Author's Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural characters or plot. I only own any unfamilar plot and unfamiliar charaters.

A man named Mr. Hill was sitting at his desk, doing some paperwork. A maid named Consuela, comes to the door.

"Okay Mister Hill, I finish," Consuela says.

"Thank you, Consuela. Have a good night," Mr. Hill says. Consuela smiles, nods, and leaves. HILL returns to his paperwork and sighs, but is surprised when his breath condenses in front of him. He hears a creak behind him, turns, and stops. "Oh my God. It's you." Mr. Hill stands up. "You're dead. You're supposed to be dead." Abraham Lincoln snarls, teeth bared, and steps from the shadows, advancing on Mr. Hill, who backs away. "No. No, no, no." Lincoln suddenly appears right in front of HILL and picks him up by the throat. Lincoln begins to strangle Mr. Hill. A large splatter of blood hits a framed copy of the Emancipation Proclamation hanging on the wall.

A police forensic squad is investigating and photographing the scene. Sheriff Carnegie is giving orders as DEAN and SAM enter.

"I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here, we just gotta find it," the Sheriff ordered.

"Heard you got another weird one," Dean said.

"Uh, well, it's a—it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh...you know, once you—you look at the facts..." the sheriff trailed off.

"William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head. No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet," Sam said questioningly.

Dean shrugs and says, "Nope. Nothing strange about that."

"Well there's gotta be a reasonable explanation. There always is," the sheriff says.

"Well what's your reasonable explanation," Dean asks. The sheriff looks around cautiously for a moment and whispers.

"Professional killer," the sheriff says.

"Come again," Sam asks.

"Well, CIA, NSA, one o' them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton," the sheriff says. Sam and Dean all but gape at the sheriff.

"Right,"Dean says and looks at Sam.

"You're welcome to look around, but—but these guys don't leave fingerprints," the sheriff says.

"Mind if we talk with the witness," Sam asks.

"Be my guest. She's not making any sense! And she's not making any sense in Spanish either," the sheriff proclaimed shaking his head slowly.

Dean nods slowly, "Right. Well good thing we brought a translator. " Dean looks at Sam, "Why don't you bring her in?"

Consuela is sitting on a wooden bench, wrapped in a blanket, talking to a police officer and sobbing. Dean and Sam come outside and walk over to her.

"No puedo vivir aquí. Necesito mi familia. Me voy ahora. Me voy a la casa. No—me voy a la casa en El Salvador ahora," Consuela says.

"Consuela Alvarez," Dean asks.

"Yes," Consuela asks.

"FBI." Dean and Sam both show their badges. The police officer leaves. "This is our assistant translator, Ms. Alford. Now, uh, you said you saw something in the professor's house. Right? Something in the window?"

"Estaba sacando la basura. Imiré por la ventana y vi al hombre que mató al Señor Hill!" Fae kneels in front of her.

"Uh, Señora Alvarez. Cálmese, por favor. Uh—" Fae looks at Dean, thinking. "Uh, díganos lo que vio?"

Dean grins and says, "Nice."

"Freshman Spanish," Fae said shrugging.

"Era alto. Muy alto. Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenía bigotes," Consuela says. Fae glances at Sam, Dean, and Consuela as she translates. "Okay, uh, a tall man, very tall. With a long black coat and a—" Fae gestures at her chin. "A beard?" Consuela nods. "Beard."

"Y un sombrero," Consuela says.

"Dude was wearing a sombrero," Dean asks.

"Uh, a hat, not a—a—" Fae gestures near her head.

"No, no, no, un sombrero alto," Consuela says.

"A tall hat," Sam asks.

"Oh, like a top hat," Dean says.

"Un sombrero alto," Consuela gestures above her head. "Muy alto!"

"What, you mean like a—like a stovepipe hat," Dean ask imitating her gesture.

"Sí."

"Oh yeah, like Abraham Lincoln," Dean says. Sam shrugs. Consuela starts sobbing again.

"Sí. El Presidente Lincoln," Consuela says. Sam, Dean, and Fae trade confused looks. "Abraham Lincoln kill Mister Hill!" She cries again.

"Huh," Dean says.

"S-so I go home now," Consuela asks.

"Uh, sí. Gracias," Sam says.

"Gracias," Dean says. Sam turns and frowns at Dean as Consuela walks away.

Sam, Dean, and Fae sit at the table, Sam and Fae on his laptop and Dean on a new laptop. Sam brings up a webpage. Dean is rewatching the video of Cal'S death. He notices something and frowns, then pauses the video and backs up a few frames until a figure in a red jacket appears reflected in the chrome of a car wheel.

"Whoa," say Dean.

"What," Fae asks. Dean goes back and forth between adjacent frames; the figure is present in one but not the other. He picks up the laptop and turns it around so Sam and Fae can see.

"It's a freeze-frame from Jim Grossman's video," Dean says. Sam and Fae look at it. "Am I crazy, or does that look like James Dean?"

"That looks like James Dean," Fae says. Dean sets the laptop back in front of himself.

"So we got Abraham Lincoln, and James Dean," Dean says. Sam frowns. "Famous ghosts?"

"Maybe," Sam says.

"Well that's just silly," Dean says.

"No, actually, uh, there is a ton of lore on famous ghosts. More than the, you know, not-famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before," Sam says.

"Yeah, but now we got two of 'em? Two extremely pissed-off ghosts," Dean asks.

"Who are apparently ganking their fans," Fae says.

"What do you mean," Dean asks looking at Fae.

"Listen to this, apparently Professor Hill was a Civil War nut. He dug Lincoln," Fae said reading from the article.

"And Cal must've been a James Dean freak. He spent seventeen years of his life tracking down the guy's car," Dean says. Sam raises his eyebrows knowingly.

"So you're saying we've got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their...super-fans," Dean asks. Fae shrugs.

"That's what it looks like," Fae says.

"Well, that is muchos loco," Dean says.

Fae grins and says, "'Muy'." Dean looks up and Sam grins shaking his head at them. "Not 'Muchos'."

"Yeah,well, the big queston, is what the hell are they doing here," Dean asks.

"Yeah. Ghosts usually haunt the places they live. I mean, I, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House," Sam says.

"And James Dean at the race track, but what the hell are they doing in Canton?"

Sam is still working on his laptop while Dean stands by the sink, drinking a can of soda while Fae was laying down on the bed.

Sam stops typing and frown, "You got to be kidding me."

"What," Dean asks walking over and reads the screen. "You got to be kidding me."

Sam, Dean and Fae walk through the wax museum, checking out the figures. Sam walks past John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon, then stops at Abraham Lincoln. Dean frowns at Gandhi.

"Dude, he's short," Dean says.

"Hey. Gandhi was a great man," Fae says. "Show some respect."

"Yeah, for a Smurf," Dean muttered earning a glare from Fae. The museum owner comes down the stairs at a half-jog, slightly out of breath. He is wearing a leather jacket.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, this is our busiest time of the year," the museum owner says,

Dean looks around at the empty rooms and asks, "This is busy?"

"Well, not right now, but it's early," the owner says.

"It's four-thirty," Dean says.

"So, what can I do for you," the owner asks.

"Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine," Sam says.

"Yeah, on how, uh, totally non-sucky wax museums are," Dean says. Fae kicked stomps on his foot making him wince.

"That's fantastic. A little press, just what we need," the owner says.

"Great. Well we're interested in a few of your exhibits, specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean," Sam says.

"Two of our most popular displays," the owner says.

"Oh yeah? So they bring in a lot of visitors," Sam ask.

"Yeah, we have our regulars," the owner says.

"I don't suppose that, uh, William Hill and Cal Hawkins were regulars, were they," Fae asks. The owner nods.

"As a matter of fact, they were. Yeah, I heard what happened to them. It's tragic, just tragic," the owner said then asked, "Oh—you—that's not gonna be in the article, is it?"

"No. No, no. 'Course not," Sam says.

"You know, I gotta tell you, that—that Lincoln is so lifelike, I mean, you—I mean, you can just imagine him moving around. You ever see anything like that," Dean asks.

The owner frowns, "Uh…no."

"No," Dean asks.

"Well, um, is there anything you could think of that would make your museum...unusual? You know, for the article," Fae asks.

"Well, I'll say. There isn't another place like us, not anywhere," the owner says.

"How so," Dean asks.

"Well, for one, that's Honest Abe's real hat," the owner says and pointing to Lincoln.

"It is,"Sam asks.

"Almost like his remains," Dean looks pointedly at Sam and Fae. The owner frowns.

"Uh...I guess," the owner asks. Dean grins.

"You wouldn't happen to have any of James Dean's personal effects, would you," Sam asks.

"Ooh, yeah. Got his keychain. We got a bunch of stuff, uh, Gandhi's bifocals, FDR's iron lung. This," the owner indicates the leather jacket he's wearing and Fae frowns.

"And who did that belong to," Fae asks.

"The Fonz. Seasons two through four," the owner says and does a double thumbs-up, grinning.

"W-wow. Yeah, that's—that's really cool...ish," Fae says.

"This? This is nothing. I've been working on a new collection of figures. Stuff that'll really wow the kids," the owner says.

"The kids," Dean asks.

"Yeah, Gen Y," the owner says. Dean nods. "Computer games, cell phones, sexting." Dean raises his eyebrows. The owner scoffs. "They're just fads. I'm gonna make wax museums hip again." The owner grins and gives his double thumbs-up again. Dean chuckles and Sam shakes his head while Fae returns the thumbs-up.