A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot but I had a couple of hours last week free and didn't have my notes for my ongoing fic so I decided to write a second chapter to this one instead.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~

A couple of days earlier...

Bobby trudged along behind Sam and Dean in the busy Baton Rouge street, an unseen shadow with a perpetual sour expression on his face. He'd near exhausted himself trying to make his presence known but this Swayze thing was a lot harder than he had expected. Frustrated and bad-tempered, he only half-listened to the conversation in front of him.

"We've used psychics before," Dean was saying. "And this tip came from Joshua. He's the one who found that faith healer, remember? Wasn't the real deal but the juju was still happening."

"Yeah, but this is a witch, not a psychic or a healer. It's most likely some old hermit lady off her rocker or, if she's legit, then she's probably answering to a demon."

"You got any better ideas, Sam? Coz Frank looked for weeks and all he gave us was a field and a list of big-mouth celebrities to watch out for."

Bobby shook his head in defeat. Dean was like a pitbull in his mission to take down Dick Roman. It was sad to see because of all the Winchester men, he had been the one who had always cared for family more than revenge. Then again, Bobby acquiesced, Dean's dwindling family was down to one.

Sam shrugged and gave in. "Fine. We can go as soon as we finish this hunt. We should have it wrapped by tomorrow." With that, he tried to steer the conversation back to the hunt the boys were working on. Bobby watched as Dean's shoulders sank with disinterest and he felt the usual urge to pat the boy on the back and give him words of comfort. If only he could.

Just then a slim brunette walked by in the other direction and Bobby watched as Dean's head swivelled around to give her a lingering, appreciative look as she passed. A slight smirk appeared on the trailing ghost's face. It would appear Dean wasn't completely beaten yet, despite how broken and lost he seemed right now. There was still a trace of his old self left in there.

Bobby glanced at the young woman, taking a step sideways so she didn't walk into him and grimacing at the memory of the time Sam had jogged right through him. Frigging creepy. He looked over as she walked by and for a second, she met his gaze.

She met his gaze!

It was only for an instant and she looked away quickly but Bobby had no doubts that she had seen him.

Yet Dean had seen her ... so she wasn't dead - she wasn't a ghost like him. He stopped in his tracks, his mind spinning in bewilderment and confusion. "Hey!" he called out, forgoing manners in his urgency.

She didn't stop or turn around but he was every bit as observant a ghost as he had been as a hunter and he noticed the slight stiffening in her shoulders. He turned and walked after her quickly, calling to her. "Excuse me! Ma'am! Hey little lady! I know you can hear me..."

He glanced backwards to see Sam and Dean quickly reaching the distance away from him that he had calculated to be the furthest he could get from his old flask in Dean's pocket. A few more steps and he would flicker out and be dragged back to their sides. "I know you can hear me!" he called out desperately.

She could hear him. He was sure of it. Her shoulders were tensed and she flinched slightly every time he yelled. She had also quickened her pace, clearly in an effort to get away from him. There was also something about her ... some kind of feeling or vibe he was getting that almost seemed to pull him towards her. He braced for the unpleasant shock of being zapped back up the street to the Winchesters as he took one last lunge towards the girl. "Please!"

He didn't black out. He didn't even flicker. He was still walking in her direction, had almost caught up with her in fact, and the brothers were now well out of range. He didn't know why but it seemed he could somehow exist around her without the flask. Not sure how long it would last, he doubled his efforts at getting her attention.

He walked behind her, next to her, and even backwards in front of her, trying to slow her down or stop her, begging for her to stop and help him out but she kept on walking. She was obviously putting great effort into ignoring him and trying not to attract attention on the busy street and did not appear amused at his persistence. Finally, she turned into a quiet street and continued through a small parking lot until she reached a red, open-top Jeep. Bobby was still pleading with her to acknowledge him when she reached into the trunk and came out swinging.

He barely noticed the iron bar in her hands as she spun towards him before it was slicing through his midsection. Bobby gasped and doubled over, fighting off the black-out nothingness now threatening to swallow him. Damn, that hurt like a son of a bitch!

