Karna - Chapter One
Okay, so I started this a while ago - and only now am bringing it to LJ. I will be working on finishing this after my exams get over in a couple of weeks' time, so until then, here's what's already done.
This will be a multi-chap, not more than 5-6 parts, I expect. And no, it isn't a typo: Karna refers to the Mahabharata character of the same name. The parallels I draw between Adam and Karna are superficial at best - I will be the first to admit that I'm no great literary character analyst or such-like - but the idea was enticing and fun, so.
Summary: The first time Sam and Dean met Adam Milligan, it was a few days before the Christmas of '06, and he was a high school student who could set fires with his mind. AU.
Warnings: AU, but set after 2.10: Hunted, so SPOILERS up till the same. Also, some specific spoilers for the rest of season 2, season 4, and very, very vague ones for Season 5. Swearing, violence, blood and gore, weirdness.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
One
"Are you sure about this?"
Images resolved in the dark with painful slowness: the silhouette of a girl with long hair looking up at a taller boy, her hands clutching at his sleeve. Black against black, figures in a moving, organic darkness.
"Ssh," the boy said, moving out of her grip. "It's gonna be fine." Scraping and sliding sounds emerged, the sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened as the boy's silhouette moved steadily away from the girl's. Suddenly, he stopped. "I mean, that's... you do, you know, wanna... with me, right? I mean... you know."
"Oh? Um, yeah," the girl said quickly. "Totally. It's just... you know," she paused, and threw her arm out in a wide gesture, "this isn't exactly what I'd had in mind when you said we'd get all the privacy we need."
"Oh, we will," the boy said. "Nobody really ever comes to this place." He let out a soft cry of triumph as he found what he was looking for. A few more sounds and a drag-snap later, their immediate surroundings were illuminated by the weak, flickering light of the candle that the boy held in his hand. "Romantic yet?" he said, his teeth glinting in the yellow light.
"You couldn't be romantic if you were a hundred year old vampire," she replied, throwing her arms around his neck. "But you'll do."
"You know," Dean said dryly, "if that turns out to be a kinky dream and not a vision, you are so buying us a steak dinner tonight."
Sam blinked. He was lying on the floor, the cobwebby motel room ceiling and Dean's face swirling in slow circles above him. The chair he'd been sitting in just a few minutes ago lay by his side, overturned. Frowning, he tried to move, only to stop abruptly as his head violently protested the idea. "Auuughahh..."
"Well, yeah, okay, you're buying dinner anyway. When's the last time you -"
Sam gave another deliberate blink, trying to force down his nausea. He was actually rather surprised he could even see, considering the building ache behind his eyes that throbbed with every beat of his pulse. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Deaaan..."
Finally, Dean reached down to help him. Clutching gratefully at Dean's outstretched arm, Sam hauled himself to his feet. He closed his eyes to spare himself further ballet moves from the room (Swan Lake on acid, a very concussed Dean had informed him once, much to Sam's amusement and wonder that his brother had actually made a reference to classical ballet). Dean guided him to the nearest bed and Sam sat down, leaning forward, digging his fingers into his hair, pushing at his temples.
"So. What was it?"
"What do you think it was?" Sam began to massage his temples. "Another vision." He'd hoped, during the lean period after the debacle with the demon-virus-hit-town, that the visions had ceased for good - but clearly, that had been asking for too much. There was more; more like him, Max, Anson, Ava; more that he had to witness, contend, justify, even as he skirted dangerously close to whatever the hell his destiny was meant to be -
"Dude, you were smiling."
Sam opened his eyes with some difficulty and stared at his brother.
Dean shrugged. "You were smiling just before you fell. Can't be too much of a death vision if you're grinning like you just got locked into a library." He paused, and cocked his head. "Unless you were watching some kind of creepy demonic foreplay, in which case -"
"Dean." Sam huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes in case they actually fell out of his skull. "The vision isn't over."
