There's a reason Elizabeth prefers climbing trees to climbing fences and that reason is currently propped up on her duffle with a Ziploc baggie of ice resting on it. She sprained her ankle. She once jumped off her roof and onto a trampoline and then into a pool, but she sprained her ankle trying to scale a fence. She wonders if God is just looking down at her and snorting into His coffee.

"You wanna come in or nah," Dean asks, turning in his seat to look at her. He's been doting on her for five hours since the accident (probably more than that, but she was asleep for it), and it's starting to grate on her nerves. She likes the occasional times he spoils her, but five hours straight is too much.

"I'm coming," she says.

"Hang on, I'll help you—"

"I'm twenty-three years old, Dean. I can get out of the car by myself." He purses his lips and insists on opening her door for her, but he doesn't try to grab her elbow or keep her balanced. "See," she says, holding out her arms once she's out. "All good."

"You're balancing on one foot, Liza," Sam points out dryly. She turns a threatening glare on him, but he just snorts in amusement. "You look like a flamingo."

"I'll shave you while you sleep." That shuts him up better than threats of bodily harm. She swears, one of these days he's going to look like a depressed Wookie. "Come on, let's go find Dean's wallet." How he managed to lose it in between finding the evil portrait and burning the evil portrait, Elizabeth doesn't know. She does know, however, that they can't just leave it behind for someone to find.

"Can you make it inside by yourself," Dean asks. She'd snap at him if he wasn't giving her those damn puppy eyes. The boys must have inherited that from Mary because John would have looked more like he was ready to shank a Hobbit for cheap jewelry if he tried.

"Yeah, stop worrying."

"It's my job to worry."

"Then do it later when I'm jonesing for caffeine." The three of them head into the auction house a little slower than usual, but Elizabeth manages it without any help. She's quite proud of herself (she also hopes God's coffee spills in His lap, the bastard). They're searching for the elusive wallet when Sarah spots them and Elizabeth realizes this was all a scheme to get Sam laid. She can't even get mad about it. "Oh, that's smooth."

"Damn right."

"What are you guys doing here," Sarah asks, smiling. She's still eye-fucking Sam, but she shows nothing but warmth when she glances over at the other two. Elizabeth likes her.

"We just came by to tell you that we're sticking around for a couple days." Dean strides right up next to his brother, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. "Oh, here's that twenty bucks I owe you, Sammy." Sam takes the twenty a little rougher than most people would, but he doesn't say anything. "Well, I'll leave you two crazy kids alone. I gotta go do something somewhere."

"You could do me," Elizabeth suggests with a shrug. He points over at her with his thumb, sending Sarah a devious grin. Elizabeth joins them, sharing a wink with Sarah. "While Dean's making me feel religious, you two should do some serious bonding. You could watch a movie, get coffee, fuck in the breakroom, look at ducks. Just go buck wild."

"I hate you," Sam hisses. She pats him on the chest with a wicked smile, slipping a rubber in his coat pocket as she passes. Dean wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her close as they head out to the car.

"Are we going back to the motel?"

"I was thinking we could have a quickie in the backseat while Sam acts like every Disney teen on their first date," Dean says. Elizabeth pauses to consider this, though she mostly does it to see Dean's excitement turn into slight worry. "Is that okay?"

"Why not? We've scarred him once already." She's the first one in the backseat, shoving her duffle aside as Dean crawls in after her. They've had plenty of sex in a lot of places, so they know how to do this without removing too many layers. They also know how to have a great time without making the car rock and that's come in handy plenty of times when they were younger and Bobby patrolled the junkyard.

Elizabeth's underwear has been flung somewhere and she's just about got Dean's belt undone when Sam opens the passenger door. "Oh, God, why," Sam shrieks. He flails backward so hard that he falls. Dean sighs, his head dropping against Elizabeth's chest.

"So much for that idea," he grumbles. "I hope he gets a concussion." He straightens up so that he's straddling Elizabeth's hips and looking out the opened door. "I hope you get a concussion."

"Fuck you."

"I was trying to," Elizabeth says, sitting up as well. "Why aren't you fucking Sarah?" Sam stands up and slides into the car, turning so that he's facing them. He leans slightly over the seat, close enough that Elizabeth can smell his toothpaste.

"The portrait is still in there."

"Are you high? We burned that thing last night."

"I know, but I saw it. They were putting it in a crate to be stored because Sarah convinced her dad not to sell it again. It's there, guys." She groans and flops backward. Her ankle throbs its protest of all her movements and she fights the urge to whine.

"Any new ideas on how to get rid of it?"

"I can't talk to you guys when you're sitting like that." Dean rolls his eyes and climbs over the seat, dropping down next to Sam. Elizabeth sits up when Sam arches his brows, her poor ankle throbbing again as she gingerly lowers it to the floorboard. "All the haunted painting lore I've read said that it's usually haunted by its subjects."

"Okay, we need to find out all there is to know about that creepy-ass family in that creepy-ass portrait," Dean says. "What were their names again?"

