A/N: I'm SO excited to present my new project! This story is an idea that I had with my dear friend, MissAntique...we're attempting to do something very different from what's usually done on this site.

We took two characters and combined them to create a role playing game, but it took off and became a full blown story. I've found that this story reads very much like a play...scene by scene, moment by moment. It's definitely a new challenge for both of us as writers.

So we will be setting up each chapter as a "scene".

The story will appear in two different forms! This is the most exciting part to me...there are always two sides to a story, yes? I love the idea of knowing that whenever I read a book, only part of the story is being told. You don't get to see the full picture very often! This will be a different, unique challenge for us as writers, and you as readers. Like a (hopefully) organized puzzle, I think.

Each of us, myself and MissAntique, are taking on one side of the story. Everything you read here on my profile will be from Sam's point of view, and everything that MissAntique posts will be from Cameron's point of view. This entails different perspectives on events happening in the story, and details and events that will happen in one side of the story and not the other.

I'm not promising that any of this will happen in a timely fashion, or that her part of a scene and mine will be posted at the same time, but I hope you're willing to experiment with us as we try this out!

As usual...I don't own Supernatural.

When I was four or five, I got stung by a bee. I tried really hard not to cry. Even at such a young age, I just knew that Winchesters weren't supposed to cry.

Dean never cried.

I knew he was brave, and I wanted to be brave too.

Despite my attempts at heroic, stoic bravery, a couple fat tears leaked out onto my equally fat cheeks. The bee sting was intense pain...for a toddler.

That was the day that we learned I'm allergic to bee stings. When the wounded area started throwing off heat waves and my arm was rapidly swelling, Dean went screaming for Pastor Jim, because Dad was out on a hunt. Dean loaded me into the backseat of Pastor Jim's old pickup, and we rushed to the hospital, my brother whispering encouraging words to me all the way as my airway closed and my arm puffed up to about three times its normal size.

The nurses pulled out the stinger at the hospital, and I remember the pain of it leaving my arm.

Sharp, thick, hot. Not pleasant, yet somehow a relief.

I stayed in the hospital the rest of the day, miserably sick. I didn't feel back to normal for a couple days.

I realize that now, today, Gadreel is my stinger. He's out from under my skin, but he's left sickness and pain that makes my childhood bee sting look and feel like a picnic.

The biggest difference I feel between that incident and my current predicament is not the level of pain.

It's not the amount of agonizing exhaustion, or the raging fever.

When Gadreel was finally gone, completely eradicated from my system, I thought I was going to die.

Cas did too, even though he never said it. His mouth was firmly set in a hard line as he got me back to the bunker and into my bed.

I was too sick to know that Dean was gone.

Then, Cas' healing started making a difference, and suddenly, I just needed my brother. Needed him to be there for me, like he was when I got stung by that stupid bee.

Now, over a week after my life exploded in my face, my brother consumes my thoughts.

I know what he said, and I think he meant it.

That he's poison and he doesn't want to bring me down with him.

That's not all. He still holds me at fault for Kevin's death. Maybe not consciously. It was my hands that killed Kevin. That's what it comes to.

I need to try to be in the present. This, what I'm doing right now, is important.

I shake my head and rest my shoulders and back against the wall of the gas station as I continue to wait. I watch the girl with the blonde hair pace back and forth in front of the coffee shop, her eyes searching warily for me.

When Garth told me that there was an eye witness, and that he thought she would be really useful to the case, I somehow didn't picture this kid. She can't be more than 17, I'm guessing. She's small and skinny, and every movement she makes is a little too fast.

She doesn't look nervous, though. Maybe a little impatient. She's crumpling the corner of the letter I sent to her in between her fingers, bending it up and then back down again, fracturing the crisp perfection of the thick stationary.

If she's anything like me, she's dying of curiosity right now. If someone sent me a letter with no name, just a time and a place, I would be pretty antsy, too. Going out of my mind, actually.

Still, I don't go up to her right away. I need to assess her. Figure out who she is, and exactly why Garth thought I should talk to her.

The hands of my watch scream that this girl is a perfectionist, because I didn't ask her to be here until 4:00. The church bells across the street won't be striking 4 for another thirty three...thirty two minutes.

The girl tucks her hair behind her ear before slamming her hands around her narrow hips. I was right, she's definitely impatient. It's still early, Cameron Smith. Hang in there.

Three minutes drag on, and Cameron seems to just be getting more and more distressed. I can't afford to have her leave altogether, it's been too long of a process to get to her in the first place.

I guess that's what intrigues me the most. This girl seems to be more than the average Jane Smith witness, she carries herself...well, almost like Dean and I do. Not afraid, but rightfully cautious.

Cautious. Adjective. (Of a person) careful to avoid potential problems or dangers.

I step slowly out of the shadows, turning my shoulders at an angle to make it look like I'm just coming around the corner. As I walk past Cameron, I gently tap her shoulder and put a hand on her elbow. Her energy vibrates through my fingertips, rampant and pure.

I hold my breath for a moment as I make contact with her skin.

Wait. Wait to see if she'll run, or scream. Or attack.

She doesn't run or scream, or attack.

Instead, she's leaning slightly into my touch to acknowledge it, and I guide her into the coffee shop.

She complies, but her narrow shoulders are tense. She's ready for anything.

"Play it cool." I whisper in her ear. I shuffle her into a booth, and then go up to the counter and order the biggest coffee I can see on the menu, keeping an eye on my guest the whole time.

The ghost in my mind won't go away. The familiar person isn't a physical presence, but a definite presence nonetheless.

I push the voice away. I need to be fully alert, despite not having slept in….what is it, six days now?

Cameron's watching me with those big brown eyes, not blinking.

Trying to figure out if she knows who I am, maybe.

Trust me, kid. You don't know me from Adam.

I let her stew in silence for a moment longer as I slide a cardboard sleeve onto my coffee and hand a few bills to the barista. I make my way over to the booth and take a seat.

Abruptly, without warning, the green padded bench that I've come to rest on tempts me to fall asleep. Right then and there. I blink furiously and focus back in on Cameron. I can't sleep now.

All the questions that must be raging through her mind are held at bay behind an indifferent facial expression.