, using the stretchy straps on his party hat to sling-shot it at his friends, and trying to dodge the returning volleys. It's a full-blown hat war.

"We tried to set up the ritual, but we hit a little snag. It needs a place, and an object that the spirit cherished in life," Bobby says.

"Bobby found a generator in the basement that still works. Most of the good stuff downstairs is gone, but no one came up here, so we were able to rig up this old TV and VCR. We figure that there has to be some kind of happy childhood memento for us to invoke," Sam says.

"Okay… I still don't get why we're watching dead people's family memories," Dean says. On screen, the hat war has abated, and Adam and his friends seem pretty content playing with dinosaurs and eating each other. There's some definite food chain confusion going on as some kid tries to use a brontosaurus to eat Adam's T-Rex. Adam, for his part, is playing along.

"Intel," Bobby states, simply.

"The more cherished the object, the more likely the spell is to actually work. And we really don't have time to set up and invoke a new spell for every piece of crap up here," Sam says. "So we're seeing if we can get any clues from these."

The logic in that is fairly sound. "Any luck so far?"

"We've got bupkis," Bobby grunts.

"There were a couple of things that looked promising, but they've either been stolen or just plain lost," Sam says. Dean notices for the first time that there's something a little odd about Sam's expression, even if it doesn't quite come through in his voice. He looks a little sad.

Well, it doesn't get much more depressing than watching videos of your dead little brother to try and figure out how to send him to an afterlife he's desperate to avoid.

"Well, alright," Dean says, trying to adjust himself into a more comfortable position. "A marathon of Adam Milligan, This Is Your Life. I've sat through worse…"


Dean is a glutton for his own words. He can't stop eating them.

"This was a fucking stupid idea," Dean says, leaning on his elbow and trying desperately not to fall asleep. Bobby has already nodded off. Dean envies the old coot. "Where the fuck did she even get the time to record all this?"

"There's really not that much here," Sam says. "At least, not compared to most people with a camera. From what I can tell, she hasn't recorded that many events… it's just that when she did record—"

"She taped absolutely. Fucking. Everything," Dean finishes. Seriously, it's like she didn't know cameras had an 'off' button, and thought the only way to stop recording was to let the battery run out. "God, this is boring. And not helpful. Like, at all." Seriously—Adam was a cute kid, he'll give her that, but sheesh. Editing is truly the soul of film-making.

Sam, nerd that he is, doesn't seem bored in the slightest. "There has to be something we can use," he says, popping in the next video.

Dean opens his mouth to call Sam several things that should not be repeated in polite company, but what actually pops up on tape brings it to a shaky stop at the edge of his teeth.

"Oh my God, he's doing it!" Kate says excitedly from behind the camera. "I have to get this on tape," she says as she rounds the corner, keeping most of herself just behind the wall as she tries to film covertly. What she's filming is Adam, the youngest they've seen him yet, just a toddler. He's in the living room, bent over with his head on the ground, pushing it around and dragging it along the ground like the front end of a bulldozer. It's… well, it's weird as hell, but it's also… well, it's just a little bit… you know… adorable, or whatever. Maybe.

Wee little Adam continues to diligently push his head on the carpet, until Kate finally makes herself known.

"Adam," she says, and Widdle Adam on the screen comes to a halt (though his head's still on the ground). "Awww, sweetie, are you tired?" she says gently.

Widdle Adam seems to take a second to consider this. "Uh-huh," he says, nodding sagely (and, of course, rubbing his hair on the carpet, as he seems to have no intentions of hefting his head upright any time soon).

He can almost hear Kate Milligan's smile. "Is it time to go to sleep?" she says.

Widdle Adam's answer comes much faster this time. "Nuh-uh," he says, shaking his head.

She laughs, shaking the camera just a little. "But you need to, sweetie. If you don't, you'll just always be tired. Do you want to always be tired?"

Widdle Adam shakes his head. "Nuh-uh."

