serafina20 | Supernatural WIP fic

Title: Ghost in the Photo
Author Serafina
Pairing None
Rating PG
Summary A series of mysterious deaths lead the boys to an inn in New Haven.
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"Nine fifteen P.M.," Rachel said, adjusting the microphone headset as she recorded her findings. or lack of. "Temperature is sixty-either degrees. Electromagnetic field, normal." She hooked her EMF200 Gauss meter back on her belt and sighed. She'd been here since the sun set, and still no ghost activity. This sucked.

"I should be in England," she groused. She turned the tape off and looked over the common room again. Still no ghost. Time to check the second room. "I have a future. A family legacy to follow. But, no, here I am, doing a favor for a friend who can't keep her guests from being killed."

Rachel had been around haunted houses for as long as she could remember. Well, some haunted houses. And mostly, she just heard about them after the fact. Which was why, she assured herself, it was creepy to walk around an empty, dark hotel at night. Empty, dark, probably haunted hotel. Very probably.

No murders had been committed in the hall or on the stairs. Still, Rachel kept her infrared light in front of her and her eyes peeled. As she approached the room of the second murder, she pulled her Glock from the holster at the small of her back. If she was dealing with anything but a ghost, Rachel was screwed. The gun was loaded with specially made rock salt bullets, not silver or anything that would work against a demon or monster.

Despite walking so slow that she was almost going backwards, Rachel reached the room of the first murder by nine twenty-three. She took out the EMF and did a quick scan, pressing it against the door.

Nothing. Normal. Which meant, most likely, there wasn't anything on the other side of the door.

And yet, the idea that there once was something there was enough to keep Rachel's heart pounding and palms sweating.

She took a deep breath. "Come on, Rachel baby. Make the family proud," she muttered ironically.

With another deep breath, Rachel opened the door and thrust the gun out into...

An empty room.

"Right," she said, feeling stupid. "Of course. What did I expect?" Clicking the dictaphone back on, she recorded the EMF, temperature, and findings. Then, just to be through, she checked the closet and the bathroom and, the perennial favorite, under the bed.

Nothing. Nothing in the room, nothing on the EMF, nothing with an ice pick.

"Stupid nothing ass ghost," Rachel called, feeling stupidly brave. "Didn't think you'd bother showing your face. Probably scared." She licked her lips and climbed on the bed, bouncing a few times as Dean had earlier that day.

Oh, yeah, her family would be *real* proud with her. She was acting like this was her first hunt, like she didn't know the dangers or how to handle it. She wasn't being professional, but, the truth was, she didn't feel very professional right now. This was obviously one ghost, one isolated incident that had happened to cause a ghost to rise and seek vengeance on certain couples staying in inn. It should be easy to figure out who it was and then set the soul to rest.

It just... wasn't what she was supposed to be doing with her life.

With a sigh, Rachel turned the recorder back on. "Nine thirty PM. I'm going upstairs to check the last room. Still no change in temperature or electromagnetic field. I think, though, that if there will be a manifestation tonight, it will be in the room the last murder took place. If I find nothing there, I'll start checking other rooms." She clicked it back off.

As she climbed the stairs to the last room, she wondered if Sam and Dean were going to show up and try anything stupid tonight. She knew they were probably reporters for one of those supernatural rags or websites. Not that she minded those papers or sites, because they often did get a lot of information right, but the downfall was, a lot of the times, they got a lot wrong, too. And those who got the most wrong were usually the ones who went out and tried to meet ghosts face to face. Rachel wasn't interested in having to save anyone from getting an ice pick in their ear tonight. Or, worse, having to calm someone down when confronted with the fact that, yes, not only was the supernatural would real, it was really, really real.

Although, neither Sam nor Dean seemed the type to panic. And Sam was a psychic. A very powerful one, too, considering how high the EMF had clocked him at. Rachel's grandfather had explained to her that about thirty-five percent of the population had some sort of psychic powers and never even noticed. They just put off everything to intuition or luck. However, about four percent of that population was extremely powerful. So powerful, what they knew or dreamed or went through couldn't be ignored.

Sam was probably that powerful. Which meant he probably wasn't investigating a few simple but unusual murders. He was probably investigating the more ghostly aspect.

And maybe, just a little, Rachel wished he and Dean was here. This was the first time she was trying to lay a soul to rest all by herself and she wasn't very optimistic about her chances.

