Fic: His Girl Friday (4/9)
Fic: His Girl Friday (4/9)
Summary: He had to figure out where they stood. Otherwise, they couldn't go forward
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural/DCU
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean, Jo
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 #58 Dinner. The table is here.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9a, Part 9b
“Huh, I don’t remember this box,” Chloe muttered as she sat down on the futon.
Dean sat next to her and surveyed the room. The apartment was still Spartan - but now it actually looked like someone lived there. In the course of a day, they’d managed to unpack all of the boxes, set up her furniture, and even arrange her old Wall of Weird on the wall adjoining her awards shrine. Now they were unpacking the last box, and waiting for pizza delivery.
Dean’s attention once again strayed to their handiwork. They’d also gone through the papers on her dining room table and clipped out the articles to add to the wall as well. Occasionally, as the new wall took shape, Chloe had come up with new story ideas and angles for her long-term project: preparing herself for the day that the supernatural became common knowledge. He’d gotten a little thrill to see her eyes light up, and watch her dash for a notebook and pencil. It reminded him of what it was like to have her on a hunt.
To pass the time as they waited on the food- he had pulled out the short-grip .45 that he’d gifted her with, and was fixing the sight for her.
As he worked, he’d spent his time thinking of tomorrow night’s date. His gut instinct was to load her into the Impala, and find one of those Irish-style pubs that played the hideous music that she liked. Maybe if he could get in on a good game of darts, he could concentrate on that - rather than the idea that his ears were bleeding.
But just as he was rolling with that idea, he remembered the conversation that he’d had with Sam back when they were buying ammo at Jack’s place. The part about not taking a chick to a bar, and the part about there being a difference between taking a chick out to get to know her and taking her out to get her into bed.
Dean groaned inwardly. Even hundreds of miles away, his little brother found some way to cock-block him. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he was going to have to figure out what the hell constituted a date, sans bar. And what the hell you do on a date that had no chance in ending with the two of you making the beast with two backs?
With a sinking feeling, Dean knew that he was going to have to call Sam for some ideas.
After all, Sam was one of those pansy-assed gentlemen: The kind of guy that waited months before even trying to coax a girl onto third base. And he knew both of them pretty well. He was friends with Chloe, and he might have some idea of what kinds of things she might enjoy doing, and how the hell he was supposed to treat her.
Dean knew he was going to have to have some help if he wanted to act like that. Because when he was around Chloe - his thoughts and the word gentleman didn’t even belong in the same state, much less the same sentence.
“Seamus Sullivan? I think that was Grampy’s dad.”
Chloe’s voice snapped Dean out of his thoughts. He looked over at the box that Chloe had opened. It was filled with books - and a jewelry box. Chloe had one of the books open. The name she’d identified was written on the inside cover. He glanced at the title: Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry by W.B. Yeats.
“He annotated it,” she said. “Dean, look!” She handed the book to him. Dean took the book, and looked inside. Next to several entries, there were dates and locations, written in tight, neat handwriting next to an entry titled Fear Gorta.
“What do these dates mean?” He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow.
Chloe cocked her head in a pose of thinking. “Fear Gorta is Gaelic for man of hunger,” she said. “Grampy told me that his da’ said that it was this tall, emaciated phantom. And that it was seen just before the Great Famine of 1840 as a sort of harbinger of the blight.”
“Which lines up with these dates and locations,” Dean said.
Chloe gave him a troubled look. She reached for a second book. Dean noted that it was another Yeats.
“This is an essay filled with descriptions of village ghosts,” Chloe said. “And again, names, dates - I’m assuming death dates -- locations. Why would my Great-Grampy be keeping track of this?”
Dean could think of one reason. “Maybe your Great-Grampy was a hunter.”
Chloe gave him a skeptical look.
“No, seriously. I know you’re familiar with hunter’s journals. You’ve seen mine, Sam’s and Dad’s. But you keep your information differently.” He gestured to her wall to emphasize the point. “Maybe your Great-Granddad kept his journals in the margins of his research books.”
“Grampy would have mentioned . . .” Chloe shook her head.
“Unless he didn’t know,” Dean said. “Sam, Jo and I grew up with this stuff, but we’re actually kind of unique. A lot of hunters - they see some pretty warped stuff, Chloe. If they have kids - they keep them in the dark about what’s out there. Keep them innocent. Protect them from all this. Maybe your Great-Granddad did the same with your Grampy.”
“So where are his tools?” Chloe shook her head. She suddenly glanced down at the jewelry box - as if suddenly remembering it. She picked the box up and opened it. A man’s silver ring was nestled in the box. She picked it up, and looked it over before passing it to Dean.
Dean ran his fingers around the band. It didn’t feel off to him. He studied it carefully. It looked like a little like the generically Celtic junk that you could pick up at any new-age shop. The thick silver band was encircled with a knotwork design. On one side, he thought he could see a sleek hound woven into the design.
“Is this a black dog?” He asked as he passed it back to Chloe.
“I think it’s a hound of Culann,” Chloe said. Off his blank look, she shrugged. “Culann was the hero of Ireland. Sort of the Irish version of Achilles: live fast, die young and famous. His father was a god; his mother was a chieftain’s sister. When he was a boy, he killed a guard hound in self-defense with his bare hands. Then he told the hound’s owner that he would stand guard in the dog’s place until a new guard dog could be found.
“The hound is sort of a protection symbol. It represents hunting, healing and the otherworld.”
Dean thought that would be a perfect description for Chloe. She was a natural healer and was learning to be a pretty good hunter. And being meta, she walked with one foot in the otherworld, too.
“So this is a protection ring?” Dean said. “We might want to get this checked out and see if there is actually any kind of real protection on it.”
Chloe nodded her head. “Do you think?”
Dean nodded. “Trust me on this, Chloe. The signs are there - if you know what to look for. The books, maybe this ring. And didn’t you say that your crucifix was a Sullivan family heirloom?”
She nodded. “Grampy gave it to Grammy to use, but it came from his side of the family. They couldn’t have brought a lot when they came from Cork, but Grammy wouldn’t leave it.”
“So where did the books come from?” Dean asked. “Were they sent later?”
“Maybe . . .” Chloe bit her lip. “That would have been expensive. I think that Great-Grampy was still alive when Grampy left Ireland. He didn’t talk about his da’ much. But I got hints from Grammy that they had some kind of falling out.”
Dean gave her a sad smile. “When Sam left for Stamford, he and Dad had a huge fight. Dad told Sam not to come back. Maybe - one of your Grampy’s friends send this stuff after he passed on.”
Chloe shook her head. “Don’t you think that my Great-Grampy being a hunter is a little too neat? Or maybe too ironic? - maybe he was just a digger like me.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you really think - after all we done, that you’re still just a digger, Chloe? Hunting - once you’ve learned the trade, you never really leave it. Sometimes you take a break - like Sam did. But sooner or later it drags you back. Or maybe it’ll skip a couple of generations and drag your great-grandkid in.”
“What are you saying, Dean?” Chloe asked. “That Grampy Seamus got crossways with an unseelie, and I’m cursed as a result?”
“I’m saying that you’re three generations removed from Ireland, Chloe. There are Irish who don’t speak Gaelic as well as you do. Your Grampy was very careful to tell you and your dad the stories. He made sure you knew the lore. I’m thinking that he may have had a reason for doing so - other than pissing off your Grammy.
“Forget the freaky meteor stuff. You were interested in freaky supernatural when you were a kid. You were hunting when you were fourteen - although you didn’t call it that. I think maybe it’s in your blood.”
Chloe blinked a time or two. “I think I’d better call Dad,” she said uneasily.
She reached for the phone, and dialed. Dean thought that it was a credit to her that her fingers weren’t shaking. He reached out to squeeze her hand, and was rewarded with a tiny, sad smile as she switched the telephone over to speaker.
The phone rang once or twice before Gabe Sullivan’s sleepy sounding voice picked up.
“Hello?”
“Dad,” Chloe sounded relieved. “I realize that it’s the middle of the night over there.”
“Is something wrong, Chlo-bug?” Gabe immediately sounded worried.
“No.” Chloe didn’t sound very sure of herself. “No, there isn’t.”
“You sure? Because I can be on the next plane.”
“Nothing like that, I promise. I was just unpacking.”
“Now? You’ve only been in that place for four years.” Gabe’s voice took on a light, teasing tone, as if he could comfort her by lightening the mood. Dean gave her hand another squeeze to reinforce Gabe’s attempt.