"Isaiah Merchant." Sam shuts his door as Dean starts the car, relaxing back in his seat. They're all quiet apart from the CCR song playing softly over the radio, then Sam's making a disgusted sound and Elizabeth's underwear is smacking her in the face. "Gross! God, I was sitting on them!" Elizabeth stuffs them in her duffle with an exasperated huff.

"Relax, Sammy," she says. "At least they're cute." And they are, they've got pink lace and everything. Still, he doesn't seem to appreciate her taste in underwear, cheeks a bright red as he glares out his window.

The rest of the drive is spent in silence, the library not too far from the auction house on Main Street. The Elting Memorial Library is a quaint place that looks like it might have been a house once upon a time ago, a couple of new additions added to the right of the front doors. Inside is just as lovely, the stacks rising high above Elizabeth's head and the smell of old pages drawing her farther inside.

"I think I'm in love," she says, turning in a slow circle.

"I thought you were already in love," Dean says.

"I have a big heart, dear. I can love multiple things and people." She grins over at him, twining their fingers together.

"Do you love me more than books?"

"Of course."

"She's lying," Sam says, shouldering past them. He doesn't notice Elizabeth's glare as he heads to the reference desk, talking in a low voice with a portly man in his early fifties or late forties. The guy looks pleasant, like most librarians Elizabeth has met over the years. Not all of them are dragon ladies. "This way, guys."

"You don't actually love books more than me, do you," Dean asks. In that moment, seeing the concern darkening his eyes, Elizabeth hates John Winchester than she ever has before. How could any man call himself a father and raise his boys to be so self-conscious that neither of them feels comfortable in long-term relationships?

"Of course I do," Elizabeth promises, looking him dead in the eye. "I love you more than anything except maybe Lilly. You two have to settle on a tie." The concern is still there, but Dean's smiling and that's Elizabeth's favorite thing.

"I think I can handle that."

"Guys," Sam calls impatiently. "Get a move on." Dean and Elizabeth share a smile and then they're walking through the stacks until they get to a back room. It's darker in here to protect the old books, but some lamps give out a warm, yellow glow. "Jay went to get the books." The librarian, Jay, comes back a moment later with two heavy record books, a thick layer of dust clinging to the leather covers. He looks excited, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright.

"You said Isaiah Merchant, right," Jay checks.

"That's right."

"I dug up every scrap of local history I could find." He opens the books and starts flipping through them, glancing up occasionally. "So, are you kids crime buffs?"

"Serial killers are a specialty of ours," Elizabeth says. Jay holds up an old newspaper from the twenties, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Unless there's a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio in there, I don't see why that newspaper is for us."

"Huh? Oh. Right here." Beside the story of the Titanic's sinking is a smaller article with the headline reading Father Slaughters Family, Kills Self. "Better?" Elizabeth hums, seating herself on the edge of their table to get a better look. The five members of the Merchant family were discovered yesterday, slaughtered in their home. Police believe the deaths to be the work of husband and father Isaiah Merchant, thirty-six.

"Oh, that's wild."

"Isaiah slit his kids' throats, then his wife and himself. He was a barber by trade and used his own straight razor." Elizabeth whistles a short melody she remembers from childhood, the memory sepia-toned with the steady sound of a needle on vinyl. These are my friends, see how they glisten….

"Why'd he do it," Sam asks.

"Let's find out." Jay turns the newspaper around again, scanning the article until he finds something. "People who knew him described Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament, and controlled his family with an iron fist. Apparently, there were whispers that Carolyn was gonna take the kids and leave, which was a big scandal in those days. Instead of letting that happen, old Isaiah gave them all a shave."

"Does it say what happened to the bodies?"

"Only that they were all cremated." The hunters share a disappointed look at the news. If the bodies have already burned, then that means Isaiah is hanging onto something personal. Seeing as the painting refused to stay ashes, Elizabeth's willing to bet the old bastard's clinging to something else. "I also found a picture of the family." Jay flips through the second book, then turns it for the others to see the same portrait they'd tried to burn.

"Could we get a copy of this?"

"Sure thing." Jay takes the book and hustles off, an extra skip in his step.

"Did you see somethin' weird about that picture?"

"No," Dean shrugs. Elizabeth shakes her head, bending over to massage her sore ankle. "Was there something wonky about it?"

"Definitely. I'll show it to you when we get back to the motel." Jay's back soon after and they thank him before retreating, Sam studying the copy on the way back to their motel. He nearly runs into their door before Elizabeth stops him, grabbing the back of his jacket and jerking him back. "Hey!"

"Fine, next time I'll just let you walk into the door," Elizabeth says. Sam doesn't apologize, but he nudges her with his arm and that's good enough for the both of them. "What's that?" There's a sticky note on the door, neon pink and covering the peephole. Dean snatches it and reads it before handing it off to her.

"I think it's for you," he says by way of explanation. She frowns, waiting until she's inside and relaxed on her bed before studying it. The last thing she needed was to trip while reading it, Dean would probably have a coronary.

Headed to Colorado, call if you're ever in the state. I might even sniff you out since I've got your scent, kid. -LK. There's a number written below that and she programs it into her phone as Creepy McWeirdo. Luther's a weird guy, she likes him and his sense of humor, but he's just… There's something not quite right about him.

