Heheheheh . . .

Stanley looked up, an eerie chuckle whispering through the air and into his ears.

Gravity Falls was weird. He could testify to that statement, over and over again. After all, Stan Pines had lived here for thirty years. There wasn't much he hadn't seen. 'Course, there isn't much I haven't conned people into buying or paying for, either. A pause. Touché, he agreed with himself. And yet, as weird as this town was, sometimes it got even weirder than weird could really describe.

Distorted could be a good description. Or maybe something like cockamamie balderdash summed it up best. It was all a bunch of French to him anyways, this supernatural stuff.

Grunting and getting back to work, Stan shuffled through the cash register. It had been a good day's work, no doubt about that. Every pack of tourists that came by were just as stupid as the last.

Something he was curious about though, maybe even suspicious was the fact that the kids were back. "They should've been home in California. Could've been. But they're not. What did they say?" Stan muttered, interest lost in the cash at this point as he set in down on the counter. "Two guys saved them from demons? Dropped him off here, gave them pie and drove off into the night? What kind of tourists do that?"

That was just it. The tourists who stopped in Gravity Falls would never have been able to do that, much less know what it was they were saving the kids from.

Those two guys, whoever they were, didn't belong here.

With a long sigh and a frown, Stan closed the cash register with a snap and walked over into the living room, sitting down in his chair. If those two showed up, he'd have to see what they were really up to.

And then he heard it again.

Heheheheh . . .

"Alright, who's there?" Mr. Pines growled, standing up and turning in a circle. The lights glowed brightly; Stan failed to see any presence or monster in the room. "Eh. Just my imagination. This stupid town must be gettin' to me."

Reaching for the TV remote, he noticed the chord was unplugged. That was insanely weird. No one touched the chord, not even Waddles, Mabel's pig. Groaning in frustration, he bent down to plug it back in when it jerked to life and wrapped around his hand, pulling him to the floor where his head connected with the wall.

"Hot Belgium waffles!" Stan cursed, untangling himself from the chord. He rubbed the sore spot on his head with a growl then he stood once more, but warily. "Okay, wise guy. Don't know what your problem is-"

Suddenly the room was in chaos. The TV buzzed on by itself, Stan's chair scooted forward, relics danced in the air and a cup of Pitt Cola flew from the fridge before popping open and spilling all over the floor. Scratching sounds echoed through the walls and the lights flickered ominously. The fish tank shuddered, water rising and splashing Stan in the face.

He sputtered, interrupted by that same cruel laughter. Heheheheh . . .

"What the- " Stan started, confused. Pausing for a brief moment, he composed himself, slightly angry. "What the heck is going on?"

Then is was over. All of it came to a screeching halt, as the water quit splashing, the old antiques stopped dancing, the Pitt Cola righted itself. No more scratching, to more eerie light bulbs flashing. The chair zoomed back to its place in the living room. Everything was fine except for the spilled soda, and none of it made any sense to Stan because never, in all of his time living here, had he ever experienced anything quite like this before.

But the TV remained as a reminder to the instantaneous moment as it continued to spew the usual junk that televisions do on commercial break.

Completely done, Stanley picked up the remote a second time.

Giving him no rest, it jumped from his hand and whacked his head. "Ah!" Stan hollered. "Ah, my head! It hit me right on the head!"

"KIDS!"

-THEME SONG -

"What kind of town doesn't have a motel?"

Dean Winchester frowned, his eyes and eyebrows narrowing. After dropping off the twins and explaining nothing, the brothers had been searching for someplace to stay for almost a full hour. Sam was scouring maps and had jumped out of the car more than more to ask for directions but indeed it seemed that Gravity Falls had no inn, motel or hotel to call its own.

"A small one, I guess," Sam replied absentmindedly, running a finger along a road route. He wasn't all that tired, and yet sleeping somewhere quiet and out of the way sounded good to him. If they could find such a place, that is. "Look, let's just knock on a door and ask if we can stay the night. It's only going to get later, Dean, we should do it before every citizen is asleep but us."

Sam was right, and Dean knew it. Not really in the mood to agree, he nodded quietly. Driving to up to a crosswalk, the older brother stopped and pointed through the windshield. "You see that?" He asked Sam.