"Well, I'm glad. You're cranky when you're tired," she teases.

"Nuh-uuuuh!" Widdle Adam denies indignantly, proving her right.

"Okay, so let's try this again. Is it time to go to sleep?"

The on-screen baby thinks for just a second before nodding reluctantly. "Uh-huh."

"That's my good boy," she says, putting the camera down on a side table. "Come to mama."

"'kay," Widdle Adam says as he diligently pushes his bulldozer-head over to her. Kate steps into frame and pulls him up, and Adam takes no time at all to latch onto her and snuggle into her shoulder. From there, she steps back over to the camera, and all Dean hears is a few clicks as she presses the buttons to turn the camera off (oh, she does know how).

Nothing else seems to be on that tape. It runs in silence for a minute before Sam reaches over to eject it, filling the room with the sound of white noise. Hints of sunlight are starting to peek in through the cracks in the attic. It's sunrise already?

"Well, cute as that was, it was, once again, not helpful," Dean says, trying to keep his emotional levees intact from the massive flood of glurge and stupid saccharine sweetness currently trying to drown him in estrogen.

Sam doesn't say anything, and Dean notices something is a little… off in Sam's posture. He's seen this before. "Dude, are you crying?"

"No," Sam denies, entirely too quickly.

"You are!" Dean says, pointing to him. He gets up and moves around to look at Sam's face, and sure enough, there are tear tracks running down the sides. "Oh, for crying out loud. For the last time, do you, or do you not have ovaries?"

Sam's teary-eyed bitchface is one for the ages. "Fuck you, Dean," he says.

Dean smiles, but truth be told, the more he thinks about it, the more he's starting to wonder. Not about the ovaries, of course. But about other things. "Seriously, Sam. Do you feel sorry for the kid, or don't you? I mean, it's like one minute you want to give him a hug, the next, you want to jam a corkscrew up his nose and pull out his brains."

Long fingers come up to massage the bridge of Sam's nose. "I'm trying to stay—"

He stops.

"What?" Dean asks.

"The TV," Sam says.

"What about it?"

"There's no noise."

Dean tunes his ears in and notices that, yeah, the sound is off. "…okay. There are a couple of reasons this could…"

His sentence is interrupted as the TV's speakers start making sound again. But this time, there's no white noise… instead, it's an electric guitar, a single note being plucked low and steady in triplets. It's the beginning of a song, one Dean swears he recognizes but can't quite name. It's a moot point, anyway, as it's not the song, but the meaning behind it they've got to worry about.

"Shit," Sam says.

"Bobby!" Dean shouts, running over to the old hunter to shake him awake and nearly getting decked for his trouble. "Dude, wake up!" he says, pulling him to his feet.

"Whur's'dam'fire?" Bobby grumbles, only for Sam to shove the tape, and several other items into his arms.

"Bobby, take this stuff and get it somewhere safe. Set up a perimeter, we'll be right behind you," he says.

"Why?" Bobby asks, still not fully awake.

Dean sighs. "Our spook is loose."

And the song begins…

All my life
I've been searching for something
Something never comes
Never leads to nothing
Nothing satisfies
But I'm getting close
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope...

Bobby looks like he wants to stay, but Dean puts that to rest. "Bobby, please. He won't kill us, but he might kill you."

All night long
I dream of the day…

The old hunter shakes his head and boogies over to the ladder, while Sam and Dean prepare for a fight. Because Dean knows this song, and it's no joke.

When it comes around
Then it's taken away…

Leaves me with the feeling
That I fear the most…

A shotgun, locked and loaded with rock salt flies through the air and lands in Dean's outstretched hand, the opening steps of a dance they know by heart.

Feel it come to life
When I see your ghost.

"Boo."

Adam pops out of the air in front of Sam, and thrusts his hand at the giant just as the giant aims his shotgun. Both hit their mark—Adam's spiritual body is blasted into vapor by sodium chloride, and Sam (along with Dean) go flying through the air, landing ass-first on a box of Christmas ornaments. From the sound of things, very few of them survive the impact.