"See, right there," Sam's saying. Dean grunts when he spots whatever Sam's pointing at.

"What is it, Sammy?" Sam brings the copy over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and passing the page to her while he stuffs a couple pillows under her foot. He doesn't always act like it, but he's totally a mother hen on occasion. "I don't— Oh."

"You see it?"

"I see it." In this copy, Isaiah is staring straight ahead instead of at his adopted daughter, his grip lax on her thin shoulder. "It's definitely gotta be him."

"But how are we supposed to stop him? He's ashes in some ceremonial mug somewhere and God only knows where all his prized possessions have ended up. It's not like we can gather all the furniture and knick-knacks in New York and have a bonfire." Dean wanders over, sitting near Elizabeth's feet and taking the picture back to study it. His brows have furrowed, one of them twitching as he focuses. "What? Do you see something I missed?"

"I was just thinkin' that other things in the painting might have changed," Dean says. "Maybe we'll get lucky and there'll be a clue hidden in this. You know, like that long-winded book you keep in the glovebox. The DiCaprio Code or whatever the fuck."

"Da Vinci," Sam corrects, more on instinct than anything.

"Well, call up your little girlfriend and ask her if we can get another look at that painting. You two can schmooze in some backroom while Liza and I play detective." Elizabeth groans and kicks her good foot against the mattress. She doesn't want to play detective, she wants to take a hot bath and watch crap TV. "Don't be such a baby."

"You're such a dick," she grouses. "Can't this wait until morning?" It's that wonderful time of year where it gets dark at five-thirty, making her internal clock feel like a sham.

"What if Isaiah gives some innocent security guard a free Columbian necktie?" She whines but doesn't say anything. Her moral compass might have a few dings and cracks, but it's not entirely broken. She'll help spot the differences between the painting and the copy and then she'll send a penny dreadful barber straight into Satan's hot tub.

"Fine, but I'm not going to be happy about it."

"You'll get over it. Sammy, give Sarah a call." It's Sam's turn to whine as he shuffles back to the table across the room. He looks up her number and presses the phone to his ear, waiting impatiently and outlined by the slowly flashing vacancy sign out front.

"Hey, Sarah," he greets when she picks up. "It's Sam again. Good, yeah. I'm doing good." A smile lights up his face and it makes the other two relax just a fraction. Sam's smile is like sunshine after a week of rain, warmth and rainbows and all that other poetic bullshit. A smiling Sam means all is right in their world. "My idiots and I were thinking about stopping by so we could look at that creepy painting again. My sister wants to buy it just so no one else has to look at it."

"It's a service to humanity," Elizabeth says loudly. Sam waves at her to shut up, a gesture she's intimately familiar with.

"Wait, what? Who'd you sell it to? Sarah, I need an address right now."

Sarah's already out of her car and waiting for them when they pull up in front of Evelyn's house, dark lipstick smudged where she's been chewing on her lip. She asks something, but Elizabeth doesn't catch it as the hunters fly past her and up the stairs.

"You said Evelyn might be in danger," Sarah says, following them onto the porch. "What kind of danger?" Dean pounds his fist against the door and shouts for someone to open it while Elizabeth yanks on the study bars covering the downstairs windows.

"I can't knock the door down," Dean says. "I'm gonna pick it. Liza, I need a light." Elizabeth nods, aiming her small flashlight at Dean's hands as he finds the right picks.

"Are you guys burglars or something?"

"Or something," Elizabeth says. The door opens after a moment, the hunters heading inside with Sarah trailing after them. The house is dark apart from a couple of lamps in the sitting room, a nice space cluttered with old furniture. Evelyn, an older, blonde woman, is sitting in an old armchair next to a fireplace, facing away from them as they come in.

"Evelyn?" Evelyn doesn't respond and they creep farther into the house. Over the fireplace is the portrait, looking far more at home in this space than it ever would have in the Telesca home. "Evelyn, it's Sarah Blake. Are you alright?" Elizabeth catches Sarah's wrist before she can touch Evelyn, pulling her back with slightly more force than necessary. "What the hell?"

"Trust me, you don't wanna do that."

"Why not?" Sam edges forward and tilts Evelyn's head back enough to reveal that her throat's been cut. Isaiah must have snuck up behind her, the cut clean at the edges, almost surgical as it tore through the material of Evelyn's turtleneck. Sarah screams at the sight and Isaiah's head snaps around like he's just spotted his next target. "Oh my God! He moved!"

"Yeah," Dean grunts. "Ghosts tend to do that. Alright, we gotta get out of here because someone must have heard that scream."

"We can't just leave her."

"We're not. You're gonna call the cops and tell them that you had a bad feeling so you came to check up on Evelyn. Tell them that she looked a little nervous when she came by to purchase the portrait. Do not tell them that we were here."

"What are you guys gonna do? Skip town?"

"No, we're gonna figure out how to keep this from happening again." He pulls out a gas station receipt and writes the name of their motel and their room number down on it. "Swing by tomorrow morning and we'll have some answers for ya." They don't give Sarah a chance to argue, moving out of the house and back to the car. They're already halfway back to the motel when a couple of police cruisers speed past with their lights on, an ambulance trundling along behind the escort.