She reached back into the Jeep, fumbling with something under a tarp. Bobby was still clutching his gut when she flipped open a wooden box and pulled out a shotgun, pumping one round into the chamber as she lifted it to his chest. "Leave me alone," she spat.

In any other circumstances, Bobby might have been inclined to do just that, but his boys needed him.

"Wait," he breathed, still in pain from his bout with the iron. "I just need your help."

"No," she replied quickly. "You should have gone with your reaper."

Bobby backed away quickly, not trusting the determined expression on her face. He ducked behind her Jeep, moving around it as she did to keep the vehicle between them. "I couldn't. I have unfinished business..."

"That's what they all say." The barrel of the shotgun never wavered from his direction.

"They all?" Bobby fished. "You see a lot of us?"

She shrugged. "You aren't the first. Go away and leave me alone or I shoot."

"Wait, wait. Please, my situation's a bit different. There's these two boys that need..."

"I can't help."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Doesn't matter. It's not gonna happen."

"This is important. It could end up saving lives, many lives..."

She snorted. "Yeah yeah. Look, Mister, I've heard it all before, okay? I'm not helping. I'm not listening to your sob story. You're no different from all the others. All nice and friendly 'til all of a sudden, you aren't."

Now her belligerence was starting to make sense. Bobby could feel some kind of psychic ability within her - it was clearly what made him able to exist around her. It was almost welcoming. He didn't know what it was but figured that other ghosts must be able to sense it too and that likely made her a ghost magnet and probably a target too. After all, they didn't call his kind 'vengeful spirits' for nothing.

He held up a hand in a gesture of peace. "I'm fresh ectoplasm, darlin'," he smiled gently. "Just getting started. I got a while yet before I go all vengeful. I can understand why you don't want to talk to me. Hell, I spent most of my life ending spirits like me but..."

"I'm not listening." They were on their second dance around the car, her weapon still trained on him. "You ever been shot with rock salt?" she threatened. "Hurts like hell, from what I hear."

"I'll take your word on that," he placated calmly. "But listen, these two boys; they're hunters. I just need you to deliver a message for me."

"Hunters?" Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils practically flared as she spat the word out at him. Bobby found himself taken by surprise as she swiftly leapt up into the Jeep and pulled the trigger.

The iron bar that he had thought hurt so much felt like a feather-tickle compared to the pain inflicted by the rock salt blast to the chest. He screamed what sounded strangely like a piercing, ghost scream and felt himself dissipating. He fought against it as hard as he could but knew he was losing. Instead he closed his eyes and concentrated on her presence, studying it and connecting to it, hoping like hell he could find it again when he made it back to ghost consciousness. The last thing he heard was her voice, even and unapologetic. "Stay away from me or I'll burn your bones, Mister."

~x~x~x~x~x~x~

After pumping the ghost in town full of rock salt, Marisol drove straight home, double-checking the salt lines around her house as soon as she got in. She opened the fridge and reached for a soda but changed her mind at the last second and instead grabbed a cold beer. Ten seconds later she sank down into her old armchair and let out a long, tired sigh.

Three hours. That's all she had hoped for. Was that really too much to ask? That she get three hours of peace to wander around the city and do her errands? She had been planning on heading to the hair salon before coming home but the appearance of the trucker-cap ghost had rattled her and changed her mind. On top of that, firing a weapon in downtown Baton Rouge wasn't exactly risk-free but she had been on edge lately and thought it justified. Like countless before him, the ghost had been persistent and one persistent son of a bitch at a time was enough.

She reached over and deposited her iPod into the stand on the side table, leaning back and closing her eyes to the mellow sound of Otis Redding. She wasn't blind. She could see she was headed down the same path her mother had taken. She knew she would probably end up much the same way; lonely and afraid.

She had only left the house twice in two weeks. There had always been ghosts and there had always been danger and she used to just chase them off and keep going but recently, with this latest threat...

She spent a quiet evening inside the house, checking and re-checking the salt lines, wards, and hex bags. By ten-thirty, she was in bed, trying to gather the courage to try another venture into town tomorrow. It had just been a harmless newbie ghost today but maybe tomorrow it would be him. She had been hiding inside for over a week but maybe he was still hanging around…waiting.