"Fucking creepers," Adam's voice says from somewhere far above them. "Stay out of my stuff."

"Right back at ya, wispy little fart," Dean grunts.

Sam says nothing as he hefts himself off the box. He probably doesn't even notice it, but when he gets up, Dean can see large pieces of a busted nutcracker embedded in his jeans.

A whirling sound makes Dean's ears twitch, and he moves his head just in time to avoid taking a picture frame to the forehead. His legs kick back and shoot forward to catapult his own glass-encrusted ass back on his feet. Several more picture frames spin through the air towards them, like priceless memories encased in ninja stars. Dean opts for a running dodge, guessing (correctly) that Adam doesn't have much experience at hitting a moving target. Sam moves backwards steadily, doing the occasional pivot to let a frame brush past, even deflecting one with his shotgun. He seems to be looking for Adam so he can shoot him, but really, that really shouldn't be their priority at the moment.

"Sam!" Dean shouts. "Come on, dude!"

"Where are you," Sam growls as he steadily scans the room.

"Everywhere you want to be, asshole."

It's a cue for him to try something. Sam knows it, Dean knows it, but does Adam know they know? Apparently so, because while Sam is prepared to take an attack from pretty much any direction, he is in no way prepared to have the fucking floor blasted out from under him.

"Sam!" Dean shouts uselessly as he stupidly, stupidly runs over to the hole his little brother just disappeared into. Icy shivers creep up Dean's spine, and he turns to find Adam glaring at him from about two microns away, eyes practically radioactive with rage, shining, hateful, and… moist? Is he sad? "Adam…"

"You got some nerve coming here," he growls. And suddenly, there is an ectoplasmic fist planted in Dean's gut, sending him through the same hole as Sam in a perfect swoosh. And of course, because the universe hates them both, Dean lands right on top of Sam. The jingling of broken glass tells him that yes, he did have plenty of holiday cheer attached to his rear, and yes, those were definitely genuine glass ornaments because Sam is cursing and shouting like Dean just stabbed him several times.

"SHIT, Dean! FUCK, get off!" Sam says, trying to hulk out from under him with sheer strength. The need to do so is promptly removed when Dean is automagically pulled into the air and thrust through the door into the hallway, where Adam's super dead kid force powers keep him pinned to the drywall. He isn't sure exactly when he dropped his gun, but he knows it ain't in his hand, which leaves him pretty much screwed to high heaven and back.

Adam appears in front of him, and wraps a set of ghost fingers around his throat. It feels roughly akin to being strangled by popsicles. "You made me come here… you're trying to make me remember, aren't you?" he growls, squeezing very, very hard and okay, maybe Dean should start questioning that whole 'he won't kill us!' thing, because… oxygen? Anyone? Sometime soon would be nice.

The gunshot that heralds Adam's disappearance is like a hallelujah chorus for Dean's lungs. At least one of them kept hold of their weapon. "Come on!" Sam says, grabbing Dean and pulling him towards the kitchen. His shotgun finds its way back into his hands from Sam's. So that's where it went.

They make it as far as the dining room before Adam appears in their path. "You left or right handed?" he growls. "I need to know which arm to cut off."

Sam aims and fires, but Adam bamfs away easily, appearing right next to Sam's outstretched arm. "Right it is!" he says, a wolfish grin appearing as he grabs Sam's arm, with each hand on one side of his elbow, and snaps it like a fucking twig, just before Dean is able to blast him away.

To his eternal credit, Sam does not scream. He does, however, give a Hell of a shout before he abruptly closes his mouth to stop himself from puking all over the filthy carper. "Come on, Sammy," Dean says, wrapping Sam's good arm around his shoulder.