Dean froze. "What?"
"The pain's not letting up," Sam muttered, dipping his face in his hands. "Gathering." Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure. The last time he'd had a vision that came in fits and starts was way back in Salvation, when Dad was -
His gut clenched, and his nausea spiked at the memory.
Okay. Not up to reliving that yet, apparently.
"Sam," Dean said, his hands gripping Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, c'mon man, it'll be over, c'mon -"
Sam realised he was shaking uncontrollably.
He opened his mouth to reassure Dean (it's okay dean you don't have to save me because i have to save and i have to save so many and this is a part of it it has to be) but the pain reached a frightening crescendo that short-circuited his vital systems: all sensation was lost, and when he managed to open his eyes again, he was back in the old house, in the candlelit room with the two young lovers.
It was more erratic now: images that came in flashes, like darkness split through by lightning.
The drip of wax from the lit candle onto the table -
The couple throwing long, flickering shadows across the dusty walls as they kissed -
A distinct whump sound, as the little flame expanded - an abrupt increase in its intensity as it quickly ate up the remaining wax with a preternatural speed and began scorching the table -
The fire then touching the tips of the girl's hair even as the boy's hands ran underneath her shirt and she was gasping and giggling into his mouth -
The fire then big enough for them to notice, panic, cough and choke on the rancid smell of burning hair; bright enough to illuminate 'Windom Eagles' emblazoned over the boy's jacket -
Their bewildered cries as the boy tried to put out the flames eating up her hair even as the fire began to expand quickly, consuming the old rickety wood all around them -
The raging inferno drowning out their screams -
Yellow-red-gold, heat and chaos consuming the world as the room began to collapse on itself, burning wooden beams falling to the floor before the ceiling gave way -
- the heat, smoke, a profound suffocation as the flames sucked in all air and gave death in return -
And -
Sam woke to the smell of his father's aftershave.
I don't want to go to bed, Dad. I'm scared.
"Hey. Sammy. You okay?"
Sam blinked, and realised he was in his brother's arms. Any other time, this would lead to them scrambling, embarrassed, to the opposite ends of the room before Sam could say "chick-flick moment" but all Sam could think at the time was how much his head hurt and Dean wears Dad's aftershave. Huh.
He gave himself a moment or two to allow the pain to subside to tolerable levels before sitting up. Both of them were wedged rather uncomfortably on the floor between the two beds, Sam practically spilling onto Dean's lap. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, only to slump light-headedly onto the bed.
"Hey, take it easy." Dean got up, reached out for the water-jug on the bedside table and poured out a glassful. Sam took it and drank deeply. "We need to check this out, Dean," he said when he was done.
Dean's eyes didn't quite meet his. "So. Another death vision, huh."
"Yeah." Sam thought he could still feel the scorching heat, the smoke settling in his lungs, his flesh peeling off his bones - the pain rose and scattered his thoughts again like pieces of an upended jigsaw puzzle. He needed to - he needed to concentrate (he needed to be on time). "Fire. Supernatural, I think - it was spreading way too fast." He frowned. "The boy and girl - they were - wait. Was it, uh, Win - uh, Windom, and Eagles, and oh god, Dean, they were being burnt alive -"
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "You do realise that you're making even less sense than usual, right?'
Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just give me the laptop. And some aspirin." He closed his eyes. "Better yet, a narc or two."
Dean laughed. "So says the man who gets drunk after just two beers."
"Shove it."
There weren't very many things to do in Windom, Minnesota.
Or so Adam Milligan tried telling himself.
After the last day of school, on a day when most of his classmates were busy planning for the Christmas ahead, hanging out with their friends or vandalising cranky old Mr Portland's prized vegetable garden, his head swam with fear and death. He opened the newspaper he'd flicked from the library that morning again to the second page as he walked home, reading the same article for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, the newsprint already a bit smudged with his sweat.
