Surely, I'm insane. Most definitely.

SUMMARY: Their story was all wrong. They met in a cemetery at the dead of night. He smelt like lighter fluid and nearly impaled her with his shovel. And she was wearing orange surgical scrubs with a handcuff hanging off one wrist.

It was one of those window years for Dean Winchester. He'd get up, take a shower, check out from whatever scurvy motel he was living out of, and he'd get into the Impala and drive until he was cross-eyed.

Sam was bunkered in at Stanford, and John was doing something somewhere - out of sight and temporarily out of mind. That's why going solo had its perks. Dean could eat what he wanted, sleep whenever and with whomever he wanted, drink like his daddy taught him for as long as he wanted...it was an endless possibility.

If he wanted a banana daiquiri he'd damn well have it. If he wanted to lay sprawled out across a comfortable mattress, he'd do it! No regrets.

So, today wasn't any different from the last hundred before. Dean sat in a chair, case file opened up in his lap, and his foot propped up on the table. He delved into the newspaper clippings and coroner's report at a leisurely pace, feeling free to take a sip of beer if the thought appealed to him. That night, he resolved, he'd do a few back stretches and, while arming himself with a shovel, lighter fluid, salt, and matches, he'd dig up a grave.

Love, Virginia was small and wooded and there wouldn't be anyone remotely nearby to watch him desecrate a grave. It was an easy salt and burn. A smile played across Dean's face...an easy job deserved him a piece of pie at least.

So he went out and got a piece of pie. It was blueberry with a flaky golden crust. He asked the bakery worker for a generous dollop of whipped cream on top and grinned even wider when he was handed the plate. The light cream nearly covered the entire slice of pie. Perfect.

Life was good and tasted amazing.

Every forkful was like a little slice of heaven and Dean tried to hide his smiles by flipping his collar up to shield his face. He wanted to laugh at himself. Hell, he just wanted to laugh at himself sitting there all alone in that bakery eating a piece of pie and making serious happy faces.

Hours later he was still sitting at the table, all finished with another three slices, just waiting for the sun to go down. Dean was looking forward to be able to head up into the Blue Ridge Mountains in his baby; driving her into the high altitude freely because he knew she'd be able to make it. He wanted to go that little cemetery nestled right between a stream and a white church, standing with its faded boards.

And so he did.

He took out a shovel and a flashlight before walking down into the grassy step where scattered graves were strewn across the cleared area, pine trees towering on the other side of the stream. He found the grave, dug it up, broke open the casket, and did his magic.

Salt.

Lighter fluid.

Zippo.

He was slicked with sweat, relief, pride. Sitting on the grass, watching the flames lick up into the sweeping span of sky. It was a chilly night and Dean didn't want to go back to the Impala for his leather jacket. Instead he scooted closer to the grave, holding the palms of his hands out in hopes of catching some of the warmth.

"Oh, my god." A voice broke through the darkness.

Dean sprang up to his feet and held his shovel up as a weapon. His eyes danced down the tree line until he saw the glint of handcuffs attached to the wrist of a woman's hand as she approached the fire.

"If we were in Georgia, you'd be arrested for camping out in a cemetery." She said, sticking her arms just over the fire. "Not to mention the repercussions of grave desecration."

The hunter furrowed his eyebrows, and looked her up and down. She was wearing a two-piece orange surgical scrubs and had a serial number printed across her back. It bewildered him how calmly she stood over the fire, handcuffs still hanging down from one wrist, and warmed her hand.

She was a psychopath.

"You okay, lady?" He lowered his shovel and warily approached. "Hey."

Her gaze shifted from the fire to land on him. "2,500 bucks and a year in the crapper."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I should know," she went on to say with a maniacal cackle. "You start this fire? Damn, you're the lucky one."

"Yeah, that's me...lucky." Dean rolled his eyes and shifted his weight to one leg. He was standing like an idiot in a cemetery talking to a runaway felon, listening into the night for the sound of dogs barking.

She walked toward him, hand outstretched. "I'm Camille Hemingway. Like the writer."

"Dean Winchester. Like the rifle."

Shaking her hand slowly, Dean forced a smile to match hers. He was caught off guard. He was expecting questions.

What are you doing here? Why are you burning a body? How're you okay with this? Are you twisted in the head? Sicko.

Camille didn't say any of those things. She just glanced back at the fire with adoring eyes. It creeped Dean out. A hunter who took on monsters head on was actually freaked out by a 130 pound woman who gave him another crazy eyed grin. She held up the wrist with the handcuff attached.

"You got a bobby pin or something?"

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