"Gravity Falls Gossipers?" Sam read the sign, exhaling skeptically. "You want to stay in a newspaper printing shop?"

"No, I don't. But the lights are on and therefore someone or something is awake."

Sam shrugged. Parking the car, the two exited and straightened their jackets. Knocking on the door, they waited in somewhat of an uncomfortable silence. No one answered, so Dean knocked a second time. Still nothing.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam asked, his eyes meeting with Dean's.

"You bet I am," Dean responded. Pulling out a small white pistol filled with rock salt, he counted down from three while his younger brother hefted a small flask of holy water. "Three . . . Two . . .-"

The door swung open and a man, the right side of his body facing them, grinned in a cheery manner. "Well hello! I wasn't expecting guests." Holy water splashed onto the man's face. He sputtered. "Excuse me?"

Sam glanced at Dean and shrugged a second time, apologetic. "Sorry," he said, returning the flask into its proper place in his jacket. "Uh, you looked really tired. Cold fresh water will wake you right up! . . ."

Dean did a mental face palm. On the outside, he smiled and nodded, like it was all part of the plan.

"Sure. Anyways, are you gentleman here to read the paper? You'll have to wait until tomorrow. Or did you want a copy of today's?"

"Neither, actually. Extremely sorry to bother you, but we're tourists and you don't seem to have a hotel anywhere around here. We saw your lights on and wondered if you'd be willing to let us stay a night or two until we can figure things out."

The man narrowed his right eyebrow, as if staring at the Winchesters would answer their request. Almost immediately afterwards, however, the man sighed, "Whatever. Guest Closet is four doors down and to the left. Don't go anywhere else but to the bathroom down the hall. And you'll have to take care of breakfast!"

"Guest Closet?" Dean echoed, frowning.

"That's fine. Thank you," Sam spoke up, nudging his brother and watching as the strange man backed up to a set of stairs, climbing up in such a way that still only the right half of his body faced them. "Oh, and sir, we didn't get your name-"

"I didn't give it," came his sassy reply. A door on the upstairs shut and the Winchesters were left in the dark.

After a moment, they walked past four doors and turned left, opening a new door to a bedroom, though calling it a bedroom would be a large stretch. The wallpaper was peeling; the window was cracked. The Queen bed hardly fit into the space and Dean glared at Sam.

"What kind of hospitality is this?" He asked, disbelief growing on his features.

"Apparently," Sam replied, the floor creaking as he made his way over to the foot of the bed and laid down, "it's the Guest Closet."

The older Winchester grumbled but joined him and sat on the beds edge. Hearing a spring snap and feeling the bed sag, Dean groaned as he closed his eyes.

"Son of a bitch."

----

Hisses of air, shuddering and clicks of a printing conveyor belt woke the pair.

But what really got their attention as they sat up was the knock that sounded on the door. Sam expected it to be the owner of the printing shop, so he went about his own business and ruffled his hair, feeling it fall into its proper place behind his ears. Dean watched his brother, made a face, than stood up and opened the wooden frame, peering into the hall. Looking down, he spotted a familiar sight: a boy in a blue/white pine tree hat.

"Dipper?" Dean wondered, green eyes opening wide in confusion. "What the hell are you doing here this early?"

Dipper Pines tipped his head and snuck a look inside the room, noticing Sam who waved and smiled apologetically. After a moment, he looked back up at Dean and took a deep breath. "We've got a problem at the Mystery Shack."

Sam and Dean exchanged knowing glances, then turned back to the kid. "What kind of problem?" Sam asked. He stood and shuffled over to where Dean was standing. Dipper rolled his eyes.

"A big problem." He nodded to the brother's clothing. "You might want to put on your jackets for this one, guys."

Silently agreeing, the Winchesters smiled at Dipper. "Sure thing, bud."

Straightening his blue shirt, Dean tugged on his brown jacket and stuffed the pistol along the waistband of his jeans. Sam threw on his own coat then proceeded to pick up the half-empty canteen that had fallen from the pockets in the process. Waving the room a sarcastic goodbye, they shut the door of their Guest Closet and bid it adieu. After the trio exited the Gravity Falls Gossiper building, however, Dean had the urge to look back. He saw the side of the owners face staring at them through some window blinds and so he tapped Dipper before he hopped into the Impala.