TWO KILLED IN FIRE ACCIDENT
If they only knew -
But, but. Two killed. Killed. There has to be - maybe - maybe, this is -
No. He wouldn't think about that. Not until he'd talked to Dan, anyway. Dan always had the answers; always helped him feel better about these kinds of things.
He dusted off his snow-speckled jacket as he reached home, finding his mother at the kitchen, fussing over something on the stove. She looked up, smiled wanly as he came inside. She's looking tireder than ever, Adam thought. He felt a momentary stab of guilt - he wasn't really helping matters, having given up his part-time job as a help in various farms, throwing himself into altogether secret, uh, 'hobbies'. But it was all for a purpose, wasn't it? A purpose noble enough to be featured on one of those crappy fantasy 'epic' movies that everybody insisted on watching these days.
She'd understand when the time came.
"Adam," she said. "How was school?"
He gave a non-committal grunt in reply, flinging his bag onto the kitchen table.
"I hope you didn't have anything big planned for the evening," she continued, going back to her work, "I have to work the evening shift today, but it turns out I forgot that Frank Carter's coming over this evening since he can't make it here on Christmas." She paused for a moment, as if wary. "I called him, but he said he'd be coming over anyway, to - to see you."
Adam groaned and slumped into a chair. Frank. His insurance agent uncle with the sweaty palms and the sweatier hugs; sickly sweet smiles and patently false platitudes. "Actually," he said loudly, "that sucks, you know, because I did have something planned -"
"Please, Adam." She turned around to face him finally. "You have to realise that - that he's helping us out some right now; we can't be rude."
You mean, we can't afford to be rude. Still, Adam stared defiantly at his mother. If there was one evening he couldn't afford to stay home, it was that evening.
Kate sighed and tucked a limp blonde strand behind her ear. "Don't make things more difficult, Adam."
Resentment and fear and guilt roiled in Adam's gut. How was this making things more difficult? Because he couldn't stay at home and entertain the guests like a good little son while his mother earned their daily bread? Because he had to go out there and do what he had to, to ensure that he had a mother at all? "Frank's only coming over," he said belligerently, "because he has no life outside of controlling and manipulating us. When's the last time we had some real relatives visiting, anyway?" The hurt on his mother's face sent another stab of guilt lancing through his chest, but he ploughed on. "And this Christmas - you said Dad might come. Is he?"
His mother's eyes slid away from his gaze.
Of course not. John Winchester is way too busy for his illegitimate son.
Adam's jaw locked. It didn't matter. When he met his father for the first time, he would meet him prepared.
"Fine," he said, "Fine. I'll stay." He stalked out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Later that evening, while sitting in the hall and trying his darndest to pick his way through another one of Dan's books, Adam heard a knock at the front door. Rolling his eyes, he tossed the book aside and went to answer it. However, when he opened the door, it wasn't Frank standing in the soft snowfall outside, but someone shorter, hunched over, two bright green eyes staring out of a scarred and pockmarked face.
Adam blinked. "Dan?"
Dan Michaels grinned at him. "Weren't expecting me, were ya?"
"Not really, I mean, Frank was, and, uh -"
"That's okay, I won't be long." He pushed past Adam, kicking off his boots to the side and flinging his scarf and jacket on the sofa. "Just thought you might want to discuss what happened last night, hm?" He threw himself onto the sofa as well, beaming up at Adam.
Adam shifted uncomfortably. "I did as you said," he said. "But - but they've found the remains of two - two p-people there, and they haven't been identified yet, but Carl and Jessie from school are missing and everybody said that they'd been planning to make out at that old place when it burnt down, and - and - if it was a spirit, there shouldn't be human r-remains, right?"
"Adam." Dan leaned forward. "You realise that you just learnt an important lesson, right? The hunt isn't a game. It isn't without its sacrifices, and those sacrifices... may be unintended, certainly unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable."