Just after three o'clock in the morning, a quiet voice woke her up.

"Normally I ain't one to skulk in young ladies' bedrooms, but you didn't really give me a choice."

She bolted upright, scrambling to the side of the bed to grab the loaded shotgun she always kept there, her eyes straining to see in the dim light. Crap, the room was cold.

"Woah, hold on there," the voice said and her eyes fell on the figure of the trucker-cap ghost from town today.

"How'd you get in my house?" she hissed, her heart beating in fear. She was supposed to be safe here. Oh God, if this newbie could get in then he could get in.

The man raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "Please don't shoot," he pleaded in a sincere and friendly tone. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"How'd you get in?" she repeated.

"Darlin, I was a hunter. I know every way imaginable to keep me out and then some. Plus I've been working on the Swayze thing. A wisp of breath'll put the tiniest break in your salt line and your hex bags, well..." he gave her a curious look, "...movin' things just seems easier around you."

She swallowed. She had heard that before. Just her luck that violent spirits got stronger in her presence. "Get out or I'll shoot you," she said, wishing her voice had sounded braver on the delivery of the threat.

The ghost shook his head. "You can shoot me a hundred times - I ain't leaving here 'til you deliver my message."

"I'll burn your bones," she threatened. "You won't come back after that."

He shrugged. "Already been salted and burned. Will you just do me one favor? I'll never bother you again, I swear."

"No." She wasn't going to give in. When she was a young girl, her mother had made that mistake and they had to move across the country to get away from the onslaught of spirits who somehow heard about her and her daughter. "There's a pretty chatty ghost grapevine and I already get way too many of you harassing me."

"I won't tell a soul."

"You don't know what you'll do." She shook her head again. "See, you all break your word. You all say you're friendly. Well, those of you that are still sane enough to talk do. But you all go crazy. You all get mad eventually. I can't afford to have you hanging around when you do."

He actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at her. "How about a phone call then? Just a phone call."

Her temper rose at the derogatory eye-roll. "No!" she spat. "It won't be just a phone call. You demand and beg and then you don't leave because your message or phone call or whatever never solves anything because all of a sudden it hits you that you're stuck as a freaking ghost! Then you get pissed. Wanna guess who you'll take your anger out on then?" She was yelling now and not entirely sure why she was arguing with this ghost instead of just shooting him already.

His face softened and his expression grew sad. "You really think I'd hurt you?" His voice was gentle and he looked kinder than most and she couldn't help but think he must be telling the truth about being newly dead.

"I won't," he insisted.

"I'm not helping you," she worked to regain her composure. She had been shaken by the knowledge that he had made it past her defences and into her home, her sanctuary. "You can beg 'til you're blue in the face but I'm not helping you."

The spirit sighed and grumbled something about some guy called Dean and being made to watch some stupid movie. He surprised her next by sitting calmly down in the wicker chair at the far side of the room.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

He shrugged, palms up and simply started singing Big Yellow Taxi by Joni Mitchell. She stared at him dumfounded as he repeated the chorus and the 'they paved paradise and put up a parking lot' part over and over, each time less in tune than the last. It was a couple of minutes before it hit her what he was doing.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" she seethed, raising the shotgun. "Now I'm Whoopie to your Swayze? I don't think so, Old Man!"

She fired and his face contorted in agony before he disappeared again.

"And stay gone," she said into the empty room before getting up to go fix the salt lines and reposition the hex bags.

Crafty old fox, she had to give him that.

~x~x~x~x~x~x~

He came back sooner this time, popping up in her kitchen as she was spreading her breakfast waffle and humming along with CCR on the ever-present iPod. She felt the room get cold but he flashed in and swiped the shotgun from the counter before she could even react. He backed off but tossed the weapon through into the other room and placed himself between her and the doorway.

She tensed, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end in trepidation. "I thought you were a newbie," she swallowed, trying to keep her fear in check. "That was pretty good for a newbie."

He shrugged but didn't come any closer. His shoulders were relaxed and she had to admit, his demeanor didn't appear threatening. "I'm motivated," he said with a determined look. "Now, can we revisit this favor idea?"