"Well… I guess… he's not haunting… the car," Sam grits through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, thank Heaven for small miracles," Dean quips, about halfway through the kitchen before the refrigerator door swings open just in time to blindside him and knock him over onto Sam, bending his arm even further in ways nature did not intend. This time, he definitely does scream, and Dean can't blame him. And to make matters about a hundred thousand jillion times worse… well, he called it. He fucking called it. Attack of the Fucking Leftovers. Gobs and globules of filthy, tepid, stinking rotten slime fire out of the fridge like it's launching artillery. Biological warfare. The dirtiest bomb in the history of dirt…

"You know, it's kind of fun, kicking your asses. I can see why it's such a popular pastime," Adam sneers from nowhere.

Dean almost opens his mouth to retort, but remembering what he's currently covered in slams it shut and seals it with a welding torch. Besides, Sam seems to have it covered. "Come out and say that to my face, you snide little shit!" the larger Winchester snarls, shrugging Dean off of him as easily as a blanket and rising to his feet.

Adam doesn't take the bait. "Come on!" Sam shouts, something dripping from one of his bangs (ew, ew, ewww, Dean is kind of glad he doesn't have hair for this crap to get in). But still Adam doesn't answer.

"Fuck it, let's go, Sammy!" Dean says, trying to pull him over to the door, but the refrigerator apparently isn't done fucking with them yet, as it wrenches itself from its customary spot and plants right in front of the door before Dean can stop it. "Fuck!"

Wood on wood, the sound of drawers being forcibly wrenched open. This heralds nothing but pain for them.

"Shit, he's pulling the silverware," Dean says.

"He's in here," is all Sam replies.

"I fucking know that!" Dean shouts, running into the dining room and hearing the dull thunk of a knife being embedded in the wall somewhere behind him. Moving target, you little shit…

"No, I mean he's in here. Even if we can't see him, he's physically somewhere in this room," Sam says, as he dodges behind a corner, barely avoiding a volley of spoons

He makes a mighty good point. Dean pulls out his cell, switches over to the camera function. Sam does the same. A quick sweep of the room reveals nothing interesting, but when they barge into the dining room, they find their ghost. But it's not exactly what they expect…

Adam's back is turned to them. He is staring at one of the pictures Dean definitely definitely did not look at. He is no longer attacking them, no longer even seems interested in them. It's the perfect opportunity to escape. Which is probably why Sam decides to ruin it by raising his shotgun and firing into Adam's back, turning him into ghost dust again. It isn't until Adam has vanished that Dean can get a good look at what he was gawking at.

It was a framed picture of Kate Milligan. Dean says 'was' because now it's not much of anything recognizable as a picture. "Sam! What the fuck?"

"He was distracted," Sam says, turning towards Dean and wincing.

"I know! We run when he's distracted, not… nevermind." Sam looks really pained at the moment, eyes big, moist and unfocused, teeth clenched tight. Dean decides to chalk this little misstep up to having a freshly broken arm and being covered in slop and thus unable to think clearly.

"Now I'm really pissed…" Adam's voice seems to come from all around them.

"And that's our cue to leave. Let's go!" Dean shouts.

As they head towards the front door, Dean feels something that makes his hair stand on end… but it isn't the frigid feeling of a phantom presence. It's different, more familiar somehow, more mundane. It prickles at his skin, makes him aware of every inch of it. It glues his clothes to his body, raises his hackles, and tingles almost like… static.

Dean feels Sam shove him over to the side before dodging away himself, just in time to avoid the searing bolt of light that splits the air between them. A sharp crack, as loud as any shotgun, accompanies the blast, momentarily robbing Dean of his hearing as he scrambles to get upright and figure out what the fuck just happened.

Adam's ghost stands in the hallway, one hand outstretched, a look of absolute shock on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches Sam with a near-identical expression. Dean feels like the only one who doesn't know what just happened, but he keeps looking at Adam—there. A little arc of electricity leaps between Adam's fingers, and…

Wait.

What.

No.

No.