Adam felt like an iron hand was constricting his chest - he just couldn't breathe any more. "So they are dead," he whispered. "I killed them."
"You were trying to get rid of the spirit." Dan shrugged. "They just happened to be there. You didn't know."
"I should've checked." Adam clutched at his hair with his now-sweaty hands. "Oh god, I should've checked!"
Suddenly Dan was on his feet, grasping his wrists in a firm grip and pulling them away from his head. "Adam, relax!" he barked. "You're going to hyperventilate."
Adam stared at him, scared and half-hating that his eyes were filling with tears. "I didn't mean to..."
"I know. I know you didn't." Dan smiled reassuringly at him. "Experience: that's what you need, Adam. You need to learn how to do this better, need to brush up your Latin, need to be tougher, because those big bastards in the dark? They're going to keep hitting your vulnerable spots. They're going to target the ones you hold near and dear. And you would do anything to protect them, right?"
Adam nodded numbly.
"Then you've got to be prepared for the collateral." He let go of Adam. "This is the kind of life your father lives - or has learned to live with." He swept one arm in a strikingly graceful gesture. "But your gift - that's what's gotta help you, Adam. When you achieve true control of it, that's when you're gonna find that things will get a lot easier. You - you've been practicing?"
"Yes." Adam opened his palm, staring at the centre, trying to draw that familiar hot intensity in his chest up again. He found it easier to do when he was angry or afraid: the power rushed through his limbs and lit up his brain like some crazy adrenaline jag and he could imagine it - imagine the towering flames, their potential, their destructive power; then imagine that he was the fire, able to control its every flicker; and the wild joy that this feeling provided only served to further feed the power within him, until he was completely lost in it.
At first, his attempts were weak, accompanied by skull-splitting headaches and near-endless nosebleeds, but he had long learned to give himself to the fire, and not the other way around.
It became a lot easier after that.
After a brief moment of concentration, a small flame flickered to life in Adam's palm. "Excellent," Dan said, leaning forward, the fire a dancing yellow gleam in his eyes. "John Winchester would be proud."
This will be a multi-chap, not more than 5-6 parts, I expect. And no, it isn't a typo: Karna refers to the Mahabharata character of the same name. The parallels I draw between Adam and Karna are superficial at best - I will be the first to admit that I'm no great literary character analyst or such-like - but the idea was enticing and fun, so.
Summary: The first time Sam and Dean met Adam Milligan, it was a few days before the Christmas of '06, and he was a high school student who could set fires with his mind. AU.
Warnings: AU, but set after 2.10: Hunted, so SPOILERS up till the same. Also, some specific spoilers for the rest of season 2, season 4, and very, very vague ones for Season 5. Swearing, violence, blood and gore, weirdness.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
One
"Are you sure about this?"
Images resolved in the dark with painful slowness: the silhouette of a girl with long hair looking up at a taller boy, her hands clutching at his sleeve. Black against black, figures in a moving, organic darkness.
"Ssh," the boy said, moving out of her grip. "It's gonna be fine." Scraping and sliding sounds emerged, the sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened as the boy's silhouette moved steadily away from the girl's. Suddenly, he stopped. "I mean, that's... you do, you know, wanna... with me, right? I mean... you know."
"Oh? Um, yeah," the girl said quickly. "Totally. It's just... you know," she paused, and threw her arm out in a wide gesture, "this isn't exactly what I'd had in mind when you said we'd get all the privacy we need."
"Oh, we will," the boy said. "Nobody really ever comes to this place." He let out a soft cry of triumph as he found what he was looking for. A few more sounds and a drag-snap later, their immediate surroundings were illuminated by the weak, flickering light of the candle that the boy held in his hand. "Romantic yet?" he said, his teeth glinting in the yellow light.
"You couldn't be romantic if you were a hundred year old vampire," she replied, throwing her arms around his neck. "But you'll do."
"You know," Dean said dryly, "if that turns out to be a kinky dream and not a vision, you are so buying us a steak dinner tonight."