“Very funny,” Chloe seemed calmer in the face of Dean’s reassurance and her Dad’s teasing. “Listen, Dad: I found a strange box when I was unpacking. I think it might have belonged to Grampy Seamus.”
“Auld Seamus? I wondered what happened to that box. Your Grampy wouldn’t let me near it, growing up.”
“So how did I wind up with it?”
“Da’ gave it to me when we moved to Smallville,” Gabe said. “He told me to make sure to give it to you someday. It had your name on it. I guess it just got shifted into your boxes when we lost the house.”
“Well,” Chloe sighed. “That’s good to know.”
“Out of curiosity, Chloe-bug. What was in it?”
“Just a couple of books of Yeats, and a ring.”
“Really?” Gabe said. “Huh. The way Da’ carried on, you would think it was the family fortune.”
“Thanks Dad,” Chloe said woodenly.
“You sure you’re okay, Chlo-bug?”
“Hm? Yeah. Just seeing this stuff has me thinking about Grampy.”
“Tá grá agam duit, Chlo-bug.”
“A Dhaidí, is tú liom i gcónaí.”
Chloe hung up the phone with a tight smile. “I guess the next step is to have this ring checked out.”
“Hey,” Dean pulled her into a hug. “It’s going to be okay. Whether your Great-Grampy was a hunter or not - that doesn’t really change anything.”
“I know,” she shook her head. “It’s just been a hard month. And now this on top of everything else.”
“Look at it this way,” Dean said. “Now you’ve got a few more resources to draw on in your education.”
“There is that,” Chloe let out a mirthless chuckle.
“So do you know of anyone who could help with the ring? Because I can get Sam on the horn.”
“No,” Chloe shook her head. “I actually have a contact who is fairly - okay, extremely magically gifted.”
“One of your League contacts?” Dean asked.
“Yup. Although for this, she might be overkill. Still --”
“Better safe than wasted,” Dean said. When Chloe chuckled at his humor, he felt a little better. This was something he was good at.
A/N: Tá grá agam duit is Gaelic for I love you. A Dhaidí, is tú liom i gcónaí approximately means you are always with me, dad.
Summary: He had to figure out where they stood. Otherwise, they couldn't go forward
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural/DCU
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean, Jo
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 #58 Dinner. The table is here.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9a, Part 9b
“Huh, I don’t remember this box,” Chloe muttered as she sat down on the futon.
Dean sat next to her and surveyed the room. The apartment was still Spartan - but now it actually looked like someone lived there. In the course of a day, they’d managed to unpack all of the boxes, set up her furniture, and even arrange her old Wall of Weird on the wall adjoining her awards shrine. Now they were unpacking the last box, and waiting for pizza delivery.
Dean’s attention once again strayed to their handiwork. They’d also gone through the papers on her dining room table and clipped out the articles to add to the wall as well. Occasionally, as the new wall took shape, Chloe had come up with new story ideas and angles for her long-term project: preparing herself for the day that the supernatural became common knowledge. He’d gotten a little thrill to see her eyes light up, and watch her dash for a notebook and pencil. It reminded him of what it was like to have her on a hunt.
To pass the time as they waited on the food- he had pulled out the short-grip .45 that he’d gifted her with, and was fixing the sight for her.
As he worked, he’d spent his time thinking of tomorrow night’s date. His gut instinct was to load her into the Impala, and find one of those Irish-style pubs that played the hideous music that she liked. Maybe if he could get in on a good game of darts, he could concentrate on that - rather than the idea that his ears were bleeding.
But just as he was rolling with that idea, he remembered the conversation that he’d had with Sam back when they were buying ammo at Jack’s place. The part about not taking a chick to a bar, and the part about there being a difference between taking a chick out to get to know her and taking her out to get her into bed.
Dean groaned inwardly. Even hundreds of miles away, his little brother found some way to cock-block him. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he was going to have to figure out what the hell constituted a date, sans bar. And what the hell you do on a date that had no chance in ending with the two of you making the beast with two backs?
With a sinking feeling, Dean knew that he was going to have to call Sam for some ideas.
After all, Sam was one of those pansy-assed gentlemen: The kind of guy that waited months before even trying to coax a girl onto third base. And he knew both of them pretty well. He was friends with Chloe, and he might have some idea of what kinds of things she might enjoy doing, and how the hell he was supposed to treat her.