"Hey, Dipper, what's up with that guy? He only faces one direction and didn't give us his name. Does he have a horrible rash or a huge sunburn or something? He's creeping me out which says a lot because I have seen the unimaginable."

Dippers face went a little pale when he heard Dean's words, though the Winchester didn't know why. "Uh, he probably just wants some . . . right sided . . . alone time. Yeah. Newspaper printers, am I right?" He laughed, nervously. Then he got serious. "Seriously, though. Don't try to figure him out. Let's just say that the Bowling Alley down the street is closed for a very very similar reason."

There was a pause. Then Dipper smiled nonchalantly and made his way to the Impala's backseat while Dean scratched his head, shrugging. "Weird ass town," he muttered, narrowing his eyes and staring at the cloudless sky. "A horde of demons just isn't enough for you, huh?"

Sam interrupted, tapping the steering wheel. "Hey, Dean, who you talking to?"

"What?" Dean snapped out of it, slipping into the drivers seat. "No one. Just having a chat with Baby." He patted the hull of the Chevy, managing a grin. Sam shook his head.

Revving the engine, Dean turned up the music volume and sang along to Metallica's: Some Kind of Monster, while Sam continued to shake his head and Dipper made faces, wondering why in the world Dean listened to stuff like that. To be honest, he'd never seen the likes of Hunters before so everything the Winchesters did was new.

Minutes passed, and when the Impala pulled into the driveway of the Mystery Shack, the trio was met with quite the strange sight. Dean looked Sam's direction, and they both dismissed it.

Stepping out of the car, Dean watched as a man in a suit and fez, whom he assumed was the twin's Great Uncle, according to Dipper, teach something to Mabel, who today wore a bright pink sweater with a giraffe stitched onto the front. His voice carried over the empty space between them and Dean heard it all perfectly.

"You see Mabel, the indigenous species of squirrels in Gravity Falls are really aggressive, so it's important to take all necessary precautions when approaching them." As he finished, a pack of squirrels scrambled down a tree and ran to visit Mabel for whatever reason that may be. Her Great Uncle pulled out an air horn and honked it; they scrambled right back up the tree. The man slapped his knee and laughed. "Get wrecked you crazy critters!" Then he coughed and pounded his chest, standing straight. "Ack-" A cough. "-was worth it."

Mabel rubbed her chin, attempting to look very philosophical while taking her Great Uncle's 'advice'. Then she saw Dipper and grinned. "Yay! Dip Dop is back! And he brought Sam and Dean! Hey, guys!" She crushed the brothers in a hug, and dragged them over to meet her Uncle.

"Sam and Dean," she said, proudly, "this is my Grunkle Stan! He runs the Mystery Shack and cons stupid people!"

Dean nudged Sam, snickering. "Mystery Shack? Did she mean Rip-off Shack?" Sam elbowed him not-so-gently in the ribs as his answer.

Grunkle Stan patted Mabel's head, "yeah, that's right Pumpkin. So what can I do for you two?" His gaze shifted over their clothes and their car, and Dean was tempted to speak up on their behalf but Dipper, ever the peacemaker, spoke first. "Grunkle Stan, the Winchesters hunt things."

The older brother followed up, nodding and silently thanking Dipper for the conversation starter. "A simpler way to say it is that is you have a mess, we mop it up. You have a monster, we chase it off. You got a problem," Dean emphasized the word problem and jerked a finger towards the shack for reference, "we take care of it."

Stan was quiet for a moment, then he sighed. "All right. Come on in."

The five made their way up the porch steps, through the gift shop and into what appeared to be the living room, where a few animal heads, a TV, a fish tank and a recliner resided in a perfect messy harmony. Stan sat in the chair, the twins made themselves comfortable on the rug and Stan and Dean remained standing.

"So, what's been going on lately? What's the problem?"

"Something is haunting the shack. Don't know what, don't know why. It laughs to itself, usually under its breath but sometimes louder. It basically creates chaos. Whatever it is." Stan pointed to the TV. "Turned the TV on by itself and whacked me with the remote."

"When did it start?" Sam commented, pulling out a notebook. Dean left momentarily to retrieve their Dad's Journal.

"About a week ago. Little things at first, then things went missing or were out of place."

"Okay. Some sort of ghost, then?"