"Remember the days when we could actually sleep more than four hours a night," Sam asks, leaning his head against the window. Elizabeth grunts, sprawled out in the backseat. "We're not even going to get that tonight. There's too much research to do."

"Fuck, don't remind me, Sammy." They shuffle into the motel one right after the other, each of them claiming a different surface to spread out at. Dean claims the table while Sam drops to the floor with his laptop and Elizabeth makes herself comfortable on her bed with her Kindle. She has a feeling that if this whole hunter thing doesn't work out, she'd make a damn fine researcher.

Elizabeth doesn't know how long she's been clicking through different websites when Sarah comes storming into their room, but it's daylight outside now and the sudden flood of it pouring through the open door has her flinching so hard that she topples off the bed.

"Fuck," she shouts in surprise.

"You'll live," Sarah snaps, glaring over at her when Elizabeth sits up again. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair's done up in braided pig-tails, making her look more cute than beautiful. It suits her, though. "I just lied to the police and told them I went to Evelyn's alone and found her like that."

"Yeah, you'll get used to doing that."

"I don't want to!" Elizabeth hauls herself back onto the bed, shoving her Kindle away from her with a disgusted sound. "You guys better tell me what the hell's going on or I'll tell the cops to come check you all out." There's a stubborn tilt to her chin and Elizabeth doesn't doubt that she'd really do it. "Who's killing these people?" The hunters all share a look and then Sam is standing up with a definite hunch to his shoulders.

"What is killing these people," he corrects. "It's not a person anymore, they haven't been for a long time." Sarah's brows furrow and Sam's hunch becomes a little more pronounced. It's like a puppy waiting to get the broom. "You saw that painting move last night."

"No, I was seeing things. That's impossible."

"Welcome to our world," Dean grumbles, leaning back in his chair.

"Sarah, I know this sounds crazy, but we're pretty sure that painting is haunted," Sam says.

"You're joking," she says. Sarah shakes her head, tears gathering in her lashes but not falling. She looks around the room, not finding any support. "You're not joking. God, I really know how to pick 'em, huh?"

"Sarah, think about it. Everyone who's died has had the painting, more people than just Evelyn and the Telescas. Wherever this thing goes, people die. We're just trying to stop it." Sarah takes a moment to let that sink in, blinking away her tears. When she looks up again, there's a cold sort of resolve in her eyes.

"Then I guess you'd better prove it to me. I'm coming with you to bust this ghost."

"What? No. You should just go home. This stuff can get pretty dangerous and I don't want you to get hurt." Sarah points at where Elizabeth is lying, raising her brows.

"But you're letting her tag along."

"Liza knows what she's doing. She's been raised around this stuff just like Dean and me. Why do you wanna come? You don't have an obligation."

"I do, Sam. My dad and I sold that painting and we basically signed those peoples' death warrants. I'm scared as hell, but I'm not gonna run and hide when I could help stop this." She stalks across the room and flings the door open, Elizabeth expecting the late morning sunshine this time around. "Are you guys coming or not?"

"Sam," Dean says, pointing at where Sarah had been standing in the doorway. "Marry that girl."

"I'll marry her when you marry Elizabeth," Sam mutters, walking out after Sarah. Dean and Elizabeth share a look, a million thoughts flying through the air between them before they settle on matching shrugs. They'll get married if they ever feel like it, but it's not important to strengthen their relationship.

"He's just jealous that we're great together."

"That's right," Elizabeth nods, getting off the bed. Her ankle is still swollen and sore, but it holds her weight better today than it had yesterday. "Let's go before they decide to check out the painting without us." They move out of the motel room, Dean pulling the door shut after them before joining the others in the car.

Sarah follows behind the Impala in her jeep, the drive to Evelyn's house far less tense than it had been last night. Dean parks curbside while Sarah pulls up into the driveway, her jeep familiar enough that no one should remark on it. For all they know, Sarah's here working. They move up onto the porch, ducking beneath the police tape.

"Isn't this still a crime scene," Sarah asks nervously. She's looking around while Sam uses his knife to cut the seal keeping the door closed, biting her lip.

"You've already lied to the cops," Dean shrugs. "What's another minor infraction?"

"Minor?"

"I imagine you've got a clean record. Maybe some speeding tickets, but nothing major to suggest you're a bad egg. Any cops come, just plead ignorance. Hit 'em with those big Bambi eyes."

"Does that actually work?"

"Every time," Sam nods. "Dean's very jealous." Sam pockets his lock picks and opens the door, the big house holding the closed-in stench of death. It's become a familiar smell over the years, like fruit left out too long and starting to ferment. It's not pleasant by any means, but it's also not the worst thing in the world. "I'll get the painting."

"You're the only one that can reach it, Samsquatch," Elizabeth says with only an echo of good humor. The sitting room sits right off the entryway and the portrait is still hanging over the mantel, the remains of Evelyn's fire lying cold and charred in the firebox. The chair they'd found her in has been taped off, the fabric stained dark brown with a white, taped outline of Evelyn's body to show where she'd been sitting. It makes no sense considering she was dead by the time the cops got here.

