When I Hear That Whistle Blowin', 1/1
Title: When I Hear That Whistle Blowin’
Rating: PG13
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, Melinda Gordon (Ghost Whisperer)
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Supernatural/Ghost Whisperer crossover. Near future-fic, after BUABS. Lyrics from Folsom Prison Blues, by Johnny Cash.
He didn’t appear like some of them, suddenly, violently. He was on the periphery for a while. Melinda saw him there, in the square, for several days before he came anywhere near her. He was watching her, she could tell. He would just stand there, watching the store, watching her, until he suddenly flickered out of existence. Then, for nearly a week, she didn’t see him at all, and she almost forgot about him.
“Help him.” The voice was low, urgent. The words were not unexpected. Flicking a quick glance at the woman browsing throw pillows at the other end of the antique store, Melinda faced the ghost who had appeared. It was him, the man who had watched her.
“Help who?”
“He needs…” And then he was gone. Like he never existed. Melinda cursed the habits of ghosts and their leaping in and out of place without properly saying what they wanted. She said as much to Jim, as they sat on the sofa, his arm around her. He said that she should be patient; that the ghost would tell her eventually. It always worked out.
Another week went by, and another one.
“He needs me.” This time she was teetering on a chair, stacking boxes in the back room, and she nearly fell. She scowled at the ghost, made a sharp comment about minding his manners. He grinned, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“He killed me.” And she could see it, sharply, coldly, tears as a shaking finger pulled the trigger. “Help him.”
Jim asked her if she was sure, and Melinda said that he had seemed pretty sure. Although why you would want to help someone who had killed you, she couldn’t think. She wanted to find out who they were, or even when they were. Was the man with the tears and gun old and grey and that incident long in the past? Or was it fresh and painful, blood barely dry?
Dusting the counter, and he was more insistent. “He needs help. Now.”
“Who? Who needs help? Where can I find him?”
“Help him!” The ghost was frustrated now, but that wasn’t helping, and so he thrust out a hand, pulled into her, and she saw. A man in a motel room, his face dead and buried and yet still alive, his hand resting too familiarly on a gun, like it was a friend, like it was what kept him there. And something else. Something she didn’t understand, but it was dark and roiling and it scared her.
Jim didn’t like the plan, and had no qualms about telling her, and she 100% understood, because that man scared her, and the whole gun thing was not exactly a winner in her book. But this was what she did. This was who she was. And if anyone needed help, it was that man in the motel room, with the neon sign stuttering outside the window.
I hear that train a-comin’
It’s rollin’ round the bend
And I ain’t seen the sunshine
Since I don’t know when
There was music, muted, and Melinda didn’t know where it was coming from. But it was there, like a soundtrack, as she stood outside the motel door, the flick-flick-flick of the cheap neon light reflecting off the window next to her. And she knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect even as she knew who to expect.
And the door opened, and there was the man, and there was the gun on the table inside, and there was the dead look in his eyes. And she knew that he had killed the ghost.
“My name’s Melinda Gordon.” She told him about herself, about her gift, about the ghost. And the man in the motel room stood, leaning on the door jamb, saying nothing, watching her with the dead look in his eyes. She ran down, and they stood, silent, until he nodded her into the room, and she went. He pushed the door closed behind her, and crossed the room to the table. He picked up the gun, and sat down on the bed.
“I shot him.”
“I know.”
“I killed him.”
When I was just a baby, my mama told me, son
Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die
“He wants to help you.”
The man didn’t say anything. He sat on the bed and stroked the barrel of the gun, and Melinda tried not to be afraid.
“He had to do it.” The ghost stood next to the bed, looking down at his killer, a smile on his face that was affectionate, even proud.
“He knows you had to do it,” and Melinda couldn’t help but wonder what kind of relationship she had been pulled into.
“He would have found a way. He would have stopped it.”
“I’m glad he did it.” And she’s there again, and she sees the ghost and the man who killed him, but this time it’s different, something’s different, something’s wrong. Because the ghost isn’t the ghost, but someone else, and, God, it’s awful: what he’s done; what he’ll do. And the ghost smiles at her, wryly, and shrugs, and says, “I wasn’t myself,” and she knows that he’s right. His killer had no choice. “Tell him.”
She tells him. She tries. She tries so hard to make him understand that it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have stopped it. He had to kill him. Had to pull that trigger.
But nothing she says works, and she can’t make him understand. And in the end she has to drive away, because there’s nothing she can do. Sam Winchester killed his brother; now the darkness is creeping in on him, and soon it will take him altogether.