Absolutely freaking not. No fucking way. There is absolutely freaking no goddamn fucking way that Dean is going to accept—

"Did you just throw lightning at us?" Sam asks.

Adam raises spectral eyebrows. "…uhhh, yeah." He tilts his head to the side. An erratic orange light catches Dean's attention; a curtain is on fire. The kid just threw lightning at them and set a curtain on fire. "…I didn't know I could do that," he says in awe.

"Huh," Dean says, voice effused with the fakest nonchalance ever faked. "And to think, all this time I was worried about you going to the Dark Side, Sammy."

Sammy looks like he's trying very hard not to look amused. Adam full-on smiles, in the way a monkey 'smiles' at you before it punches your face off and bites through your neck.

"Oh, shit," Sam deadpans, before Adam launches into a truly epic Emperor Palpatine routine.

"POWER," he hams at the top of his nonexistent lungs, letting loose with another volley of electric boogaloo in their general direction. Either the kid sucks or lightning is harder to aim than it looks, because Dean dodges way too late and most of it still goes around him. That in no way makes it any less scary as jesus-christ-fuck, and it manages to spark a few more fires.

"UNLIMITED… POWER!" he cries as he launches a bolt at Sam, who fails to dodge even worse than Dean—and unlike Dean, he pays for it, taking the bolt full on and wildly spasming before collapsing to the ground and smoking. And not moving. Sammy is on the ground, smoke rising off of his body, and he is not moving. And the house is on fire. The house is on fire, and Dean's little brother just got flash-fried by his other little brother who is already dead and some kind of ghost and ALSO APPARENTLY A FUCKING SITH LORD, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, THE REST OF IT JUST WASN'T QUITE SHITTY ENOUGH. There are no words to properly describe how fucked all of this is.

Dean blows his cover spectacularly and doesn't even care, as Adam seems to be distracted with flexing his newfound thunderballs. All around him, circuits and outlets in the walls overload and explode, sending sparks everywhere and starting more and more mini-blazes that probably won't stay mini for very long. He slides the last few feet on his knees, reaching Sam and shaking him like a bag of potatoes. "Sam! SAM.Wake up!"

His hair stands on end again, and Adam has him up off the ground before he can even think of shooting. The kid stares him right in the eyes as he speaks. "Don't worry. He'll live. And so will you. You're both gonna live a nice, long time. Little brother'll make sure of that… oh, man. This was fun. I can hardly wait 'til next time…" He draws Dean in for the final malediction. "And don't give me that look. I fucking told you, didn't I? Maybe next time, you'll listen." Dean opens his mouth to reply, but his words just wind up being swallowed by an agonized scream as Adam proceeds to find each and every one of Dean's nerve endings and pump each of them with enough juice to light him up like a fucking Times Square billboard. His vision fades to white, and his abused brain finally throws up his hands, says 'fuck this noise' and quits for the day.

Blackness follows.


His consciousness comes in waves after that. Next thing he notices, he is sprawled on the lawn outside the Milligan's household, unable to turn his head away as he watches it burn to the ground. The water recedes, and Dean is out again. The next wave comes with a face. Guy in uniform. Paramedic, EMT, and Dean is in the back of an ambulance. The guy's mouth moves, but his words are so echo-y and distant that they all run together, and Dean doesn't get any of it. The tide goes out again. When it comes back for the final time, Dean is being loaded onto a stretcher just outside the hospital. There are a lot of numbers and letters being thrown around, but Dean's way too out-of-it to connect any of the dots to form a picture, and besides, he can already feel the wave going back out again. Hopefully, these nice people are getting ready to load him up on some of the good stuff so he can float on the ocean instead of just laying on the beach.

The last thing he hears is a sing-song little voice, barely a whisper, bidding him farewell as he falls into the void…

"Get well soon."


A/N: Song used this chapter…
All My Life – Foo Fighters

ALSO: Fun fact—the original name for this chapter was "Adam Milligan and the Winchesters: The Lightning Ghost." XP