Sam blinked. He was lying on the floor, the cobwebby motel room ceiling and Dean's face swirling in slow circles above him. The chair he'd been sitting in just a few minutes ago lay by his side, overturned. Frowning, he tried to move, only to stop abruptly as his head violently protested the idea. "Auuughahh..."
"Well, yeah, okay, you're buying dinner anyway. When's the last time you -"
Sam gave another deliberate blink, trying to force down his nausea. He was actually rather surprised he could even see, considering the building ache behind his eyes that throbbed with every beat of his pulse. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Deaaan..."
Finally, Dean reached down to help him. Clutching gratefully at Dean's outstretched arm, Sam hauled himself to his feet. He closed his eyes to spare himself further ballet moves from the room (Swan Lake on acid, a very concussed Dean had informed him once, much to Sam's amusement and wonder that his brother had actually made a reference to classical ballet). Dean guided him to the nearest bed and Sam sat down, leaning forward, digging his fingers into his hair, pushing at his temples.
"So. What was it?"
"What do you think it was?" Sam began to massage his temples. "Another vision." He'd hoped, during the lean period after the debacle with the demon-virus-hit-town, that the visions had ceased for good - but clearly, that had been asking for too much. There was more; more like him, Max, Anson, Ava; more that he had to witness, contend, justify, even as he skirted dangerously close to whatever the hell his destiny was meant to be -
"Dude, you were smiling."
Sam opened his eyes with some difficulty and stared at his brother.
Dean shrugged. "You were smiling just before you fell. Can't be too much of a death vision if you're grinning like you just got locked into a library." He paused, and cocked his head. "Unless you were watching some kind of creepy demonic foreplay, in which case -"
"Dean." Sam huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes in case they actually fell out of his skull. "The vision isn't over."
Dean froze. "What?"
"The pain's not letting up," Sam muttered, dipping his face in his hands. "Gathering." Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure. The last time he'd had a vision that came in fits and starts was way back in Salvation, when Dad was -
His gut clenched, and his nausea spiked at the memory.
Okay. Not up to reliving that yet, apparently.
"Sam," Dean said, his hands gripping Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, c'mon man, it'll be over, c'mon -"
Sam realised he was shaking uncontrollably.
He opened his mouth to reassure Dean (it's okay dean you don't have to save me because i have to save and i have to save so many and this is a part of it it has to be) but the pain reached a frightening crescendo that short-circuited his vital systems: all sensation was lost, and when he managed to open his eyes again, he was back in the old house, in the candlelit room with the two young lovers.
It was more erratic now: images that came in flashes, like darkness split through by lightning.
The drip of wax from the lit candle onto the table -
The couple throwing long, flickering shadows across the dusty walls as they kissed -
A distinct whump sound, as the little flame expanded - an abrupt increase in its intensity as it quickly ate up the remaining wax with a preternatural speed and began scorching the table -
The fire then touching the tips of the girl's hair even as the boy's hands ran underneath her shirt and she was gasping and giggling into his mouth -
The fire then big enough for them to notice, panic, cough and choke on the rancid smell of burning hair; bright enough to illuminate 'Windom Eagles' emblazoned over the boy's jacket -
Their bewildered cries as the boy tried to put out the flames eating up her hair even as the fire began to expand quickly, consuming the old rickety wood all around them -
The raging inferno drowning out their screams -
Yellow-red-gold, heat and chaos consuming the world as the room began to collapse on itself, burning wooden beams falling to the floor before the ceiling gave way -
- the heat, smoke, a profound suffocation as the flames sucked in all air and gave death in return -
And -
Sam woke to the smell of his father's aftershave.
I don't want to go to bed, Dad. I'm scared.
"Hey. Sammy. You okay?"