When I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry
Rating: PG13
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, Melinda Gordon (Ghost Whisperer)
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Supernatural/Ghost Whisperer crossover. Near future-fic, after BUABS. Lyrics from Folsom Prison Blues, by Johnny Cash.
He didn’t appear like some of them, suddenly, violently. He was on the periphery for a while. Melinda saw him there, in the square, for several days before he came anywhere near her. He was watching her, she could tell. He would just stand there, watching the store, watching her, until he suddenly flickered out of existence. Then, for nearly a week, she didn’t see him at all, and she almost forgot about him.
“Help him.” The voice was low, urgent. The words were not unexpected. Flicking a quick glance at the woman browsing throw pillows at the other end of the antique store, Melinda faced the ghost who had appeared. It was him, the man who had watched her.
“Help who?”
“He needs…” And then he was gone. Like he never existed. Melinda cursed the habits of ghosts and their leaping in and out of place without properly saying what they wanted. She said as much to Jim, as they sat on the sofa, his arm around her. He said that she should be patient; that the ghost would tell her eventually. It always worked out.
Another week went by, and another one.
“He needs me.” This time she was teetering on a chair, stacking boxes in the back room, and she nearly fell. She scowled at the ghost, made a sharp comment about minding his manners. He grinned, and she couldn’t help but smile back.
“He killed me.” And she could see it, sharply, coldly, tears as a shaking finger pulled the trigger. “Help him.”
Jim asked her if she was sure, and Melinda said that he had seemed pretty sure. Although why you would want to help someone who had killed you, she couldn’t think. She wanted to find out who they were, or even when they were. Was the man with the tears and gun old and grey and that incident long in the past? Or was it fresh and painful, blood barely dry?
Dusting the counter, and he was more insistent. “He needs help. Now.”
“Who? Who needs help? Where can I find him?”
“Help him!” The ghost was frustrated now, but that wasn’t helping, and so he thrust out a hand, pulled into her, and she saw. A man in a motel room, his face dead and buried and yet still alive, his hand resting too familiarly on a gun, like it was a friend, like it was what kept him there. And something else. Something she didn’t understand, but it was dark and roiling and it scared her.
Jim didn’t like the plan, and had no qualms about telling her, and she 100% understood, because that man scared her, and the whole gun thing was not exactly a winner in her book. But this was what she did. This was who she was. And if anyone needed help, it was that man in the motel room, with the neon sign stuttering outside the window.
I hear that train a-comin’
It’s rollin’ round the bend
And I ain’t seen the sunshine
Since I don’t know when
There was music, muted, and Melinda didn’t know where it was coming from. But it was there, like a soundtrack, as she stood outside the motel door, the flick-flick-flick of the cheap neon light reflecting off the window next to her. And she knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect even as she knew who to expect.
And the door opened, and there was the man, and there was the gun on the table inside, and there was the dead look in his eyes. And she knew that he had killed the ghost.
“My name’s Melinda Gordon.” She told him about herself, about her gift, about the ghost. And the man in the motel room stood, leaning on the door jamb, saying nothing, watching her with the dead look in his eyes. She ran down, and they stood, silent, until he nodded her into the room, and she went. He pushed the door closed behind her, and crossed the room to the table. He picked up the gun, and sat down on the bed.
“I shot him.”
“I know.”
“I killed him.”
When I was just a baby, my mama told me, son
Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die
“He wants to help you.”
The man didn’t say anything. He sat on the bed and stroked the barrel of the gun, and Melinda tried not to be afraid.
“He had to do it.” The ghost stood next to the bed, looking down at his killer, a smile on his face that was affectionate, even proud.
“He knows you had to do it,” and Melinda couldn’t help but wonder what kind of relationship she had been pulled into.
“He would have found a way. He would have stopped it.”
“I’m glad he did it.” And she’s there again, and she sees the ghost and the man who killed him, but this time it’s different, something’s different, something’s wrong. Because the ghost isn’t the ghost, but someone else, and, God, it’s awful: what he’s done; what he’ll do. And the ghost smiles at her, wryly, and shrugs, and says, “I wasn’t myself,” and she knows that he’s right. His killer had no choice. “Tell him.”
She tells him. She tries. She tries so hard to make him understand that it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have stopped it. He had to kill him. Had to pull that trigger.
But nothing she says works, and she can’t make him understand. And in the end she has to drive away, because there’s nothing she can do. Sam Winchester killed his brother; now the darkness is creeping in on him, and soon it will take him altogether.
When I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry