Fic: Head Games (2/6)
Fic: Head Games(2/6)
Summary: Sam and Chloe each have their heads examined for very different reasons
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: G
This is a part of the Special Projects series. You can find the rest of the series here.
Written for the Crossovers100 challenge. Prompt #99 Writer's choice (Mnemosyne). The table is here.
Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6
Missouri Mosley was waiting on the steps for them as they got out of the Impala. Dean let Sam pull ahead. He already had some idea that Missouri was going to scold him. She always scolded him for something.
As he neared the steps of her two-story home, Dean saw her cupping Sam’s head with her hands and making shushing noises over him the way a mother might over a child. The scene sent a thrill of anxiety down his spine. She never did anything without a reason, and he could feel the accusation coming.
“This isn’t good,” She broke off to stare at Dean. “You should have brought him right over the second you left Branson. And you,” she rounded on Sam. “Should have made him come.”
“Missouri,” Sam sighed. The full-on whipped puppy look that he was unleashing failed to crack her stony exterior.
“Don’t you give me that poor pitiful look,” she shook her head. “If you couldn’t get him to come, you should have come on your own. Stolen a car, hopped on a plane. Got that pretty daughter of Ellen’s to drive you. Something.”
“Hey, ease up on him.” Dean started to argue the extenuating circumstances of having a nosy, snoopy reporter with them, but Missouri cut him off with a glare. “I don’t want to hear it. If the two of you were going to take on a partner, no matter how temporary you thought it was going to be, she deserved to know that Sam was reverse-possessing a demon and had it locked away inside his head.”
He sighed in defeat, because he knew she was right. “I know.”
In the face of their twin hangdog expressions, her own stern features melted into a motherly look of tenderness. “Well, never mind that now. The thing we need to do now is make sure it doesn’t get free.”
Dean nodded. “We thought that we might have to re-do the reverse possession. Is the devil’s trap still set up in your parlor?”
“Under the rug, just where Bobby left it.”
The three of them crossed through the beaded curtains and into the front room. Missouri's home was full of genteel, southern charm, with hurricane lamps and doilies, the scent of gardenias and roses in every room. It was the kind of place that Dean felt was designed for ladies who quilted and wore those frilly red hats with the purple sweaters. Sunday afternoon tea and the ladies’ auxiliary church groups probably met here.
In short, it made him uncomfortable. And Missouri squashed any attempt he might make to get comfortable before he could do more than think of it. This was the only place he could go where his thoughts would get him convicted. He hated that more than he cared to admit, but they needed Missouri, so here they were.
While Sam rolled back the rug, Dean followed Missouri’s directions to the dining room and retrieved a chair with arms, so that they could restrain Sam in case the demon did break free.
“Dean.”
He glanced up at Missouri. The matronly woman was hovering in the dining room entryway, looking at him with a sorrowful expression. Dean raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
“Why haven’t you called that young lady?”
“I’ve been a little busy, Missouri,” Dean said, a little irritated over her prying mental abilities.
Missouri moved to him and patted his shoulder. “She’s probably thinking the exact same things about you that you are about her.”
“I doubt that,” Dean muttered as he looked down and picked the chair up.
“If there is one thing I know about people, it’s that they surprise you,” Missouri said. “The ones who do the most impressive things - they’re the ones who are simply getting on with the business of getting on with business.” Unspoken was the implicit like you. With that, she turned and left the room.
Dean shoved all his inner turmoil over Chloe in a little mental box. Now wasn’t the time to focus on any of those lingering emotions and thoughts. He'd dealt with enough exorcisms to know that A. demons latched on to inner turmoil and fed off of the negative energy, and B. the distraction at a crucial time could prove fatal.
He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. The flowery scent seemed to calm him. When he was sure that he was mentally ready to face things, he carried the chair back to the parlor.
***
Chloe returned to the newsroom with a full notepad and a thoughtful expression. She’d had mixed feelings about her chat with Lois earlier. On one hand, it successfully kept her from thinking about Dean for a few hours.
Chloe sighed as once again, merely thinking his name hurt. It was like her heart was stuck in a vice, and each time she thought of him, it tightened down the clamp a little more. She’d wanted to call him from the moment she’d gotten all of Lex’s victims to safety. But really, what could she say?
I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you that my other job involves saving the world, once or twice a year.
She just didn’t think that quite covered it. On the other hand, she was at a loss to explain things to him in a way that did. A large part of her wished that he would just call her and let her know that things were okay between them. That he wasn’t mad. That he didn’t feel betrayed. That he still cared. But it didn’t look like he was going to make things easy on her.
On the other hand, Lois’s chat helped her to focus her attention back on the other topic that she was hoping to avoid: her recent confrontation with Lex.
Like a drunken maypole dancer, she weaved her way around reporters and photographers who were rushing to meet their deadline for tomorrow’s paper. Around her - snatches of conversation helped to create a white-noise in which she did her best thinking.
“ - Needs to be another thirteen inches long.”
“He said I can’t possibly comment --”
“And that’s when he put the live chicken down his --”
Chloe heaved a sigh as she sat down in her borrowed chair. Over at his desk, Clark raised an eyebrow, but otherwise continued to laboriously hunt and peck out the words to his story.
“Bad day?” He asked.
“What?” She glanced up at him, surprised that he’d paid attention. “No. Just --” She shook her head. “Clark, have you ever stuffed your emotions?”
“All the time,” Clark nodded.
“Did you ever figure out how to unstuff them?”
“Talking to someone helped.”
“Who do you talk to?”
“Bruce.”
“You’re kidding right?” Chloe raised an eyebrow.
“No,” He ducked his head to hide a furious blush. “Believe it or not, he’s a good listener.”
“Well he’s not much of a talker, that’s for sure.” She gave him a speculative look. “You don’t suppose he’s actually sleeping instead of listening under that cowl?”
“No!” Clark frowned. “I’d hear his heart rate slow down if he was sleeping.”
“Wow. So . . . Bruce as a therapist. It’s got its own unique brand of tough love. I bet Dr. Phil has nothing on him.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Clark said as he started to stand.
“No!” Chloe verbally stopped him. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and sat. “Sorry. It’s been a rough month. The sarcasm has always been my defense.”
“I know.” Clark gave her a sad smile. “Probably better than anybody.”
She nodded. “So why Bruce?”
“He just listens,” Clark shrugged. “He doesn’t try to understand. Just stays impartial. It helps to know that he’s not going to judge me.”
Chloe nodded thoughtfully. Having an impartial friend to help her through the situation would be helpful. But only one person sprang to mind that knew her history, and could still remain impartial. “Hey Clark, Do you think you could get me in touch with John Jones?
Summary: Sam and Chloe each have their heads examined for very different reasons
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: G
This is a part of the Special Projects series. You can find the rest of the series here.
Written for the Crossovers100 challenge. Prompt #99 Writer's choice (Mnemosyne). The table is here.
Ch. 1, Ch. 2, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5, Ch. 6
Missouri Mosley was waiting on the steps for them as they got out of the Impala. Dean let Sam pull ahead. He already had some idea that Missouri was going to scold him. She always scolded him for something.
As he neared the steps of her two-story home, Dean saw her cupping Sam’s head with her hands and making shushing noises over him the way a mother might over a child. The scene sent a thrill of anxiety down his spine. She never did anything without a reason, and he could feel the accusation coming.
“This isn’t good,” She broke off to stare at Dean. “You should have brought him right over the second you left Branson. And you,” she rounded on Sam. “Should have made him come.”
“Missouri,” Sam sighed. The full-on whipped puppy look that he was unleashing failed to crack her stony exterior.
“Don’t you give me that poor pitiful look,” she shook her head. “If you couldn’t get him to come, you should have come on your own. Stolen a car, hopped on a plane. Got that pretty daughter of Ellen’s to drive you. Something.”
“Hey, ease up on him.” Dean started to argue the extenuating circumstances of having a nosy, snoopy reporter with them, but Missouri cut him off with a glare. “I don’t want to hear it. If the two of you were going to take on a partner, no matter how temporary you thought it was going to be, she deserved to know that Sam was reverse-possessing a demon and had it locked away inside his head.”
He sighed in defeat, because he knew she was right. “I know.”
In the face of their twin hangdog expressions, her own stern features melted into a motherly look of tenderness. “Well, never mind that now. The thing we need to do now is make sure it doesn’t get free.”
Dean nodded. “We thought that we might have to re-do the reverse possession. Is the devil’s trap still set up in your parlor?”
“Under the rug, just where Bobby left it.”
The three of them crossed through the beaded curtains and into the front room. Missouri's home was full of genteel, southern charm, with hurricane lamps and doilies, the scent of gardenias and roses in every room. It was the kind of place that Dean felt was designed for ladies who quilted and wore those frilly red hats with the purple sweaters. Sunday afternoon tea and the ladies’ auxiliary church groups probably met here.