"No negative self-talk," she scolded herself as she walked down the hall to the last room. "You know where that kind of stuff leads. There's no reason to think you can't do this. How many stories have you heard about resting ghosts? How many lessons? Hell, you've done it before. Stop being such a pussy."

She reached the room and took out her EMF. As she pressed it against the door, she thought she heard a creak behind her.

Startled, Rachel whirled, gun out eyes wide.

Nothing.

She held her breath, listening.

Around her, the house settled. The wind groaned through the trees. The air inside stayed deathly silent.

Rachel exhaled slowly, a chill touching her skin. Her breath was visible.

Shit.

She turned. The EMF was glowing.

The ghost was there.

She took the safety off the Glock and put her hand on the handle of the door. " Nam et si ambulavero in medio umbrae mortis non timebo mala quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa me consolata sunt," she whispered, as always preferring the Latin version of the oft recited Psalms.

Steeling her courage, she opened the door.

Nothing. But that didn't mean nothing was there. There was too much evidence to the contrary. The ghost was in the room and she needed to know where it was. Where it was and, more importantly, who. The Glock would deter it from stabbing her, but it wasn't a permanent fix.

She didn't close the door as she entered. Trying to do that sort of sideways shuffle that cops did on TV, Rachel crossed the room to the closet. Her breath caught at the white, flowing robes that greeted her, but they turned out to be just that: robes. Courtesy robes, to be exact.

Irritated, she pushed through them, just to make sure there wasn't anything in there. Satisfied the closet was clear, she stepped back, closed the closet, and turned.

And shrieked.

The ice pick descended the moment her eyes met his green ones, burning with a strangely intense light. His mouth was twisted into a parody of a smile and his nostrils flared as if eager to catch the first smell of blood.

All this process in an instant as Rachel screamed again, turning into weapon. It missed her ear, instead jamming into her temple then tearing through the skin of her forehead as she continued to turn.

The Glock went off and the ghost howled, stumbling back.

Blood obscuring her vision, Rachel staggered in the opposite direction, firing wildly. She squeezed off all ten shots by the time she slammed into the door jamb of the bathroom. She was shaking too hard to release the magazine and reload, so she went inside and slammed the door.

"Sam, down!" she heard Dean shout. A shot was fired, and Dean swore.

Rachel wiped blood and tears from her eyes and quickly dropped the empty magazine out of the gun. She slammed the new magazine in, wiped her eyes again, then tried to open the door.

The cool metal slipped from her blood-slicked grasp. Even after she wiped her palm on her jeans, she couldn't get it to open.

"Let me out!" she shouted, frustrated as she wiped blood away again. She kicked the door. "Sam? Dean?"

The door opened, revealing Sam. "You okay?" he asked, pulling her out of the bathroom.

She was crying from the pain of the wound, tears, blood, and snot all mingling on her face. "Where'd it go?" Rachel demanded, ignoring all that and the fact she was trembling violently.

Dean was holding what looked like a sawed off shotgun. He looked pissed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Where the fuck did the ghost go?"

"It's gone, thanks to you! I had to shoot it to keep it from killing you."

"No, I had to shoot it to keep it from killing me." She wiped away blood again, then pressed her hand hard into where the ice pick had almost broken through her skull.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, and you did a bang up job too. I don't know where the ghost went. I don't know who the ghost is. I highly doubt that its gonna come back tonight, considering it's been shot at ten times and then actually shot...."

"Dean!" Sam shouted. He took the Glock from Rachel's hand and fired quickly at the ghost, who'd rematerialized behind Dean.

It disintegrated immediately into mist which mingled with the moonlight. It stayed there for a few seconds then disappeared.

"Great," Dean groused.

"Let's just get out of here, Dean," Sam said, his hand tight around Rachel's arm. "We're not going to get it tonight anyway. It was just a survey."

"Yeah, but maybe..."

"Dean!"

"Fine, fine. Jesus Christ." He grabbed Rachel's other arm and squeezed tightly. "We'll take you home."

"Um, maybe we should take her to the hospital, Dean. That's a really deep wound."

She yanked her arm out of Dean's grasp. "I can..." Then she swayed on her feet. "Yeah, a ride'll be good. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Sam said, but Dean just tightened his jaw and said, "Yeah, well, you owe us. You better have a damn good reason for being here tonight."

"You too."