She shook her head stubbornly, hoping it wouldn't antagonize the ghost. "I'm not contacting anyone for you," she told him. "Especially hunters."

He tilted his head a little and gave her a curious look. "I would think a gal with your uh...talents...would be friendly with hunters."

"Not even close," she answered vehemently, moving slowly towards the end of the counter. "They're more dangerous than your kind. Trust me, I learned that the hard way. More than once."

"Not these hunters," he argued.

"Every hunter." She wondered briefly why she was engaging this guy instead of just ignoring him like she did with most spirits. Of course, most spirits didn't figure out how to get into her house. "All I am to hunters is bait," she scoffed, unable to hide the resentment in her voice. She had 'befriended' a few hunters in her lifetime and it had never ended well for her either physically or emotionally. "They can't see past the hunt. I'm just a worm on a hook."

Trucker-cap gave her a sympathetic look. "My name's Bobby Singer, by the way," he said, changing the subject.

She was at the end of counter now and her hand slowly moved behind her. "Marisol," she introduced herself as a distraction while her fingers wrapped around the box of salt behind her. Without waiting for a reply, she swept the box in a wide arc in front of her, feeling relief and satisfaction when she saw the spray of white powder sprinkle right through the ghostly figure in her kitchen. He howled in pain and she reached for the iron wrench on a nearby surface and lashed out at him with it. It sliced right through and within seconds, he was gone.

She stood still for just a second, her breath heavy after the brief rush of adrenaline, then hurriedly moved towards the closest window. He would probably recover fairly quickly as it was only a small sprinkle of salt she had hit him with and iron was never as effective as salt. She re-checked the salt line and had moved to the next before it occurred to her that if he got in once, he could get in again.

Crap. And now he'd be pissed.

She heard a noise behind her and her heart skipped a beat. Was he back already? She spun around, expecting to see the trucker-cap ghost but the sight her eyes fell upon was far, far worse.

It was him. The soldier. Whatever Bobby Singer had done to break her house's defences had allowed something much worse to enter. Her thoughts jumped to her last encounter a week ago with this ghost outside the Pump'N'Save up the street and her heart twisted in a hard knot of fear. She still sported the bruises and the bandaged cuts and the memory of a very narrow escape.

He stood a few feet away from her with a menacing look on his face. He was wearing Yankee military clothes from the Civil War and had a dark rope-shaped bruise traveling the circumference of his neck. Marisol's iPod flickered on and off before dying completely, leaving the room both cold and silent.

"Bessy," he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

"I'm not Bessy," she stammered, knowing denying it wouldn't make any difference. This ghost was beyond reason. He had one single purpose for existing and unfortunately, that purpose was to kill his precious Bessy.

He moved in flashes, flickering in and out and instantaneously appearing right next to her. She swung the iron wrench at him but he never even flinched. The weapon was torn from her hands with an invisible force and sent careening across the room. She swallowed a scream and tried to run, tried to get past him towards the living room and the discarded shotgun.

She never got two feet. His hand clamped around her wrist and he yanked her towards him only to slam his palm into her chest. She felt the blow like a freight train and was thrown backwards, flying across the floor before slamming into the kitchen cupboards beneath the sink.

In another flash he was above her, an anguished look on his face as he bent over and pinned her by her wrists. "Why, Bessy? Why?" he repeated over and over. "Why did you do this to me?" She struggled and writhed desperately to get free but his grip was far too strong. "We were meant to be together, Bessy. How could you do this to me? To us? You ruined everything. You broke my heart, Bessy. Now I'll break yours. It's the only way ... the only way we can complete our journey."

"I'm not Bessy!" she screamed. "I'm not Bessy! Get your paws off me you psycho! Let me..." He cut off her words as he moved one hand to her neck and pushed her back against the cupboard doors while his other hand moved to her heart. He pushed it forward and it sank into her chest, sending shockwaves of the most intense agony through her entire body. She lashed out at him but knew she was no match for his ghostly strength. The pain was blinding and every nerve and thought was screaming at her that this was it - she was going to die - when the pain suddenly stopped.

