The picture was hanging crookedly on the wall when they three of them arrived at the inn early afternoon. It was a family portrait, three generations. The eldest were sitting very properly, hands in their laps, dresses and suits pressed and very uncomfortably looking. Behind them were the second generation, another couple, also so buttoned and stiff that Dean had speculated right away on what had been shoved up their asses to make them that way.

"They had to stay as still as possible," Rachel answered, rolling her eyes. "It wasn't that they were that formal, but it took awhile for the image to capture. Anyway, don't tell me that you guys act like clowns in your family pictures."

Dean's jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with anger. Rachel could tell that he was about let loose on her, and she wasn't sure why. She hadn't been that insulting, or, really insulting at all.

"Which one was your attacker?" Sam asked, cutting off whatever Dean was going to say.

"Um... Him." Third generation, standing next to his mother. Even in black and white, his eyes seemed to glower at her with barely repressed anger and an insane desire to do her harm.

She shivered and stepped away from the photograph, arms wrapped around her.

"You okay?" Dean asked, finding his voice at an appropriate level.

"Yeah. It just looks like he's got his eyes on me or something. Looking at me." But she couldn't look at the picture anymore, not with those eyes on her, so she turned away.

In the mirror she saw the brothers exchange glances. Dean pointed at her then twirled his finger next to his temple and mouthed, "crazy." Sam made a face, mouthing, "asshole," back, then turned the picture so it was facing his chest.

"Why don't we take this downstairs?" he suggested. "Can I use the computer to try and figure out who this guy is?"

Rachel turned back, arms still wrapped tightly around herself. "That's fine."

They went back downstairs. Sam set the photograph, facedown, on the reception desk then sat down behind the computer.

"Want anything to drink?" Rachel asked, trying to resist the urge to flip the photograph over and look at him again.

"I'm fine," Sam said, typing away. "Could you two look at the back of the picture, see if there's a family name or anything."

Dean immediately started undoing the back; Rachel helped him, taking the backing and setting it down before pushing him away so she could take the picture out herself. She knew she was being illogical; the photo was more than likely going to be destroyed anyway, but her parents had always taught her to treat antiques with care and Dean simply wasn't.

"I knew I should have gone through the inventory as soon as Sam suggested looking at pictures of the rooms," Rachel said, carefully taking the cardboard backing from the frame.

"Oh yeah?" Dean glanced at her. "Why's that?"

She glanced at Sam, but decided that if he wanted to talk about his abilities, he would. Maybe they were new or something. Or, maybe it just wasn't something he wanted to talk about with some strange girl he barely knew.

So, she just said, "I don't know. It just, made sense. The murders were confined to those certain rooms. I checked the computer, and, after they redecorated the common room, this was moved into storage. Then, right before the second murder..."

"Let me guess," Dean interrupted. "It was put in the second room."

"Actually, the hall. But close enough. That as followed by a second redecoration, when this was moved into the final room."

Dean frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why do you think it mattered where it was put? Why didn't it just have free run of the place?"

"It's probably tied to the photo," Sam suggested. "The same as Mary and the mirror."

"Yeah, but, this ghost is coming out of photograph," Dean pointed out, glancing at his brother. "And stabbing people. That thing almost killed her."

It was Rachel's turn to tighten her jaw. She smacked him on the arm. "He did not. It's just a flesh wound."

Dean smirked at her choice of words and quoted, "Look, you stupid bastard. You've got no arms left."

"Yes I have," Rachel smirked back, trying to keep it a smirk and not a full fledged grin.

"What are you going to do, bleed on me?"

This time, she did grin, wrinkling her nose. Stepping into Dean, she replied, "I'm invincible."

He gave in and laughed. "You're a loony." Dean pushed her gently.

She pushed him back, "The Black Knight always triumphs."

"Isn't the moral of that story that the Black Knight was a moron?"

"No, he never gives up, that's the moral," Rachel told him. "And, he was full of stupidly arrogant bravado." She crinkled her nose. "Maybe that's why you remind me so much of him?"

Dean clapped both his hands over his heart. "I'm hurt. You got me right through the heart."

"Well, I always did have good aim."

"Which you demonstrated last night."

She stuck her tongue out at him and was about to say more, when Sam said, "Can we get back to the photo? I mean, I would like to try and crack this before the sun sets and he comes back."

Dean cleared his throat and looked away from Rachel. "Right. Um, anyway, why is this dude able to get out of the portrait?"

Sam shrugged. "I'm not... sure. I do know that there's a difference in the way a mirror and a camera operates. Mirrors are only covered to avoid capturing dead souls; cameras capture living ones."

"Seriously?" Dean said. "So this guy could still be alive?"

"I don't think so." Rachel bent over and looked for a date or family name on the back. Failing to do so she flipped the photo over. "Look at their faces; all faded. And the paper is thicker than the kind used now, not as glossy. Not to mention they're all stiff and formal, not like people look if they get an old fashion type picture taken of themselves. This guy's dead, but part of his soul got trapped in here before he died. And now he's wrecking his vengeance on poor, sleeping victims."

"Okay, I have a question." Dean hit the side of his fist on the desk. "People get their picture taken all the time, right? Little kids get it taken every year in school. Now people are taking pictures with their phones. Does that mean our souls are getting chopped into itty bitty pieces, or has everyone who's ever had their picture taken lost their soul?"

"According to what I've found so far," said Sam, "digital cameras don't steal anyone's soul. So no one is carrying yours around on their camera, Dean, don't worry."

Rachel leaned against the reception desk. "Not everyone gets their souls trapped in mirrors, either. So what's the key? Why this man and why can he get out? And why does he only kill people who are near the picture?"

"Still looking," Sam muttered. "You want to try?"

Rachel leaned across the desk, craning her head so she could see the screen. "You've tried ice pick murderers?"

"First thing. And unless this ghost was a character in the movie 'Goodfellas', nothing came up."

"Wasn't Leon Trotsky killed by an ice pick?" she asked.

Sam looked up at her, eyebrows raised to his hairline. "You know that off the top of your head?"

"I took a Russian history class two semesters ago. My parents wanted me to branch out before settling on an area of history to study." She glanced back at the photograph. "I don't remember who killed him, though."

"His name was Ramon Mercader, and I already tried that. The picture isn't the same."

"You two are freaks," Dean said.

"It popped up on the search engine, jerk," said Sam. "I'm not the one who remembers weird facts off the top of her head."

"I'm still in college. I'm allowed to know random things at any moment." She bit her lip. "Try narrowing to American ice pick murderers."

He nodded, then swore softly. "This is impossible."

"Maybe we don't need to know who it is," Dean said as Rachel went back to the picture. "Maybe we just treat the picture like we would the bones of someone who died."

"Maybe," Rachel said. Something about that worrying her, though; it didn't sound quite right.

Sam stopped searching and sat back. "It feels wrong to me," he said. "I just think that we're missing something. That we need to know who it is and where he's buried in order to really get rid of him."

"And I'm going to trust Sam's opinion on this one," Rachel said, reaching up to wrap her necklace in her fist.

Dean glared at her. "Why his?"

She hesitated, feeling the quartz pulse with the power it was soaking up from Sam, and shrugged. "I... this guy's soul is trapped, or part of his soul is trapped, then chances are the rest of him is looking for it. Shouldn't we try to put them back together and burn the picture and the bones at the same time?"

"Yes," Sam sighed, tilting his head back. "That's what's been bothering me. What happened to the rest of his soul? Where is he, and what's he doing?"

"Do either of you have a magnifying glass?" Rachel asked. She bent over the picture, studying the edges, looking for a signature or an imprint or something that might indicate who they were dealing with.

"Oh, yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "Let me just whip it out."

Sam cleared is throat and said, "Please, Dean, not here." He opened the desk drawer and rummaged through. "Um, here. Try this."

He'd found a pair of reading glasses that probably belonged to one of the receptionists. Rachel took them and used them to scan the corners and edges of the picture, figuring that was the most likely place.

"There." Dean stopped her hand and leaned over her. "It's faint, but there. Winston family, 1902."

Rachel bent over further, slowly scanning the glasses, looking for more names. "Winston," she said softly. "Plumtree, North Carolina. I wonder," she started, then broke off with a scream. She jerked back from the photograph, her head connecting with Dean's chin.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaimed, arms coming around her waist. "What the hell happened?"

"Oh, God, he was looking at me," Rachel gasped. She turned and pressed her face into Dean's chest, shaking.

"You said that before," Sam said. "Maybe it's just the angle the picture was taken at."

"He turned his head and looked at me."

"All the women he killed, what did they look like?" asked Dean suddenly.

Face hot, Rachel untangled herself from his arms. "Um," she said, trying to think. "Um, I'm not sure. I think... normal."

"Define normal."

"I don't know. I didn't pay attention. I didn't think it was important."

Sam picked up his backpack and pulled their father's journal from it. With each case they worked on, they'd been adding entries to help them in the future. Sam had already pasted the obits and articles from this case inside. "Well, I think this answers it." He pushed the journal across the reception desk.

All the women had brown hair and brown eyes.

"That explains why everyone who was near the picture wasn't killed," Dean said. "Maybe the ghost can't get out of view of the photograph, and he only ever bothered to kill when the coloring was right."

"And then he killed whoever was with his victim to leave no witnesses," added Sam.

Rachel shivered and stepped back until she could feel Dean's body heat engulf her. "Well," she said shakily, "don't think that this is going to keep me from finishing what I set out to do. I'm heading to North Carolina as soon as possible to lay this thing to rest."

"No you're not." Dean was firm.

She turned to face him. "You can't..."

"Yes, I can."

"You have no right. You're not even supposed to be here. I'm the one who's letting you work on this, not the other way around."

"Please, you'd be dead if it wasn't for us," snorted Dean. "You've got no experience in this, and you've got no business..."

"I have just as much business as either of you! And so what if I'm new to all this. You must have been new once too, and it didn't stop you."

"I was ten when I was new, and I had my father to show me what to do. If you want to do this, then you get your father."

"He doesn't hunt anymore, especially not something like this." She swallowed. "He won't help me," Rachel admitted. "I asked." She looked up at Dean. "Will you? I'm not saying I'm going to do this all on my own. I'm not ready. My parents have taken me hunting a couple times but every time things got rough, they took over. This is the first time I've ever really gotten to try. I'm graduating in five months and my family just expects me to... I just want to know. If it's really worth it, if I can even do it, or if I'm always going to be the research person, not good enough to actually hunt."

"Hey," Sam said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with doing the research and staying out of the fight. It's just another aspect of the job."

Rachel turned to him. "But you do both. So does my mom and dad. My aunt and uncle, who only research? It's like no one respects them. Even their kids don't, you know, think they're very strong or whatever. I don't want that to happen to me." She swallowed. "Please let me come."

Sam and Dean exchanged. After a moment, Dean rolled his eyes and grunted.

"Fine. But you listen to us, you stay armed, and you don't do anything stupid," he said. "And you pay for everything."

"Dean," Sam protested, but Rachel just nodded.

"Yeah. No problem."

"You better not be."