Sam sets the portrait down on an old sofa, bending close to the canvas to study it. Elizabeth joins him after a moment, bringing out their copy of the original portrait. Most of the things seem completely normal, but something's wrong. It's like coming home after a long vacation and getting that sense of wrongness until you figure out that Zane moved all your furniture an inch to the left while you were gone.

"Aren't you guys afraid of the portrait cutting your throats," Sarah asks. "It seems to be its MO."

"That usually happens at night," Sam says. "We should be good during the day." Elizabeth straightens and passes the copy off to Dean, joining Sarah a few feet away. Sarah raises her brows but doesn't say anything.

"My uncle Bobby once told me that I should be okay if I didn't turn on the light when I went to the bathroom at night," Elizabeth says. "He said there probably isn't a snake curled up waiting to bite me on my ass." She pauses a beat, all eyes landing on her. "One night, I was almost sound asleep when I heard Uncle Bobby scream murder from the bathroom down the hall."

"Toilet snake got Bobby," Dean gasps.

"No, a frog had been taking a nap in the toilet bowl and jumped when Bobby sat down. Now the bathroom light stays on all night and he doesn't give me shit about being scared of the toilet snake." Dean has his lips pressed together tight enough that they lose their color. "It's okay, you can laugh. God knows that I lorded it over his head for a week."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

"And you were still scared there was a snake hiding in your toilet?"

"Sam's still scared of clowns."

"Hey, don't drag me into this," Sam says, pouting. "Clowns are terrifying, everyone knows that. They're servants of Satan and they eat little boys with a side of toast for breakfast. Toilet snakes, though, are just stupid." Elizabeth sticks her tongue out at him, petulant to her core. She knows toilet snakes are a real danger.

"Don't we have a job to do," Sarah asks pointedly. She's got a scalding expression in place and Elizabeth is reminded of her third grade teacher. Sam must be having the same flashback because he ducks his head and goes back to studying the Merchant family. "Is Waldo hiding out in that thing or not?"

"I don't know about Waldo," Dean says, pointing," but that straight razor is closed in the original." He hands the copy off to Sam, the two of them bending over it again.

"The painting inside the painting has been changed, too," Sam adds. "In the original, it's a landscape with mountains. Looks almost like a scene from that stupid Dracula movie Liza was obsessed with. You know, the red fog and the mountains right before Winona takes a swan dive?"

"Yeah, and now it looks like a crypt. Liza, hand me that ashtray." She does as she's asked, Dean resting the crystal glass against the painting to magnify the name carved into the crypt right below the gable. "Merchant."

"Think they have a Yellow Pages that'll tell us where Merchant has been entombed," Elizabeth asks doubtfully.

"No, but I bet our old pal at the library might have an idea." They leave the house and sit in their cars while Sam pulls up the library's number, dialing it and waiting. The conversation is short, mostly a few grunts and a lot of writing before he hangs up again. "Never thought I'd read directions to a crypt off a Taco Mayo napkin."

"Written with a bright pink gel pen, no less."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles, shoving the napkin at his brother. "Let's get this over with so you guys can stop trying to set me up." Elizabeth opens her mouth, but Sam beats her to the punch. "You say one more thing about the stick in my ass and I'll sit on you all the way to the cemetery, Mayson."

"Spoilsport." The Impala comes to life with a rumbling purr and then they're off, passing through neighborhoods teeming with children out on fall break. Sarah follows closely behind them in her jeep, and then they're parked on a gravel lot of a cemetery. As far as Elizabeth is concerned, all of these places blend together after a time; same stone walls, a few tasteful trees, flowers rotting against crooked gravestones.

"Crypts are this way," Dean says when they all get out. "After you, my lady." He does a corny bow and gestures ahead of him with a flourish that has Elizabeth laughing.

"Remember the last time we broke into a crypt," she asks, looping her arm through his. "We were, like, nineteen and some crazed dentist's ghost was trying to pull John's teeth out with a pair of pliers." Dean laughs as well, tilting his head back as they pass through the rows.

"They were Dad's pliers, too. I think he was more pissed off about that than the fact that he caught us making out when we were supposed to be looking for the dentist's wedding ring."

"In our defense, we didn't realize the ghost was attacking John. It was dead silent inside the crypt until he and the ghost rolled inside, both of them screaming like idiots." When there isn't any laughter about that, Elizabeth glances over her shoulder and finds the other two have drifted close together. They aren't holding hands or anything physical, but Sam's smiling a little and they're talking. "Aw, young love."

"Puppy-eyed love."

"Do we look that disgusting?"

"Hell no. Our love is sophisticated and shit." Elizabeth grins and wraps her arm around Dean's waist, loving the feel of him against her. She'll never get tired of his warmth or his smell, all of it wrapping around her like a blanket. It's the best. They come to a stop on a dirt path that's wider than all the others, meant for the line of cars that accompany a hearse. "Looks like we hit paydirt."

"Let's hope whatever's in there is easy to burn."

