Dean entered the house cautiously, brandishing his handgun the way his father had taught him to. It was quiet. He pulled the door shut behind him without turning around and proceeded to go from one room to the next until he was sure the place was secure. Once he realized it was empty he went upstairs to the old lady's bedroom and began rooting around in some drawers.

Of course there would be a thin locked, suspicious looking box in her third drawer from the top. Of course it would, because the third drawer happened to be her underwear drawer.

"Aw, c'mon." Dean murmured with a grimace, reaching into the vat of granny panties. There had never been a time when he'd been less happy to view a woman's underwear.

"Gross…" He muttered, involuntarily getting an image of the old bitch in the lacy panties his right hand was accidentally touching. As soon as the sixteen year old had a grip on the locked parcel he drew his hand back quickly, shaking it a few times as if to get the cooties off.

Now that he had the small box in his hand he examined it closely. It was slightly bigger than an envelope and about a centimeter in width. It had some etchings in another language on one side, probably Gaelic. He'd ask Sam to take a look at it back in the car; the kid was a bit of a language wiz, or rather just a knowledge wiz in general. He inadvertently smiled at the thought.

He glanced over his shoulder than started to pick at the box with his lock pick. He needed to make sure this had the comb in it, he certainly didn't want to make a return visit to the third drawer because he hadn't bothered to check the contents. He had just about broken off the lock when he heard the doorbell ring.

"Shit!"

He jumped about a foot in the air. Then crouched down behind the bed as a precaution, catching his breath after the surprise heart attack he didn't need. Well, at least she wasn't home to answer.

That's when he heard a door somewhere downstairs creak open than shit. His eyes got wide and he crouched lower. She was home?

He heard the woman move across the house and answer the door with a "Yes?"

"Hi! Are you . . . Ms. O'Brien?"

Den's eyes got wider. That was Sammy's voice! What was he -? He probably saw her come home and just needed to get Dean to realize it too. Little Sammy was saving his ass, huh. He rejoined the conversation right when Sam said loudly and happily, "…and I'm a member of the Catholic youth society!"

Dean chuckled once. He'd finally taught the kid how to lie. Alright, Sammy, message received. Now all he had to do was break open the box and get out with Sam acting as a distraction. He managed to open the box a few seconds later.

"Yes!" He exclaimed quietly laying his eyes on the old ratty looking comb. He moved o close it back up and put it in the bag. Dad had told him earlier that none of them should ever touch it. How it worked was that the old lady placed some DNA of the next victim on the comb and that's how the ghost knew its targets. Hair worked the best because it was a comb, but even a touch on a skin cell could send it hunting. He noticed a few pieces of hair interwoven with the comb's teeth, all of different colors. He brought it closer to examine it. It must be the victims' hair. He was trying to remember specific physical details about the victims. One of them was definitely blond, and he had a mental image of a black haired woman. Both blond and black hairs were there.

Just then he sneezed. He muffled it in his elbow so it wasn't heard but in a moment of panic he acted reactively. He reached out and grabbed the falling comb before it hit the ground.

"Oh shit."

"Why don't I just grab my –"

Then there was screaming, a terrible, wailing screeching filling Dean's ears. He raised his gun and shot at the ghost woman in front of him making her disappear.