Sam blinked, and realised he was in his brother's arms. Any other time, this would lead to them scrambling, embarrassed, to the opposite ends of the room before Sam could say "chick-flick moment" but all Sam could think at the time was how much his head hurt and Dean wears Dad's aftershave. Huh.
He gave himself a moment or two to allow the pain to subside to tolerable levels before sitting up. Both of them were wedged rather uncomfortably on the floor between the two beds, Sam practically spilling onto Dean's lap. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, only to slump light-headedly onto the bed.
"Hey, take it easy." Dean got up, reached out for the water-jug on the bedside table and poured out a glassful. Sam took it and drank deeply. "We need to check this out, Dean," he said when he was done.
Dean's eyes didn't quite meet his. "So. Another death vision, huh."
"Yeah." Sam thought he could still feel the scorching heat, the smoke settling in his lungs, his flesh peeling off his bones - the pain rose and scattered his thoughts again like pieces of an upended jigsaw puzzle. He needed to - he needed to concentrate (he needed to be on time). "Fire. Supernatural, I think - it was spreading way too fast." He frowned. "The boy and girl - they were - wait. Was it, uh, Win - uh, Windom, and Eagles, and oh god, Dean, they were being burnt alive -"
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "You do realise that you're making even less sense than usual, right?'
Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just give me the laptop. And some aspirin." He closed his eyes. "Better yet, a narc or two."
Dean laughed. "So says the man who gets drunk after just two beers."
"Shove it."
There weren't very many things to do in Windom, Minnesota.
Or so Adam Milligan tried telling himself.
After the last day of school, on a day when most of his classmates were busy planning for the Christmas ahead, hanging out with their friends or vandalising cranky old Mr Portland's prized vegetable garden, his head swam with fear and death. He opened the newspaper he'd flicked from the library that morning again to the second page as he walked home, reading the same article for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, the newsprint already a bit smudged with his sweat.
TWO KILLED IN FIRE ACCIDENT
If they only knew -
But, but. Two killed. Killed. There has to be - maybe - maybe, this is -
No. He wouldn't think about that. Not until he'd talked to Dan, anyway. Dan always had the answers; always helped him feel better about these kinds of things.
He dusted off his snow-speckled jacket as he reached home, finding his mother at the kitchen, fussing over something on the stove. She looked up, smiled wanly as he came inside. She's looking tireder than ever, Adam thought. He felt a momentary stab of guilt - he wasn't really helping matters, having given up his part-time job as a help in various farms, throwing himself into altogether secret, uh, 'hobbies'. But it was all for a purpose, wasn't it? A purpose noble enough to be featured on one of those crappy fantasy 'epic' movies that everybody insisted on watching these days.
She'd understand when the time came.
"Adam," she said. "How was school?"
He gave a non-committal grunt in reply, flinging his bag onto the kitchen table.
"I hope you didn't have anything big planned for the evening," she continued, going back to her work, "I have to work the evening shift today, but it turns out I forgot that Frank Carter's coming over this evening since he can't make it here on Christmas." She paused for a moment, as if wary. "I called him, but he said he'd be coming over anyway, to - to see you."
Adam groaned and slumped into a chair. Frank. His insurance agent uncle with the sweaty palms and the sweatier hugs; sickly sweet smiles and patently false platitudes. "Actually," he said loudly, "that sucks, you know, because I did have something planned -"
"Please, Adam." She turned around to face him finally. "You have to realise that - that he's helping us out some right now; we can't be rude."
You mean, we can't afford to be rude. Still, Adam stared defiantly at his mother. If there was one evening he couldn't afford to stay home, it was that evening.
Kate sighed and tucked a limp blonde strand behind her ear. "Don't make things more difficult, Adam."
Resentment and fear and guilt roiled in Adam's gut. How was this making things more difficult? Because he couldn't stay at home and entertain the guests like a good little son while his mother earned their daily bread? Because he had to go out there and do what he had to, to ensure that he had a mother at all? "Frank's only coming over," he said belligerently, "because he has no life outside of controlling and manipulating us. When's the last time we had some real relatives visiting, anyway?" The hurt on his mother's face sent another stab of guilt lancing through his chest, but he ploughed on. "And this Christmas - you said Dad might come. Is he?"
