** See Part 1 for full story notes and disclaimer.

PART 10 NOTES: Let me apologize for the very late posting, but I was in class all day yesterday and had a certification test early this morning. I hope you won't hold RL against me. And once again grateful thanks go to all of the wonderful people reading and enjoying this story. Hold onto your seats because it's just getting started! More Peeps go to Lynette for her awesome beta skills. Without her, I'd be scared for you to see anything at all. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone as I tend to fiddle up until the very last second. Bad habit, that. (vbg) As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

Part Ten

THEN …

He packed away the tools and heaved the now useless tire into the bottom of the trunk before setting the weapons rack down over the compartment, followed quickly by the boxes of bones. Never had he been so grateful for the huge trunk.

With one last check for loose tools, he grabbed his over shirt, shut the trunk and rounded the corner of the Impala. "You're changing the next one by yourself," he said as he sank into the seat. The engine growled to life and he carefully pulled onto the road for the third time. Until they could replace the tire he couldn't chance another flat.

For once he actually missed Dean's disparaging comments on his mechanical skills.

NOW …

MARCUS SILAS'S HOUSE, KENTUCKY

Saturday, 5:04 pm

Before the pain in his chest had even started to fade, hell, before he'd even opened his eyes, Dean knew what he'd see. The knowledge did nothing to diminish the anger boiling from his gut when he finally managed to pry his eyelids up.

Yep. Silas's house again.

"The damned son of a bitch." Why he was surprised the bastard had lied he had no idea. Apparently Silas didn't have to wait for him to fall asleep before hijacking his body. "Yeah, well I'm not done with it yet," he yelled into the empty entryway, more to hear the sound of his own voice than anything else. A twinge of pain from his chest brought a grim smile to his face. At least Silas had had to work for it this time. And if his own level of discomfort was any indication, Silas must be having a doozy of a time in the physical world. "Pay back's a bitch, huh?"

Pushing aside the useless aggravation at once again being trapped, he headed for the room opposite the one he and Silas had talked in the last time. There had to be something stashed away he could use to his advantage. He had no illusions the witch was careless enough to leave his master plan neatly written out for all the world to see, but that also didn't mean he hadn't left some other clue behind. If this really was a replica of his house, Dean would tear it apart before he gave up.

The library, if he could forgive himself for even naming the room, was unchanged from his abrupt departure two days ago. Giving the room another quick once over with his eyes, he decided to start with the desk. People usually kept all sorts of valuable information tucked away in their drawers thinking it was safe there. The surface was covered with a large red leather blotter, almost completely obscuring the polished grain of the wood. A small brass oil lamp sat on one corner, a set of dip pens and nibs in a wooden holder and an ink well half filled with liquid in the opposite. Other than those ruthlessly organized items, nothing else marred the impeccable neatness. "Freak," Dean murmured, tempted to spill the ink all over the red leather on principle alone.

The main drawer only held a thin, six inch blade, a box of embossed paper, a shaker of fine sand and a leather pouch about the size of his fist. Carefully setting the pouch on the blotter, he untied the string and let it fall open. "Always with the small animals. I hate witches." There on the desk was a feather, three tiny bones, a scrap of cloth and bits of ash clinging to all of it. Dean didn't know much about the actual practice of witchcraft, but he did know enough to recognize a masking hex bag when he saw one. "Just who are we hiding from, Silas? And how do I introduce myself?"

Without warning, the ink well slid toward him across the desk a good three inches, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the cap.

Dean tensed, eyes scanning the empty room. No telltale plumes of condensation appeared when he breathed, but the tiny knife found its way into his hand regardless. The sheen of the knife implied a high grade silver and even though spirits usually had little reaction to the metal, it was better than no weapon at all, at least until he could reach the fireplace on the far side of the room and its beautiful supply of old fashioned pokers. He backed away from the desk, sidestepping the chair. "Silas? What's with the Casper impression?"

The ink well scraped over the desk again, this time hard enough to spill a line of darkness over the blotter.

A smile twitched at his lips. Maybe the ghost had had enough of the witch as well. No way Silas would damage his own desk like that. "I take it you're one of Silas's victims then." Another shove at the ink well. "Okay. Since this place isn't physical I don't suppose you can manifest." It wasn't really a question, but the spirit took it that way and knocked three of the nibs away from the set, separating one. Dean didn't need any of his experience with ghosts to know what was going on. "One yes, two no, right?" The lone nib jiggled slightly. "All right. Now we're talking." He set the knife on the desk just close enough to reach if needed. The spirit seemed to be friendly, but he wasn't taking any chances.