Dean knew he was going to have to have some help if he wanted to act like that. Because when he was around Chloe - his thoughts and the word gentleman didn’t even belong in the same state, much less the same sentence.
“Seamus Sullivan? I think that was Grampy’s dad.”
Chloe’s voice snapped Dean out of his thoughts. He looked over at the box that Chloe had opened. It was filled with books - and a jewelry box. Chloe had one of the books open. The name she’d identified was written on the inside cover. He glanced at the title: Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry by W.B. Yeats.
“He annotated it,” she said. “Dean, look!” She handed the book to him. Dean took the book, and looked inside. Next to several entries, there were dates and locations, written in tight, neat handwriting next to an entry titled Fear Gorta.
“What do these dates mean?” He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow.
Chloe cocked her head in a pose of thinking. “Fear Gorta is Gaelic for man of hunger,” she said. “Grampy told me that his da’ said that it was this tall, emaciated phantom. And that it was seen just before the Great Famine of 1840 as a sort of harbinger of the blight.”
“Which lines up with these dates and locations,” Dean said.
Chloe gave him a troubled look. She reached for a second book. Dean noted that it was another Yeats.
“This is an essay filled with descriptions of village ghosts,” Chloe said. “And again, names, dates - I’m assuming death dates -- locations. Why would my Great-Grampy be keeping track of this?”
Dean could think of one reason. “Maybe your Great-Grampy was a hunter.”
Chloe gave him a skeptical look.
“No, seriously. I know you’re familiar with hunter’s journals. You’ve seen mine, Sam’s and Dad’s. But you keep your information differently.” He gestured to her wall to emphasize the point. “Maybe your Great-Granddad kept his journals in the margins of his research books.”
“Grampy would have mentioned . . .” Chloe shook her head.
“Unless he didn’t know,” Dean said. “Sam, Jo and I grew up with this stuff, but we’re actually kind of unique. A lot of hunters - they see some pretty warped stuff, Chloe. If they have kids - they keep them in the dark about what’s out there. Keep them innocent. Protect them from all this. Maybe your Great-Granddad did the same with your Grampy.”
“So where are his tools?” Chloe shook her head. She suddenly glanced down at the jewelry box - as if suddenly remembering it. She picked the box up and opened it. A man’s silver ring was nestled in the box. She picked it up, and looked it over before passing it to Dean.
Dean ran his fingers around the band. It didn’t feel off to him. He studied it carefully. It looked like a little like the generically Celtic junk that you could pick up at any new-age shop. The thick silver band was encircled with a knotwork design. On one side, he thought he could see a sleek hound woven into the design.
“Is this a black dog?” He asked as he passed it back to Chloe.
“I think it’s a hound of Culann,” Chloe said. Off his blank look, she shrugged. “Culann was the hero of Ireland. Sort of the Irish version of Achilles: live fast, die young and famous. His father was a god; his mother was a chieftain’s sister. When he was a boy, he killed a guard hound in self-defense with his bare hands. Then he told the hound’s owner that he would stand guard in the dog’s place until a new guard dog could be found.
“The hound is sort of a protection symbol. It represents hunting, healing and the otherworld.”
Dean thought that would be a perfect description for Chloe. She was a natural healer and was learning to be a pretty good hunter. And being meta, she walked with one foot in the otherworld, too.
“So this is a protection ring?” Dean said. “We might want to get this checked out and see if there is actually any kind of real protection on it.”
Chloe nodded her head. “Do you think?”
Dean nodded. “Trust me on this, Chloe. The signs are there - if you know what to look for. The books, maybe this ring. And didn’t you say that your crucifix was a Sullivan family heirloom?”
She nodded. “Grampy gave it to Grammy to use, but it came from his side of the family. They couldn’t have brought a lot when they came from Cork, but Grammy wouldn’t leave it.”
“So where did the books come from?” Dean asked. “Were they sent later?”
“Maybe . . .” Chloe bit her lip. “That would have been expensive. I think that Great-Grampy was still alive when Grampy left Ireland. He didn’t talk about his da’ much. But I got hints from Grammy that they had some kind of falling out.”
