jillmariej | A Winchester, a Ghost and a Gunman

Title: A Winchester, a Ghost and a Gunman
Author:

jillmariej
Prompt: Dean Winchester walks into a bar and meets Melvin Frohike
Fandoms: Supernatural and The X-files
Word count: 3000
Rating/Contents: pg 13 (Same amount of violence and light swearing as the shows)
Written for the May 2018

intoabar challenge

The Lone Gunmen may believe in every government conspiracy known to man, but they don't believe the lead singer of Metallica shares a name with this kid claiming to be a U.S. Marshal. Dean Winchester may be young, but he knows how to do the job and how to accept an expert's help.

ao3

Melvin Frohike watches the kid work. He is as smooth as silk and pretty enough to charm the bees from their honey but he sure the hell isn’t a U.S. Marshal. He couldn’t be a day over twenty.

“Thank you for you time Mr. Frohike. If you remember anything else, please give me a call,” the ‘Marshal’ says handing him a business card.

“What did the cc tv show, Marshal Hetfield?” Melvin barely contains his snicker at the name. The card was good, the badge was decent, but James Hetfield? Was this kid serious?

“Uh, the store’s cameras malfunctioned. They only recorded static.”

Frohike isn’t dissuaded. This kid knew more than he was letting on. “That’s convenient.”

“Yeah, well, thanks again Mr. Frohike.” With a small nod the kid leaves the store and climbs into a beautiful old Chevy.

Definitely not a Marshal.

At the Lone Gunman’s secret offices, Frohike is practically attacked the moment he walks in the door. “What the hell took you so long? I could have had this finished an hour ago if you didn’t insist on using dirty Ernie instead of Radio Shack,” Richard ‘Ringo’ Langly whines and grabs the bags from Frohike hands.

“Ernie was murdered Sunday and since I was at the shop that day, I got questioned by some kid from the Marshal’s office.”

“My God, how’s Heather?” John Byers asks.

“She’s trying to be strong. Working on keeping the place open.”

“Why was a Marshal there asking questions?” Langly asks.

“Well Ernie was an ex-con. And often sold items obtained by questionable means,” Byers offers as an explanation.

“What did the cctv show? Ernie had enough to blanket that frickin store.” Langly asks over his shoulder having gone back to his workstation now that he has the parts he needed.

“That’s just it.” Frohike begins. “The marshal said it was static.”

The others stare at him with wide-eyed enthusiasm. Next to extraterrestrials, the supernatural was their favorite topic. “So what are you thinking?” Langly asks Byers.

“Extraterrestrials have been known to cause distortion of recordings. So have poltergeists.” He opened a file drawer and set a file on the desk. “Actually, there’s a plethora of paranormal entities that could have caused the cameras to malfunction.”

Frohike rubs his hands together. “Alright. Let’s crack the cameras.”

Langly stops his other work and moves to the computer. After a few minutes, he calls to the others. “I’ve got something!”

Frohike and Byers gather around him and watch the screen from over his shoulder.

“What the hell?” Frohike mumbles as they watch a terrified Ernie throwing punches at nothing more than a shadow and looking like he’s being punched back. Then the lights flickered and for a moment a dark shadow figure solidifies and looms over Ernie. Then with another flicker of lights the figure was gone and Ernie was dead on the floor.

“I think I want to call the Marshal.”

Both Langly and Byers gasp, “What?”

“Check out his card.” Frohike hands it to Langly while Byers looks over his shoulder.

“James Hetfield?” Langly snorts.

“This isn’t what a U.S. Marshal’s card looks like,” Byers adds.

“Exactly. I wanna know what this kid is up to. And,” he paused almost smiling. “There’s something about him. You should see him work. He obviously knows more than he let on, but he was definitely looking for something.”

“Why do you want to involve him?” Byers asks

Frohike points to the screen. “What if he’s responsible for that? What if he was there to clean up after himself. What if something happens to Heather?”

The other men shudder and nod their agreement. Frohike has to contact the fake Marshal.