"Silas forced me out of my body while I was awake. Is that normal?"

Yes.

"I bound myself with iron shackles at neck, wrists and ankles. He's a spirit and he can work around pure iron?"

Yes.

"He's that powerful. Damn it."

Yes.

He winced at the response even though there wasn't a question attached to it. A sliver of fear clawed its way up his chest before he spoke. "How much longer do I have?"

Nothing.

"Right. Yes, no questions. Do you know how much longer I have?"

No.

"Great." The most important piece of information was still an unknown. He straightened slightly, shoving his fear and disappointment down where he couldn't feel it. You're a hunter, he told himself, do your job. "Do you know anything about this spell?"

Yes.

"Is there anything in the house that can help me stop Silas?"

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Well, wasn't that just a ray of sunshine. "Can you show me-" His voice choked off as a flash of fire speared his chest. Holy crap, what the hell was Silas doing to him? "He forced me here. Can I kick him back out?" Planting his hands on the desk, Dean managed to keep himself upright. The pain spread across his ribs, pushing into his stomach.

Yes.

"I'll be back. Don't go anywhere."

No.

Either the ghost didn't have a sense of humor or was even more trapped than Dean himself. Another spike of pain flared and his eyes closed automatically. Drawing on the memory of Silas's surprise attack in the Impala, he pictured his body sitting in the familiar seat, pictured the witch's face superimposed over his and then he reached. With what he couldn't say, but his hands found something to grip and he locked on tight. The spikes erupted into flat out agony, his chest and head burning and freezing at the same time. Clenching his fists through the spasms wracking his muscles, he felt when Silas started to fight back. His body wavered in his vision, the top of the desk shimmering through his arms as they disappeared then reappeared. He felt Silas gather himself for another defense and lunged into the minute opening, separating Silas from the picture of his body and hurling him as far as he could.

Gasping, his lungs burning, his chest smoldering from the pain, he steadied himself on the desk, stunned to still be in the library and not the comforting presence of the Impala.

"That was rude, Dean. Even for you."

He froze for the briefest of moments before forcing his body upright and clearing his face of all traces of discomfort. "Back at you." You bastard. See Sam, he thought proudly, I can be taught.

Silas stood not ten feet from him, a disappointed frown creasing his forehead and tightening his lips. "I dislike being interrupted in the middle of a conversation."

"I dislike being ripped out of my body. I guess we're even." Not bothering to hide his anger, Dean let it fill his eyes, the familiar heat pushing aside the last of the pain. "Not that I'm jumping up to believe every word out of your mouth, but now that you're here, why am I?"

"It's simple progression. You're losing ground and I'm taking over. It's how the spell works. You'll be spending quite a bit more time here in the next few days, even if I am unable to maintain control." His last words were said almost absently, as if he wasn't really paying any attention to what he was saying. Instead, he seemed to be focused on the desk, eyes swiveling back and forth.

Glancing down quickly, Dean took stock of the spill of ink, open hex bag, out of place nibs and open drawer and struggled to bite back a smile. One second later he let it rip, wondering why he'd even tried. That was the expression he'd just been wishing to see. "Yeah, sorry about that," he said, voice far too cheerful to even pretend to be apologetic. "I'm such a klutz at times."

Silas's hands actually shook as they reached to return each piece back into its assigned place. "I will ask you to respect my property while you are a guest. None of my previous hosts thought it necessary to defile my belongings." The hex bag was carefully refolded and tied then set into the drawer.

Amusement vanished between breaths. "Chill, dude. I told you it was an accident. I was bored."

"In a library?" A pristine white handkerchief appeared out of a pocket and was stained with ink. "I'm certain there is at least one book here that could hold your interest for a few short hours."

"Whatever." Striding away before he smacked the witch and earned himself another bout of agonizing pain, he crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace, a thought niggling at the back of his brain. Could Silas not even know about the ghost? Could one of his victims be inhabiting his house and never have made its presence known to him? Good questions and ones to ask the next time he was alone with Casper the Unexpected Informant. "We ran into one of your demon buddies. She seemed real excited to see you. Me. Well, you know what I mean." And damned if the condescending prick didn't pale just the slightest bit. If catching those minute facial changes hadn't been drilled into him since before he could remember, Dean would have missed it entirely.