"And doesn't steal our pliers," Sam adds with a crooked smile. "Dad raved about that for weeks."

"Months," Dean corrects. "He still carries the damn things in his pocket so no one else can take 'em." Dean shakes his head a little as they come to a stop in front of the crypt, a grim thing made up of gray stone that looks dark even in the winter sunlight. He brings out the bolt cutters, snapping the heavy chains barring their entrance and yanking the narrow doors open. "Ladies first."

"It's only polite." Elizabeth is ready to protest, but then the boys are shoving her into the dark crypt like she isn't afraid to do grievous bodily harm. Her shoes slide over the cement floor, kicking up a decade's worth of dust and making herself sneeze.

"You guys are dicks," she moans, pinching her nose. They step in after her, coughing at the smell of dust and that particular scent rooms have when they've been shut up for centuries. She imagines this must be what Barlow and Straker's antique shop had smelled like after the town had died on October sixth. Against the wall on her left are five marble slabs with brass plaques secured to them, stating the Merchant family's names. On the right are four urns, three of them set in front of a glass case set into the wall containing a toy while the other one sits in front of a stone slab decorated with a fleur-de-lis.

"That's freaking creepy," Sarah says, pointing at one of the toys. It's a doll, the same doll that little Melanie had been holding in the portrait. It looks a bit like her, pale as porcelain with dark hair.

"It was a tradition," Sam shrugs. "Whenever a child died, they'd preserve the kid's favorite toy in a glass case and put it in the crypt with them. I guess they thought the kid would be able to play with it in the afterlife. Kind of like ancient Egyptians getting buried with gold and the occasional cat."

"Notice somethin' weird about this," Dean asks. "Other than the creepy-ass doll, I mean." They glance around the crypt, a gust of wind scattering dead leaves over the floor. "Jesus, you guys are dense. There are only four urns. Mommy and the kiddies are tucked up all warm and safe, but Daddy dearest is MIA."

"You know what this means, right?"

"Yeah. I fucking hate this part of the job."

Dean and Elizabeth get a look at the county death certificates by lying. At this point in their lives, they're very good at the whole lying and subterfuge thing and the woman behind the front desk is more than happy to help out a young couple recently bitten by the genealogy bug. As far as Nancy will ever know, Dean and Elizabeth just want to find out a little more about the great-great-grandfather that their imaginary son will be named after.

"For the record," Dean states as they flip through the certificates. "If we ever have a baby, we're never going to name it after a cartoon character."

"Christopher Robin was in a book before he was in a cartoon."

"I don't care, no cartoon names for my son." Elizabeth pauses in her searching to glance over at Dean, raising her brows. He doesn't even notice at first, pouting as he flips through the carefully laminated records. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Okay, so he has wicked good peripheral vision.

"What would you name our imaginary child?"

"Something cool. I mean, the Christopher part is fine since that was your dad's name. It's a strong name, I won't argue that. You know what else is a strong name? John Wayne. You hear that name and you think of a badass."

"We're never naming our child that. I love you, but no. Not happening." Now Dean looks up and Elizabeth goes back to her search through the records. "Don't give me the judgy face. We're not naming the kid after a fucking cowboy." Dean splutters in impotent rage and she has to fight back a smirk. "Anyway, what if our imaginary kid turns out to be a girl?"

"Oh, that's easy. We'd name her Charlotte and call her Charlie for short." Elizabeth pauses again and meets Dean's gaze, a feeling of numb surprise spreading through her. It's honestly a perfect name for a little girl, but she doesn't remember telling Dean that.

"Did we have a drunk conversation about this before?"

"Nah, I just like it."

"Hmm, so do I."

"It's settled, then. Our imaginary daughter officially has a name and our imaginary son is TBD." They go back to their research, passing the next few minutes in silence. "I found it," Dean says. He brings his phone out to snap a picture and then they put the record books back on their designated shelves. Nancy waves when they walk out and Elizabeth gives her a bright smile.

"Do you think Sam and Sarah are making out yet?"

"We couldn't get that lucky." Sure enough, the pair is sitting on the low wall where Dean and Elizabeth had left them ten minutes ago. They're a little closer, a little softer, but they aren't kissing yet. "We're not interrupting you two lovebirds, are we?"

"Not even a little bit," Sam says as he and Sarah glance up at them.

"You know, if Liza and I had been left out here while you two played Nancy Drew in there, we would have already made it to second base."

"Did you find anything or do you plan to traumatize me some more?"

"Oh, we found something alright. The surviving members of the Merchant family were so ashamed of Isaiah that they didn't have him interred with the rest of the family, they turned him over to the county. Old man Merchant got a pauper's funeral and I know where his pine box is buried."

"Alright, we'll head there as soon as it's dark." Elizabeth checks her watch and lets out a faint sigh. "I vote we grab some food and chill out in the park for an hour."

"You want to eat before digging up a dead body," Sarah asks incredulously.

"Well, yeah. It's hard work and it's better to eat before you do it than after." So they find a Mexican restaurant and take their order to a park near the cemetery, watching cars speed past without stopping. It's too cold for kids to be outside this close to dark and no one turns into the cemetery lot so Elizabeth figures they should be good to go.