“Don’t bring him here. Marshal or civilian, I don’t want him here,” Langly makes clear before printing out screen shots of the tape.

“Obviously, I’m not a moron.”

Meanwhile in the Ernie’s Electronic Emporium a young woman is tallying receipts. Her long blonde hair is in a messy bun and the hoodie she wears has seen better days. She sets aside one box and grabs another to sort, knocking over a picture. She smiles fondly at the photo of herself as a child on the shoulders of a much younger Ernie before setting it right. “I’ll try to keep this place running, Pop, but your accounting method is shit.”

She sniffs and dabs her eyes with a tissue she pulls from the hoodie’s pocket. Taking the papers one at a time out the of box, she enters information into her computer. The third one she takes from the box is stained and she grimaces at it. Subconsciously, she wipes her hands on her hoodie before returning to the computer. There’s a rustling behind her but she’s too focused to notice.

She does, however, notice the sudden drop in temperature. “What the hell, Dad, didn’t you pay the bill?”

The words no sooner leave her mouth when she feels a tug on her hood. She jumps out of her chair and spins around only to find herself alone. The lights flicker and air around her becomes cold enough to see her own breath. “Dad?” Through the fog of her breath she can see two eyes looking back at her. She gasps in fear and stumbles in her haste to get to the door. She pulls the automatic lock and runs down the street to a corner bar. With trembling fingers she digs a wrinkled business card from her back pocket and asks the bartender for some change for the pay phone.

“Marshal Hetfield? You know how you said I should call if I found anything?”

Dean Winchester is climbing behind the wheel of his Impala when his phone rings again. “Hetfield.”

“Marshal Hetfield this is Melvin Frohike. We met earlier today,” Frohike begins.

“Yeah sure I remember. What can I do for you Mr. Frohike?”

“I was hoping to meet with you. I found something that might interest you.”

“Okay, Mr. Frohike. If it’s about the case, I meeting Ms. Everhardt at the Pig -n- Whistle,” Dean says trying his best to sound authoritative.

“Is she okay? Did something happen to her?” Frohike demands, getting the immediate attention of the other Lone Gunman.

“Do you know a reason why wouldn't she be okay?”

Flustered at the young man’s avoidance he replies. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

“What is it? What’s going on?” Langly asks as Frohike grabs the keys and heads to the door.

“I don’t know. Something went down when Heather was at the store. The phony marshal’s on his way to meet her at that dive bar by Ernie’s store.”

“We’re coming with you.” Byers nods to Langly who grabs a laptop and follows.

Heather sits in the back booth, her back to the wall and her eyes on the exits. Her hand trembles as she reaches for her drink.

Next to her is Frohike. Across from her are two guys Dean doesn’t know. This new development has alarm bells ringing in Dean’s head but he sets his shoulders and tries to look older and more authoritative than his 25 years.

“Ms. Everhardt?”

“Marshal.” she nods for him to join them. “I know meeting in a bar is unprofessional, but uh, I don’t fucking care. You didn’t see what I saw.” She takes a long sip of her scotch.

Dean pulls a chair from a nearby table to the end of the booth. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Frohike with a polite smile. “Now I know Mr. Frohike, but who are your other friends? Did either of you see anything?” he asks.

“Oh we saw something,” Langly begins but Byers interrupts him.

“Heather, start at the beginning and tell us everything.”

The calm demeanor of the others soothes her a bit. “I was working in the shop…”

When Heather finishes her story, her hand is still trembling.

“You were looking at receipts in the office when this happened?” Dean asks.

“Yes. Then I felt something tug my hood and I swear I saw someone staring at me.”

Dean puts his hand on hers, hoping to reassure her, but he really wants to get back into the store and see this thing for himself.

“You said the lights flickered and it got cold. Did you smell anything?” Byers asks calmly, but now Dean is really interested not only in her answers but in who these guys are.

Heather wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think so. Dad’s shop always had funky smells.”

Dean scans the faces of the men at the table. “Who are you guys exactly and didn’t you say you had something to show me?”

“We write for the --”

“Who they are doesn’t matter. It’s what we saw,” Frohike says abruptly and nods at Langly to dig out the photos.

