.438 -- A Rough History, Part II. SV/SPN. Chloe/Dean. PG-13.
Disclaimer: I don't own Smallville or Supernatural. If I did, naughty things would happen.
Summary: Chloe and Dean; a rough history.
Author's Note: Rough sketches, baby.
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ii: action
She met Sam the second time around and was reminded of Clark.
Watching as he hesitantly sat down, legs sprawling out in front of him and his dark, floppy hair falling into his eyes, she imagined him bailing hay and milking cows.
Shifting her gaze to Dean, she smirked to herself at the picture they made. A farmer, a cowboy and a reporter, each of them looking younger than they were and nothing like what they'd become. Hunters. Slayers.
Killers.
There was no preliminaries. She didn't do them.
"Are you in?" she asked.
Sam looked at his brother and Dean looked at her. And then he nodded.
"We're in."
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It was almost midnight and there were no buses. She'd planned it that way. Picked the area of town where buses dared not to venture so late into the night and planted herself at the empty bus stop. She didn't want any hapless passers-by grilling her about bus times while she reeled in her mark.
She was Cheryl today and she was a waitress, generic and helpless and blonde. Just how he liked 'em.
Chloe didn't do helpless. It took conscious effort to slump her shoulders and lower her head into a posture that screamed victim. Occasionally she eyed the darkness warily and shifted her feet for good measure, but there was a stiffness to her spine and a sharpness in her eyes that belied her anxiety.
"C'mon, shit-for-brains," she mumbled under her breath, shifting her bag higher up her shoulder, uncomfortable with the fact that it weighed so little. She'd brought no weapons with her tonight, only her pepper spray. It was something he would expect a girl like her -- a girl clearly afraid of her own shadow -- to carry. But her other arsenal was safely tucked away in the boot of her car. Not that she would need it. Her mark was human and she didn't kill humans. Too messy.
It didn't mean she didn't miss the weight of her tranq gun or the feel of a blade against her back. They were her trusty sidekicks, but tonight she was being forced to place her trust elsewhere.
"Good plan, Chlo'," she whispered to herself, pulling her hand out from beneath the back of shirt where she'd been unconsciously searching for her weapon.
It wasn't like she really had a choice in how this all played out. Chloe wanted nothing more than to bag this mark for herself; flaunt herself as bait, reel him in, and gut him. But if he saw any sign of a weapon, he'd bail. He liked blondes and he liked victims, and that was the only criteria she had to go on. As Chloe she wouldn't get within ten feet of him. But as Cheryl she could be something they needed... a distraction.
Let Dean and Sam do the dirty work. She didn't have a criminal record and she planned to keep it that way. Dean and Sam did. One more skeleton in their closet wasn't really going to make a difference.
She could live with being bait if the job got done.