Stan shrugged. "Not my field of expertise, son. My brother, on the other hand . . ."

Dean, returning with journal in hand, caught wind of the statement. "Whoa, what? You have a brother? What does he do?"

Dipper and Mabel looked at each other. Great Uncle Ford was hard to explain, much less introduce. He rarely left the safety of his lab and science, but today, apparently, he was needed. "Well," Dipper said pointing to the gift shop, "He's that way."

-COMMERCIAL BREAK-

Once Dean acquired a snack from the vending machine inside the shop, Dipper happily volunteered to retrieve Grunkle Ford. He took the stairs and the other four waited for his return.

"Moving objects? Attention seeker? Sam, with what Dad's journal says it looks like we've got a poltergeist on our hands." Dean crunched another chip and flipped through a few pages on the old brown book before pointing to a section. Mabel stood on the checkout counter and glanced over Dean's shoulder, while Stan leaned against the vending machine side, not extremely interested. "Right here.

'Missouri says poltergeists are unquiet spirits, not psychokinetic projections. They want attention and if they don't get it they progress from nuisance to danger. Only way to get rid of them is the same way you get rid of any spirit. Find the remains, or the haunted object, salt and burn, repeat as necessary.' And I want to say, with all the monster/ghost/demon activity going on here, it probably wanted attention just like all its pals."

A rough voice repeated Dean's line of thinking, intercepting Sam's reply. "Demon activity?"

"Yeah," Dean turned, sarcastic. "What is there in here, an echo?"

The man that stood before the Winchester wore a light brown overcoat and a red sweater, a belt of some kind strapped over his chest. His hair was black and grey, and his glasses retained a crack in the left lens. He blinked and readjusted the frames. "Apologies. I've simply had too much contact with a specific dream demon myself and when I hear the word I respond immediately due to . . . unfortunate events. I've heard from my nephew that you're here to be rid of that annoying ghost. It's what I call a level 4 right now, but it was a level 1 the week before."

The was a quiet, and then Sam replied. "You must be Ford. I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean. Yes, we are here to clean things up but you seem to be plenty knowledgeable on the subject of the paranormal yourself . . . why do you need us?"

"My train of thought exactly," Dean agreed.

Dipper exhaled. "It's not that we don't know how to do it -- no doubt you have your methods as well -- but the four of us aren't enough. Ford and I got Mabel and Grunkle Stan involved a few days ago, and since then, the thing won't leave them alone. We need all the help we can get and you guys seemed to be, well, capable."

"Fair enough," Sam and Dean simultaneously agreed.

"So," Dean said, clapping his hands together and grinning. "Where do you suggest we start? You have anything to draw it out?" Ford stepped up.

"How much salt do you have? We have the iron covered, and then we just need to draw it out."

Getting to work, the six of them scrambled to prepare. Dean and Sam made a few trips to the Impala and back and handed Stanley one of their rock-salt rifles. He declined and explained his preference for punching things instead. Dipper and Mabel played a new version of tag with the pair of iron rods Ford had given them; Waddles sat on the rug of the living room and chewed Sam's pant leg whenever he walked by. Ford made a few notes in his own journal labeled #1 and Dipper followed suit, taking some important ghost killing info and copying it into his journal, #3. After all, one never knew when that sort of thing would become handy.

Half an hour later, they regrouped in the living room.

"I'd rather not do the spell that involves marking up the entire house," Sam commented, a sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. He cocked it and glanced around, waiting. "But right now, if it doesn't show, it's bound to get slightly angrier. First of all, we're here now. Second, all of us are prepared to get rid of it. It's not going down without a fight, guaranteed."

Stan nodded. "Well I'll give you two one thing. You two know you're stuff."

A murmur of agreement sounded, and then a laugh seemed to agree.

Heheheheheh! But it didn't stop there. Well well well, the Winchesters! What an honor, haha! I've been waiting you know, once the word spread that you were in town. After all, an exorcism has to be successful to be rid of all my buddies, don't you agree?

Sam and Dean both glanced at each other quizzically. This kind of poltergeist, one that could talk and was friends with demons was brand new material. They'd have to play it by ear. More or less literally.

Ah, yes. The sweet release of death is what you plan. Of course. Sorry to break it to all of my wonderful audience, but this item is mine. You shan't be burning or salting anything. And causing trouble is so much fun!