Langly grimaces at Frohike’s brusque interruption but Byers hands Dean a manilla folder with the photos.

Even in the dim light of the bar, Dean knows what he’s looking at. He turns to Frohike. “How did you get these?”

“That doesn’t matter as much as what’s on them,” Byers replies.

“It’s not like you can do anything about it,” Langly adds under his breath though Dean catches it anyway.

“What?” Heather’s question breaks his train of thought. “What’s in the pictures?”

Dean shows her the only one that doesn’t include her father’s dead body.

“Is that-- what is that? That can’t be...it can’t be a ghost,” she laughs. “I’m seeing things, right? That’s some kind of trick of the light or something.”

Dean glances at the other men sitting there then says, “It’s not a trick, Heather. That’s what the security camera captured.”

He scrubs a hand over his face as he gathers his thoughts. “Heather, you said you were looking at receipts when you felt something touch you. Do you remember what the receipt was for?”

“Um, yeah, it was for one of my Dad’s pawn items. I don’t remember the item, but the receipt was stained with something.”

“Okay. Where is the receipt now?” Dean asks trying to remember the layout of the store.

“It should still be on his desk in his office.”

“And where did your dad keep the things he pawned?”
She shrugs. “Usually in a case at the back of the store. The front was for his electronic stuff.”

Dean nods and studies the picture from the tape. Ernie was killed in front of the case of pawned items. “Alright Heather, I’ve got to get back into the store and get that receipt.”

“What? No. You saw the pictures you know what happened to my dad. Something is in there,” Heather argues.

“Don’t worry, Heather, it’s my job,” Dean assures her and pushes back from the table.

“Your job as a ‘U.S. Marshal’?” Langly taunts him with finger quotes.

Dean stares at him a beat but figures it doesn’t matter if they figured him out. Smirking, he shakes his head. “I don’t see anybody else volunteering.” He stands. “Heather, can I borrow your keys?”

Dean ignores how the Lone Gunmen chase after him. Calmly he returns to the Impala and opens the trunk.

“What exactly do you think you’re going to do in there, kid?” Frohike demands once they’ve caught up to him.

“I’m going to find the receipt and the item the receipt was for and I’m going to salt and burn them.”

“What if the thing that killed Ernie attacks you? Ernie was a big guy. Probably twice your size and it tossed him like he was a rag doll,” Frohike reminds him.

“I got it covered.” Dean lifts the false bottom, grabs salt rounds, a bottle of lighter fluid and a crowbar.

“Whoa there.” Byers puts a cautious hand on Dean’s arm. “Heather gave you the keys and the pawn case key is on the same ring. No need for a crowbar.”

Dean glares at the hand on his arm and Byers quickly removes it. “I won’t be using it for breaking into anything. Now, I’ve got a job to do, if you want to help, hack into the security feed and give me a heads up if you see anything.” He looks from one to the other. “Can you do that?”

“Yeah.” They nod excitedly and scurry to their VW bus.

Dean’s nearly at the office door by the time Langly gets the monitors up. Immediately upon crossing the threshold, Dean knows he’s not alone. His breath clouds the dark room before him. He hits the lights, mutters “Awesome,” and begins shuffling through the papers scattered on the desk.

The receipt isn’t difficult to find. It’s the only one speckled in bloodstains. Before touching the receipt, Dean takes his lighter from his pocket. He flicks it open and shut a few times as he reads the scrap of paper. “Frank Walker ~ boxing gloves. Two hundred dollars.”

The hairs rise on the back of Dean’s neck. He knows if he were to turn around, he’d see the eyes that terrified Heather.

In the VW bus the Lone Gunmen watch the monitors. As a mist swirls into a shape behind Dean, Byers grabs the mic and says, “It’s behind you.”

Frohike and Langly look at him, look at the monitor, look at each other then Byers says, “Crap we didn’t wire him up at all, did we? He can’t hear me.”

Frohike doesn’t reply. He throws open the door and hustles down the street to Ernie’s.