Silas played it well, though, merely folding the stained handkerchief and setting it on the desk. "That was Sarah, I imagine. She is awfully persistent."

"Didn't catch a name. One demon's the same as any other to me." He knew Silas knew that was a total lie, but he didn't care. Let the witch chew on it later. "She made us an interesting offer. Turn you over and she'd let us walk."

The smirk appeared once again. "Then why are we having this amusing chat?"

"My brother tends to get a little put out when a demon suggests offing me, even when it'll get rid of a pain in the ass witch."

Silas burst out in a chuckle that would have done George Carlin proud. "Yes. Sarah must be rather annoyed with Sam at the moment. She never has discovered a way to kill me after the spell matures."

Matures? What a politically freaking correct way to say finish stealing someone's body. Amidst the disbelief, Dean didn't overlook the fact Silas had just confirmed he could be killed at the moment. Dean also didn't overlook the fact he'd be killing himself at the same time, so it wasn't a very good plan. But it was a last ditch idea. "Why does her master want you so badly? What'd you do to piss it off?"

Crossing the room to stand in front of the fireplace, Silas held himself stiffly upright, hands clasped behind his back. Dean was starting to think it was more a product of the witch's personality than his upbringing. "Even someone as powerful as me needs assistance for major works. I am only human, after all."

"Right. Must have slipped my mind." He stared at Silas's carefully constructed face, intuition whispering loudly in the back of his mind. "Sarah's master wants its payment, doesn't it? Payment you've been welching on all these years."

"Very good, Dean. I thought it would take you much longer to come to that conclusion."

It wasn't a flat out confirmation, but he'd take it. "They're going to catch up to you when you're vulnerable eventually. The longer it takes the worse it's going to be for you in the long run. You and I both know demons tend to be unforgiving with deal breakers. Why not go easy on yourself and just let Sarah take you down where you belong before they start thinking creatively?"

"And another display of that deductive reasoning you pretend isn't in your head, flawed though it may be." The usual smirk was gone, the expression replacing it one Dean would have called regret on anyone else. "I am sorry, my boy. Even if it were possible, I would not halt the spell."

"Shocker, that one."

"You purposely misunderstand me. We can only be who we are, Dean. I can no more leave this body than you could paint your beloved Impala pink."

And damned if he didn't believe every word of that mutual reflection. Swallowing back the bile burning up his throat at the acknowledgement, he forced his face to hold still. "What about Sarah? She's not going to give up. Even if we had managed to exorcise her, she's got such a hard on for you she'll crawl back up out of the pit for another chance."

"I'll only be vulnerable for a few more days. After that she won't be able to come within a mile of me without my knowledge. No demon will." The mask of regret remained, though tinged with a touch of satisfaction. "And your brother will not allow you to be killed simply to rid the world of me."

Ouch. The witch might be from another century, but he knew how to grab a man by the short hairs without any fumbling. "So send me back to spend my remaining hours saying goodbye."

Silas chuckled, his mirth filling the room and shivering against the silver dip pens to set them dancing together. "I can't send you back, only bring you here. Sometimes it entails a struggle as you know. The spell will allow you to leave on its own time. Your iron bracelets have disrupted the timing, but that is all."

"So I'm stuck here? With you? For who knows how long?" Oh, hell no.

"No." Someone out there was taking requests at the moment. "I have some business to attend. Make yourself at home." His eyes strayed to the blot of ink marring the once pristine red surface of the desk. "Within reason, I trust."

Before he could come up with an appropriate smart ass response, Silas was out of the door leaving him alone with everything he'd just learned. He'd had Silas pegged, just another skank witch to end before more people were killed. And yet that brief moment of regret had seemed so real, so absolutely genuine, Dean could no longer hold onto his concrete belief. The lump in his gut told him there was more to the entire situation, but there weren't any cue cards leading him to the next clue. At the moment, he didn't know what Silas was, besides three fries short of a happy meal, and he was done trying to wrap his brain around it for a while.

The gentle sound of silver striking silver drew his attention back to the desk where the dip pens rolled together in the holder.

"Yeah, I hear you." He laid a hand on the pens, his gut getting even heavier. "I have a bad feeling about this." The pens cooled under his hand, the unmistakable sign of spirit activity, but they stilled their movement. Glancing down, his eyes caught sight of the now familiar shackles adorning his wrist. "Great."

Tiny flecks of red and orange decorated the surface of the iron, laughing up into his face.

"I'm rusting."

cont.