The fish tank rocked and then spilled, water cascading around the ankles of everyone present. The glass cracked and Waddles squealed, making a quick exit. Mabel frowned. "Get out of here you invisible menace!"

"Yeah!" Dipper swung his iron staff. "Leave us alone!"

Oh ho! A menace, am I? All I want to do, my dear girl and boy, is live! Death is so boring and I simply can't be bored. Your lives will get much worse if I get bored . . . I wouldn't risk it. Heheheheh.

A powerful force slammed Dean and Stan against the front door, and the TV chord wrapped around the twin's feet, jerking them to the floor. Ford and Sam remained standing, but not for long. A Pitt Cola crashed into Ford's skull; he was out within seconds. Sam swung, but no contact with the strange poltergeist connected.

A few yards away, a frustrated curse spewed from the older Winchester's mouth. "Dammit!" Dean struggled, but wiggling and shaking did him no good. Scanning the opposite walls, he began to notice the random things hanging around and suddenly, he had an idea. The haunted object, he thought. It's got to be here in this dump somewhere. He turned to his wall hugging partner, Grunkle Stan. "Stan, where do you get all this stuff anyway? It's either old or completely fake but no downtown market would simply sell you this stuff."

Stanley expressed indifference. "Everywhere. But there was a box of random items I conned off a guy at his own garage sale about a month ago. He said they were giving him trouble, but wouldn't specify what. I took the box off his hands and he never reported it. Maybe this is why."

"Great, old man. Where's the friggin box now?"

I. WILL. LIVE!

The angered distorted yell of the spirited drowned Dean out as he watched Sam manage to strike the ghost using their homemade detector. It lasted only seconds, however, because the device flew out an open window and the iron bent in two before joining the detector in the dirt. The ghosts growl grew louder.

Sam; Sammy Winchester, cheating? We simply can't have that. Do you know what I do to cheaters, Sammy? I make sure they never cheat again.

Sam backed up to the opposite wall and sank to the floor, feeling the ominous presence of the poltergeist get closer and closer. The lights began to flicker, a scratching sound like a blade running along a chalk board sang out, making circles around the room. Sam was in trouble, and Dean and Stan had to act immediately.

With the poltergeists attention focused on his younger brother, Dean finally manipulated the barrier holding them back and he dropped to the wooden floor, dragging Stan to the floor with him. They stood, carefully, joined by the twins who had untangled the chord from their legs.

"Dipper, Mabel," Dean pointed. "With your Grunkle Stan. We need to find that box and you need to help him. You have some salt, so here's a lighter. Salt it, and set the box on fire when you find it, got it?"

Dipper and Stan nodded seriously, but not much could bring Mabel down. "Okie dokie!" She replied and followed her family members.

Dean smiled to himself and turned to go help Sam. "I like that kid. She says okie dokie."

The screeching momentarily paused, as Sam was practically in the ghosts clutches. It chuckled, probably spinning to face Dean though he couldn't tell; he swung his iron rod just in case and gritted his teeth. This thing wasn't a level 4, it was probably a level 9 by now.

A sharp stone rose up from the floor, knocked from the wall by all the ruckus. Dean watched helpless as the stone became eye level with him, then dropped. It's course was set for Ford instead, and both the Winchesters began to protest.

"He didn't even hit you, you evil douchebag!" Dean argued.

"We're the ones being a pain in the ass," Sam continued.

Heheheheh. My world, my rules. Sorry, boys. I do whatever I want.

Lunging with an insane amount of effort, Dean drove in front of Ford as the stone whistled through the air. It sliced across Dean's shoulder, and he rolled to one side, avoiding the television with inches to spare. "Crap! This stings," came his comment. "It's like an evil paper-cut!"

And then, as if by magic, fire began to lick on the edges of the monster. It shrieked in agony, anger and hate.

No! WINCHESTERSSSS!

The form of a young man twisted in view, red hot revenge glistening in his soulless eyes as his hand reached out, straining for something. Anything.

But the deed was done. The hungry flames exploded, enveloping the spirit almost instantly. With a burst of a yell, he was gone and all was well.

----

Laughter and cheerful voices radiated from inside the shack.