Dean gave her a sad smile. “When Sam left for Stamford, he and Dad had a huge fight. Dad told Sam not to come back. Maybe - one of your Grampy’s friends send this stuff after he passed on.”
Chloe shook her head. “Don’t you think that my Great-Grampy being a hunter is a little too neat? Or maybe too ironic? - maybe he was just a digger like me.”
Dean cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you really think - after all we done, that you’re still just a digger, Chloe? Hunting - once you’ve learned the trade, you never really leave it. Sometimes you take a break - like Sam did. But sooner or later it drags you back. Or maybe it’ll skip a couple of generations and drag your great-grandkid in.”
“What are you saying, Dean?” Chloe asked. “That Grampy Seamus got crossways with an unseelie, and I’m cursed as a result?”
“I’m saying that you’re three generations removed from Ireland, Chloe. There are Irish who don’t speak Gaelic as well as you do. Your Grampy was very careful to tell you and your dad the stories. He made sure you knew the lore. I’m thinking that he may have had a reason for doing so - other than pissing off your Grammy.
“Forget the freaky meteor stuff. You were interested in freaky supernatural when you were a kid. You were hunting when you were fourteen - although you didn’t call it that. I think maybe it’s in your blood.”
Chloe blinked a time or two. “I think I’d better call Dad,” she said uneasily.
She reached for the phone, and dialed. Dean thought that it was a credit to her that her fingers weren’t shaking. He reached out to squeeze her hand, and was rewarded with a tiny, sad smile as she switched the telephone over to speaker.
The phone rang once or twice before Gabe Sullivan’s sleepy sounding voice picked up.
“Hello?”
“Dad,” Chloe sounded relieved. “I realize that it’s the middle of the night over there.”
“Is something wrong, Chlo-bug?” Gabe immediately sounded worried.
“No.” Chloe didn’t sound very sure of herself. “No, there isn’t.”
“You sure? Because I can be on the next plane.”
“Nothing like that, I promise. I was just unpacking.”
“Now? You’ve only been in that place for four years.” Gabe’s voice took on a light, teasing tone, as if he could comfort her by lightening the mood. Dean gave her hand another squeeze to reinforce Gabe’s attempt.
“Very funny,” Chloe seemed calmer in the face of Dean’s reassurance and her Dad’s teasing. “Listen, Dad: I found a strange box when I was unpacking. I think it might have belonged to Grampy Seamus.”
“Auld Seamus? I wondered what happened to that box. Your Grampy wouldn’t let me near it, growing up.”
“So how did I wind up with it?”
“Da’ gave it to me when we moved to Smallville,” Gabe said. “He told me to make sure to give it to you someday. It had your name on it. I guess it just got shifted into your boxes when we lost the house.”
“Well,” Chloe sighed. “That’s good to know.”
“Out of curiosity, Chloe-bug. What was in it?”
“Just a couple of books of Yeats, and a ring.”
“Really?” Gabe said. “Huh. The way Da’ carried on, you would think it was the family fortune.”
“Thanks Dad,” Chloe said woodenly.
“You sure you’re okay, Chlo-bug?”
“Hm? Yeah. Just seeing this stuff has me thinking about Grampy.”
“Tá grá agam duit, Chlo-bug.”
“A Dhaidí, is tú liom i gcónaí.”
Chloe hung up the phone with a tight smile. “I guess the next step is to have this ring checked out.”
“Hey,” Dean pulled her into a hug. “It’s going to be okay. Whether your Great-Grampy was a hunter or not - that doesn’t really change anything.”
“I know,” she shook her head. “It’s just been a hard month. And now this on top of everything else.”
“Look at it this way,” Dean said. “Now you’ve got a few more resources to draw on in your education.”
“There is that,” Chloe let out a mirthless chuckle.
“So do you know of anyone who could help with the ring? Because I can get Sam on the horn.”
“No,” Chloe shook her head. “I actually have a contact who is fairly - okay, extremely magically gifted.”
“One of your League contacts?” Dean asked.
“Yup. Although for this, she might be overkill. Still --”
“Better safe than wasted,” Dean said. When Chloe chuckled at his humor, he felt a little better. This was something he was good at.
A/N: Tá grá agam duit is Gaelic for I love you. A Dhaidí, is tú liom i gcónaí approximately means you are always with me, dad.