They wait until about 6:30 to head across the road, Sam carrying a duffel full of the stuff they'll need; three shovels, a pick-ax, two flashlights, a container of lighter fluid, salt, and his trusty-dusty book of matches.

"Hold this, please," Sam says, handing the flashlight to Sarah. "And you two can have these." Dean and Elizabeth get two of the shovels, Sam taking the third for himself. Dean hadn't been exaggerating earlier, digging up a grave is hard work even with two other people helping out. The dirt is pretty much frozen, but it loosens up the farther they go.

"You guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this," Sarah says. Unease has crawled into her voice, but the flashlight beam is steady as Sam crawls out for his break.

"Truth be told, we have to do this a lot when it comes to ghosts. Still think I'm a catch?" Dean's shovel scrapes against wood and Elizabeth's does the same a second later, a few splinters of pine drifting down with the dirt.

"I think we got something," Dean calls up.

"You want the pick?"

"Nah, I can get this. Liza, head on up and get everything ready." She tosses her shovel out of the grave and holds out a hand, Sam taking it and helping her up and out of the hole. Instead of staying on her feet, she plops right down with her feet dangling near Dean's head, pulling out the lighter fluid and salt. "Ah man, how come they never smell like roses?"

"Because we're not that lucky," Elizabeth says. Dean's got the coffin lid smashed to pieces, revealing a skeleton held together by cobwebs and a scrap of ligament.

"Help me out of here, Sammy." Sam does just that, then Dean and Elizabeth are circling the grave, coating the body in salt and lighter fluid. The fluid soaks into the wood coffin, saturating everything until the bones gleam whitely in the moonlight. They come to a stop near the head of the grave, Sam pulling the matches out of his coat pocket. "You've been a real pain in the ass, Isaiah. Good riddance." Sam tosses the matches into the grave and they watch as the fragile bones turn black and then start to burn and bubble.

That should be the end of the haunting, but it isn't.

They drive back to Evelyn's house just to see if the painting has gone back to normal, no more weird details pointing to Isaiah still being alive. Besides, Elizabeth kind of wants to put her fist through the canvas and then lock it up next to the Ark of the Covenant just for safety.

"Keep the motor running," Sam says as he opens his door.

"Wait, I thought the painting is harmless now," Sarah says, making Sam pause with one foot on the driveway.

"Better safe than sorry. We're gonna bury the sucker."

"Then I'm coming, too." Sarah's out and heading for the house before Sam can stop her, his big brown eyes watching her go with something like admiration. He could fall in love with Sarah if they stayed here long enough, but that would mean giving up the hunt for old Yellow Eyes and Elizabeth knows he isn't ready to do that yet. Jess' death is still too fresh.

"Hey," Dean hisses. "You make your move on her and I'll stay out here." Sam scoffs, getting out of the car and slamming the door on Dean's stuttering insistence. "That boy's never going to get laid."

"Give him time," Elizabeth sighs, climbing over the seat to sit next to him. "With those big eyes and his dimples, he'll find a nice girl to bone."

"God, I hope you're right." She settles against his side with his arm hanging loosely around her shoulders, his fingers tracing circles over her bicep. It's comforting and he's warm, her eyes starting to droop. She's just about to doze off when a sudden gust of wind picks up, swirling through the air as the front door slams shut on its own.

"Goddammit." They scramble out of the car and run up the porch steps, Dean slamming his shoulder against the door and twisting the knob to no avail. The thing isn't opening, glued shut by a supernatural force. Sometimes Elizabeth really fucking hates ghosts and their superpowers.

"Dean, is that you," Sam shouts from the other side.

"It's me," Dean shouts. "Are you guys alright? What's going on?" Dean's cell rings and he answers without looking at the caller ID, putting it on speaker for Elizabeth to hear. "Tell me you're the one that slammed the front door."

"It was the little girl. She's out of the painting and so is the razor."

"Wasn't the dad looking down at her? Maybe he was trying to warn us."

"Save the recap for Bobby when he asks why I'm dead." Dean grunts, bringing out his lock picks and setting to work. It doesn't do any good, though, the door is unlocked already but little Melanie is keeping it closed by sheer force of will. "Get us out of here, man."

"The door's not locked, Sammy. The bitch is holding it shut."

"Then break it down somehow. The fucking ghost is coming, I can hear her giggling." Elizabeth runs back to the car, pulling out the pick-ax before racing to the front door again. She brings it down against the narrow window of frosted glass beside the door, but it doesn't so much as leave a mark.

"What the fuck? Why didn't it break?" Elizabeth tries again, putting all her strength into the swing and accomplishing nothing. The pick scrapes off the glass and makes a few sparks when it collides with the brick wall of the house. "Hold it off while we figure this out, Sammy. You know the drill, salt and iron."

"What the fuck are we supposed to do, Dean," Elizabeth asks. "We don't exactly have a battering ram. I don't think it would do us much good even if we did." He makes a face, glaring at the door.

"What kind of low sodium freaks don't have any goddamn salt," Sam is muttering on his end. There are distant thumps of slamming doors and Sam's muffled gasp.