Dean Winchester, on the other hand, nursed his wounds; inside and out. Another monster, another day. But what else was Gravity Falls hiding?

His rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly, thinking of the exquisite teamwork that had somehow occurred in the battle against the poltergeist -- Mabel was calling him Jim -- which resulted in their win. Currently, he sat alone on the red couch that resided on the porch of the Shack, wishing for a beer, a bite to eat and some answers.

This poltergeist had been different . . . they hadn't faced a good many, that was true, but the fact remained. It wasn't an ordinary dead spirit. Gravity Falls was the bringer of this particular oddity, and he was going to make sure him and his brother would stick around to find out why.

A knocking sounded on his left; he turned his head and saw Stanley with two Pitt Cola's in hand. Stan tossed him one and Dean opened it with a snap. The man joined him on the couch, staring into the blue of the sky and the brightness of the harsh afternoon sun. After the morning's events, the whole crew had taken a good hour and a half to clean up Jim's mess.  Ford, Sam, Dipper and Mabel had taken it upon themselves to make lunch, and so Dean had volunteered to get out of their way. Stan, apparently, had decided to join him.

"Thanks," he said, breaking the quiet. A crow cawed in anger, then flew away. Stan puffed a breath, taking a sip of the soda. "Sam told me you jumped in front of my brother. I owe you one."

Dean shook his head. "No, you don't. I'd have done it for anyone; it's my job. Saving people" -he sipped the Cola- "hunting things." His face dropped a little as he flashed back to his father's demon deal, and then to his time in hell. Four months on earth is forty years in hell, silly goose. Just like doggie years. Lilith's demonic speech raised from the ashes of his memory and he shook it away. "Family business," he concluded, facing the twin's uncle. "It's what I do."

"Well, good luck getting rid of all the other monsters here that don't belong. You've got quite the job on your hands, Dean." Stan stood up, clinking his can with the Winchester's. "Don't let it get to you, you hear me? I don't know what you've been through, but I can imagine you've seen more than I have in fifty years. It's important to keep things in perspective."

A pause.

"You know, Dean, I didn't like the looks of you and your brother when you first showed up but," a laugh. "You two are growing on me."

As Stanley's footsteps faded away into the Mystery Shack, Dean continued to sit silently and ponder the set of circumstances before him. He sipped his Cola carelessly and wordlessly and soon the contents were drained. He set it on the porch and readied to good-naturally crush the can when he found himself looking to the left into the forest.

What he saw sent an icy chill down his spine.

A pair of red, glowing eyes watched him from the safety and darkness of the shadows, shifting ever so slightly ever so often only to return to their original position which was remaining fixated on Dean Winchester.

Dean narrowed his own eyes. "Who's there?" He shouted, tossing the can into the depths of the greenery. No laughter or response came.

However, a strange eerie whistle began. The notes were short; the tune that reached Dean's ears lasted a total of ten seconds before beginning again. With almost no pause in-between bursts, whatever it was, continued the same melody and finished on the sixth set.

And then it was gone, the maroon eyes closing with an air of finality.

-CREDITS-

_________________________________________

A/N:

Well, well, well.

Is that a British Army Browning L9-A1 in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?

I can't tell you for sure, but I know at least five hours of typing and editing went into this chapter. Even so, if anything seems off or out of character pleeeaaassseee let this son of a gun know. I can't emphasize enough how important it is to me for this to seem as realistic as possible. It is a crossover, and some things will be off, I get that. But if I can, I would like for everyone to get to experience the Winchesters or the Pines that they know and love.

[EDIT: And in case I didn't do a terribly good job of depicting the odd whistle ,,, my b,,,,,, I had an example of it it in the media section at one point, but I would rather have an actual song there just for consistency?? So I modified it quite recently.]

So here's the part where if you're glad Jim the poltergeist is gone or you want to know who the strange whistler is, (spoiler alert it's NOT Kite) or if you simply enjoyed this chapter, vote and comment and if you could, share! It would really make my day, knowing that someone is reading this thing. And now I think this has been long enough (which will hopefully make up for the wait, so sorry about that minor detail) so I'd better be off.

{Song of the Chapter: The Walker by Fitz and The Tantrums} because that's the mood I felt when reading this?? Idk anymore but enjoy!!

Let's go kill some evil jerks, shall we?
Styx