His mother's eyes slid away from his gaze.
Of course not. John Winchester is way too busy for his illegitimate son.
Adam's jaw locked. It didn't matter. When he met his father for the first time, he would meet him prepared.
"Fine," he said, "Fine. I'll stay." He stalked out of the kitchen without a backward glance.
Later that evening, while sitting in the hall and trying his darndest to pick his way through another one of Dan's books, Adam heard a knock at the front door. Rolling his eyes, he tossed the book aside and went to answer it. However, when he opened the door, it wasn't Frank standing in the soft snowfall outside, but someone shorter, hunched over, two bright green eyes staring out of a scarred and pockmarked face.
Adam blinked. "Dan?"
Dan Michaels grinned at him. "Weren't expecting me, were ya?"
"Not really, I mean, Frank was, and, uh -"
"That's okay, I won't be long." He pushed past Adam, kicking off his boots to the side and flinging his scarf and jacket on the sofa. "Just thought you might want to discuss what happened last night, hm?" He threw himself onto the sofa as well, beaming up at Adam.
Adam shifted uncomfortably. "I did as you said," he said. "But - but they've found the remains of two - two p-people there, and they haven't been identified yet, but Carl and Jessie from school are missing and everybody said that they'd been planning to make out at that old place when it burnt down, and - and - if it was a spirit, there shouldn't be human r-remains, right?"
"Adam." Dan leaned forward. "You realise that you just learnt an important lesson, right? The hunt isn't a game. It isn't without its sacrifices, and those sacrifices... may be unintended, certainly unfortunate, but sometimes unavoidable."
Adam felt like an iron hand was constricting his chest - he just couldn't breathe any more. "So they are dead," he whispered. "I killed them."
"You were trying to get rid of the spirit." Dan shrugged. "They just happened to be there. You didn't know."
"I should've checked." Adam clutched at his hair with his now-sweaty hands. "Oh god, I should've checked!"
Suddenly Dan was on his feet, grasping his wrists in a firm grip and pulling them away from his head. "Adam, relax!" he barked. "You're going to hyperventilate."
Adam stared at him, scared and half-hating that his eyes were filling with tears. "I didn't mean to..."
"I know. I know you didn't." Dan smiled reassuringly at him. "Experience: that's what you need, Adam. You need to learn how to do this better, need to brush up your Latin, need to be tougher, because those big bastards in the dark? They're going to keep hitting your vulnerable spots. They're going to target the ones you hold near and dear. And you would do anything to protect them, right?"
Adam nodded numbly.
"Then you've got to be prepared for the collateral." He let go of Adam. "This is the kind of life your father lives - or has learned to live with." He swept one arm in a strikingly graceful gesture. "But your gift - that's what's gotta help you, Adam. When you achieve true control of it, that's when you're gonna find that things will get a lot easier. You - you've been practicing?"
"Yes." Adam opened his palm, staring at the centre, trying to draw that familiar hot intensity in his chest up again. He found it easier to do when he was angry or afraid: the power rushed through his limbs and lit up his brain like some crazy adrenaline jag and he could imagine it - imagine the towering flames, their potential, their destructive power; then imagine that he was the fire, able to control its every flicker; and the wild joy that this feeling provided only served to further feed the power within him, until he was completely lost in it.
At first, his attempts were weak, accompanied by skull-splitting headaches and near-endless nosebleeds, but he had long learned to give himself to the fire, and not the other way around.
It became a lot easier after that.
After a brief moment of concentration, a small flame flickered to life in Adam's palm. "Excellent," Dan said, leaning forward, the fire a dancing yellow gleam in his eyes. "John Winchester would be proud."