"Check around the house," Dean orders. "Maybe one of the windows doesn't have any bars." Elizabeth nods and starts off, but Dean grabs her arm again. "On second thought, let's stick together in case she decides to pop out for some fresh air. I don't like the thought of you being alone on your bad ankle." For once, she doesn't protest. "Talk to me, Sammy. How are y'all doing?"

"I've got an iron poker that seems to do the job, but that's it. I don't understand why she's still around, there's nothing left of her to be burned." Elizabeth pauses and grabs Dean's jacket, her eyes going wide.

"What is it, Liza?"

"The fucking doll," she says. "Back in the old days, they used some of the kid's hair for the doll. She obviously loved the thing since it was interred with her. She even had it in the portrait!"

"She's right," Sarah says. "We used to handle dolls like that at the auction house."

"Then I guess we're heading back to the cemetery," Dean says. "You kids hold tight and we'll burn the frigging doll as fast as we can." They scramble back to the Impala, breaking about five different laws on the way to the cemetery and crashing through the gate without slowing down. They drive along the dirt path they'd noticed earlier, the breaks screaming when Dean slams on them with the headlights throwing yellow circles of light against the dour crypt.

"We gotta hurry," Elizabeth mutters to herself, almost singing it. "Hurry, hurry, hurry…." Dean brings his pistol out when they're inside the crypt, slamming the butt of it against the glass case. "Dean!"

"We gotta get it open somehow, Liza!"

"So fucking shoot it!" He pauses long enough to roll his eyes, flipping the gun around so that he's holding it properly. Elizabeth covers her ears as he aims, then a bullet is tearing the glass into pieces, taking part of the doll's dress with it. He yanks the doll out, using his Zippo to light the thing's long hair on fire and tossing it to the floor when the fire spreads to its dress.

"Call Sammy and see if he's still alive."

"You got it." She brings her phone out, dialing Sam's number and putting the phone on speaker. It rings twice before Sam answers, Elizabeth letting out a sigh when she hears his voice.

"Hey," he says.

"Is the bitch gone?"

"Yeah, back in the portrait like she's supposed to be." She leans heavily against the wall, uncaring about the thick layer of dust and cobwebs that get on her shirt. It's old anyway and Sam is alive. Exhaustion starts to creep in now, her ankle throbbing in time with her slowing heartbeat.

"Good. It's gonna take us a few minutes to get back if you and Sarah wanna make out." She hangs up before Sam can say anything, slipping her phone back in her pocket.

Dean and Elizabeth come into the auction house early the next morning, Sam already there. He and Sarah are watching the Merchant portrait get boxed up when the other two join them, Dean holding up a copy of an old document.

"Check out what we found in the county records," Dean says. "Turns out the Merchants adopted Melanie. Any guesses on how her original family was found dead?"

"I'll give y'all three guesses, but the first two don't count," Elizabeth adds dryly.

"She murdered them, too," Sarah asks, disbelief coloring her tone.

"Who'd suspect a sweet little girl," Dean asks sarcastically. "I mean, it's not like she's creepy as hell or anything. She must have got a taste for blood because she wasn't with the Merchants long before they were dead, too. Isaiah's been trying to warn people ever since."

"Where's this box go," a man asks, the crate containing the portrait on a dolly.

"Take it out back and burn it," Sarah says. The two movers look nonplussed at first, then Sarah gives them a nervous smile. "I'm serious, guys. The thing's creepy and it won't sell. Just burn it and I'll tip you both really well." The men nod and wheel the crate through the auction house toward a backdoor. "Do you know why Melanie killed everyone?"

"Some people are just born tortured," Sam shrugs. "When they die, their spirits are just as dark. Motive usually doesn't matter in cases like this." Sarah smiles again, a little forlornly as she gazes up at Sam.

"I guess this means you're actually leaving this time." There's an awkward silence where Elizabeth keeps her gaze on her shoes while Dean realizes they aren't wanted for this part.

"You know what," he asks. "I'll just go wait in the car. I'll even make sure Elizabeth stays fully clothed this time around." He and Elizabeth walk out to the car, slow and unhurried, hands joined and swinging gently between them. "I've been thinking about baby names."

"Oh yeah," Elizabeth asks, leaning against the Impala's hood.

"Yeah. I was thinking that Charlotte is a perfect name for a little girl, maybe even Charlotte Joann so she's partially named after my dad." Elizabeth hums, pleased with the name even if she doesn't like John. "I think I found the perfect name for a little boy, too."

"Our imaginary little boy?" But that doesn't feel quite right, like Fate is closing in around them and guiding them along to a fixed point in time. Somehow Elizabeth knows that they'll never have a little girl with blonde curls and perfect green eyes, it'll be a little boy with a contagious grin and a loving heart.

"How do you feel about the name Robert Christopher? Christopher after your dad and Robert after…. Well, after Bobby since he's basically helped raise us." Tears gather and blur her vision, but they don't fall as she pulls Dean into a hug.

"I think that's perfect."

Hey Jude, don't make it bad/Take a sad song and make it better/Remember to let her into your heart/Then you can start to make it better