In short, it made him uncomfortable. And Missouri squashed any attempt he might make to get comfortable before he could do more than think of it. This was the only place he could go where his thoughts would get him convicted. He hated that more than he cared to admit, but they needed Missouri, so here they were.
While Sam rolled back the rug, Dean followed Missouri’s directions to the dining room and retrieved a chair with arms, so that they could restrain Sam in case the demon did break free.
“Dean.”
He glanced up at Missouri. The matronly woman was hovering in the dining room entryway, looking at him with a sorrowful expression. Dean raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
“Why haven’t you called that young lady?”
“I’ve been a little busy, Missouri,” Dean said, a little irritated over her prying mental abilities.
Missouri moved to him and patted his shoulder. “She’s probably thinking the exact same things about you that you are about her.”
“I doubt that,” Dean muttered as he looked down and picked the chair up.
“If there is one thing I know about people, it’s that they surprise you,” Missouri said. “The ones who do the most impressive things - they’re the ones who are simply getting on with the business of getting on with business.” Unspoken was the implicit like you. With that, she turned and left the room.
Dean shoved all his inner turmoil over Chloe in a little mental box. Now wasn’t the time to focus on any of those lingering emotions and thoughts. He'd dealt with enough exorcisms to know that A. demons latched on to inner turmoil and fed off of the negative energy, and B. the distraction at a crucial time could prove fatal.
He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, and breathed deeply. The flowery scent seemed to calm him. When he was sure that he was mentally ready to face things, he carried the chair back to the parlor.
***
Chloe returned to the newsroom with a full notepad and a thoughtful expression. She’d had mixed feelings about her chat with Lois earlier. On one hand, it successfully kept her from thinking about Dean for a few hours.
Chloe sighed as once again, merely thinking his name hurt. It was like her heart was stuck in a vice, and each time she thought of him, it tightened down the clamp a little more. She’d wanted to call him from the moment she’d gotten all of Lex’s victims to safety. But really, what could she say?
I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you that my other job involves saving the world, once or twice a year.
She just didn’t think that quite covered it. On the other hand, she was at a loss to explain things to him in a way that did. A large part of her wished that he would just call her and let her know that things were okay between them. That he wasn’t mad. That he didn’t feel betrayed. That he still cared. But it didn’t look like he was going to make things easy on her.
On the other hand, Lois’s chat helped her to focus her attention back on the other topic that she was hoping to avoid: her recent confrontation with Lex.
Like a drunken maypole dancer, she weaved her way around reporters and photographers who were rushing to meet their deadline for tomorrow’s paper. Around her - snatches of conversation helped to create a white-noise in which she did her best thinking.
“ - Needs to be another thirteen inches long.”
“He said I can’t possibly comment --”
“And that’s when he put the live chicken down his --”
Chloe heaved a sigh as she sat down in her borrowed chair. Over at his desk, Clark raised an eyebrow, but otherwise continued to laboriously hunt and peck out the words to his story.
“Bad day?” He asked.
“What?” She glanced up at him, surprised that he’d paid attention. “No. Just --” She shook her head. “Clark, have you ever stuffed your emotions?”
“All the time,” Clark nodded.
“Did you ever figure out how to unstuff them?”
“Talking to someone helped.”
“Who do you talk to?”
“Bruce.”
“You’re kidding right?” Chloe raised an eyebrow.
“No,” He ducked his head to hide a furious blush. “Believe it or not, he’s a good listener.”
“Well he’s not much of a talker, that’s for sure.” She gave him a speculative look. “You don’t suppose he’s actually sleeping instead of listening under that cowl?”
“No!” Clark frowned. “I’d hear his heart rate slow down if he was sleeping.”
“Wow. So . . . Bruce as a therapist. It’s got its own unique brand of tough love. I bet Dr. Phil has nothing on him.”
“I’m sorry I mentioned it,” Clark said as he started to stand.
“No!” Chloe verbally stopped him. He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and sat. “Sorry. It’s been a rough month. The sarcasm has always been my defense.”
“I know.” Clark gave her a sad smile. “Probably better than anybody.”
She nodded. “So why Bruce?”
“He just listens,” Clark shrugged. “He doesn’t try to understand. Just stays impartial. It helps to know that he’s not going to judge me.”
Chloe nodded thoughtfully. Having an impartial friend to help her through the situation would be helpful. But only one person sprang to mind that knew her history, and could still remain impartial. “Hey Clark, Do you think you could get me in touch with John Jones?