Dean drops the lighter next to the receipt, turns and swings the crowbar like he’s aiming for the fences. The ghost evaporates allowing Dean to retrieve the paper and his lighter. He dumps out the metal trash bin, sets fire to the receipt, and drops it in.

He takes the bin with him to the display case where he finds two sets of boxing gloves. One is signed by “Smokin’ Joe” Frazier the other looks much older. Dean pauses unable to remember if Joe Frazier is dead. It’d be cool if the ghost was Joe Frazier he thinks. Whispering “Thrilla in Manilla” and smiling, he reverently takes Frazier’s gloves from the case.

As he reaches for the other gloves, the shop door bursts open. “Hetfield!”

Startled, Dean looks up and sees Frohike; at the same time a mist gathers itself into a form. “Get down!” Dean fires a salt round at the ghost causing it to dissipate. A pellet lodges in the wall behind Frohike.

“What the hell, kid?! You can’t kill a ghost! But you sure the hell can kill me.”

“Not with salt I can’t. And I told you to get down.” Dean drops the other gloves into the trash bin and pours lighter fluid on them. He has to act quickly before the ghost returns.

Frohike bustles over to him. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t go around destroying property. Are you trying to set the place on fire?” He grabs Dean’s arm forcing the lit match to fall to the floor.

“No, you idiot, I’m only burning the gloves!” Dean stomps on the match and shakes his arm free to light another.

“What good is that going to do?’ Frohike bats at Dean’s arm to prevent him from striking the match.

Dean shoves him back. “Knock it off and let me do my job!”

A towering shape takes form before them and Frohike’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit.”

As both men are shoved backwards, Dean curses under his breath. He glowers at Frohike. “Let me burn those gloves before this gets worse!”

The shadowy figure becomes more solid as the seconds tick by. It reaches for Frohike, but Dean jumps in front of him and hands Frohike the matches. The ghost grabs Dean by the collar of his leather jacket lifting him off the ground. Dean's trying to peel its hands off him and yelling, “Light ‘em up!”

As Frohike crawls over to the trash bin Langly and Byers burst through the door. They stand in shock for a moment then Byers rushes to Dean with a tire iron and swings through the ghost. It howls into nothing but quickly regains its shape and turns its anger on Byers.

Dean takes advantage of its distraction and dives across the floor to help Frohike set fire to the gloves. The ghost screeches as it burns away into nothing.

Frohike looks at Dean in admiration. “Damn kid, how'd you do that?”

Dean pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand to Frohike. “It's my job.”

A visibly shaken Byers dusts himself off and says, “I never saw a marshal do that.”

“That was bitchin’!” Langly says from his place across the room.

“Yeah well,” Dean shrugs.

“Is it over? Is Heather going to be safe now?” Frohike asks him.

“She should be. There was nothing else in the shop from Frank Walker. The receipt had Saturday’s date. That night her father was killed.”

When Dean returns the keys, a grateful Heather hugs him. The Lone Gunmen corner him when he leaves the bar.

“Look, kid,” Frohike begins, “we know you’re not a marshal.”

Dean shrugs and takes a defensive stance; they are standing between him and his car.

“Yeah, and Metalica is performing in Montreal tonight,” Langly adds smirking.

Dean snorts a quiet laugh but doesn’t say anything else.

“What you did back there was amazing,” Byers admits. “And I’m sure it’s not the first time you did something like that.”

“And it probably won’t be the last,” Frohike continues.

“What are you guys getting at?” Dean finally asks.

“Let us help you,” Byers offers but Dean adamantly refuses. “No. No way.”

Frohike raises both hands in a ‘whatever you say’ gesture but Langly speaks up. “Dude, your fake IDs are shit. I can make you some better fake credentials. Seriously, I’m a fuckin’ master at it. Even if you keep using rockstar aliases, no one will question the badges.”

Dean grins. “Really? Cool.”

Two hours later Dean Winchester’s head was swimming with conspiracy theories and he had a shoebox full of badges and cards from every government agency from the FBI to the CDC.

A Winchester, a Ghost and a Gunman

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