She gasped and struggled for breath, blinking her eyes to regain her focus until she could see what was going on and why he had stopped. There was a lot of noise and her vision finally cleared enough to show her Bobby Singer wrestling in the middle of her kitchen with the soldier. Well, wrestling would be a generous way of putting it for most of his swings were missing, sliding right through the other apparition. The soldier's swings, on the other hand, were striking the kindly trucker-cap ghost every time and clearly starting to take their toll.

Marisol leapt to her feet as fast as she could and staggered to the living room. She grabbed the always-loaded shotgun and ran back, emptying round after round into the soldier. He growled and flew at her a few times but was clearly starting to feel the effect of the multiple rock salt rounds to the chest. Finally, when she was on her last round, he flickered and disappeared.

She turned to Bobby, who was pulling himself up from his knees, groaning and wheezing in pain. He looked up to see her standing with the shotgun aimed in his direction and his eyes widened in alarm. He raised a hand. "Hold on a minute there, gal," he panted. "I just..."

"You helped me," she said, sounding a bit stunned. She lowered the shotgun quickly with an "oh!", not having realized she had it pointed at her saviour. "Thank-you," she said sincerely.

Bobby finally made it upright and gave her a tired grin. "You're welcome. Alright, gimme the skinny. Who in the hell was that?"

She sighed and leaned against the counter, fighting back a sudden, embarrassing urge to cry. "His name is Hugh Laffarty," she blurted. "He was a Confederate soldier in the Civil War. He showed up here about six weeks ago thinking I was some girl named Bessy. He's more powerful than most. I mean, you saw him. He took a lot of salt rounds before disappearing. He keeps coming back, always the same deal and always violent." She lifted the hem of her t-shirt up enough to show Bobby the large purple bruise the soldier had left her with on his last visit. "But he's never made it into the house before."

Trucker-cap ghost looked thoughtful. "Well, we best be seeing about burning his bones then," he said matter-of-factly.

Marisol frowned at him, regaining her composure. "I'm not new to this game," she said indignantly. "I did my research. He deserted his battalion two days before the Battle of Chickamauga, September 1863, and was never heard from again. Don't know where he died or when he died so his remains could be anywhere. He's a hundred and fifty year old spirit so he's got quite a range from his bones or whatever object he could be tied to so that makes them pretty hard to pin down."

The ghost ran a hand through his beard. "You mean as I get older, I'll be able to stray farther from my flas…from my object?"

She frowned at her slip but nodded. She didn't customarily explain the ins and outs of ghosthood to her unwanted visitors. She didn't want to encourage them to seek her company.

"Hmmm. That's good to know. Anyway, sounds like you got a nasty sonofabitch on your ass, darlin'. Lucky for you, I happen to know a couple of boys who make it their job to help people out in these kind of situations."

She shook her head and folded her arms across her chest. "I told you, I don't deal with hunters. I've killed tons of ghosts myself; this one's no different. I just need to…"

"You just need to stop being so damn stubborn and call the best damn hunters I ever met," he interrupted. "Trust me, they got way too much on their plates to stick around afterwards so they won't keep bothering you. What they will do, is see that sonofabitch destroyed. I swear it."

She couldn't believe she was even entertaining the idea but that had been a close call and she was admittedly shaken and scared. "And I suppose I could just deliver your message at the same time," she rolled her eyes, laying on the sarcasm in an effort to hide her fear. "How convenient for you."

"Just gravy at this point," he told her, his expression sincere. Marisol found herself wanting to trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt even though that went against her lifetime of experience to the contrary.

"I won't be able to chase that monster away again," he continued. "And I'm really sorry about lettin' him in here but now that he's seen how I did it…"

She swallowed. "I'm not safe here, am I?"

He shook his head. "You should leave right now. I can stick with ya but you need alive people to help you get that crazy off your tail. Ain't no shame in askin' fer a bit of help."

She still looked hesitant.

He rolled his eyes and threw her a hopeful grin. "Did I mention these two boys were easy on the eyes?"

~x~x~x~x~x~x~

New A/N: So I decided to add a third chapter from Dean's POV that starts when they meet at the pier and goes through them helping Marisol kill the soldier. It again has a different feel than the previous chapters - kind of like its own little story. Hope you continue on :)