The War of Fate - NC17 - Chloe/Dean - Chapter Three
Title: The War of Fate
Series: Fate - Part II of III
Category: Smallville/Supernatural
Genre: Romance/Angst/Drama/Humor/Action
Ship: Chloe/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 4,503
Summary: Following the loss of his brother, Dean vows to keep his promise and live the apple-pie life with Chloe, but God has other ideas. Trying to put himself together, Dean sets in motion the fate of humans, demons and angels alike and who will win is anybodies guess.
Previous: Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two,
dhfreak
III.
Dean reached for the waist-high wheat stalks that swayed to and fro in the warm breeze. The sun above was bright enough that he kept his head bowed, eyes forced down as he walked. It warmed the nape of his neck like reaching, stroking fingers. He didn't know where he was going, didn't really care. With each step, his palms and forearms glanced off the spiked ends of surrounding brown grass. The world was silent; the world was empty. There was only him, stomping through a field, his heavy boots making easy headway.
A drop of sweat dragged down his spine; he suppressed a shudder against the feeling. The wind blew harsher; the sun seemed to heat up thickly, overwhelmingly. He blinked against the sweat that sought to burn his eyes. Lifting an arm, no longer enjoying the field of dancing wheat against his skin, he scraped his too warm forearm across his face. It didn't matter what he did though, the heat ate at him. He wanted to shed his clothes; the worn-thin t-shirt, his damp jeans and his brown leather jacket that felt like a lead weight across his shoulders. He managed to shrug off the jacket, not caring that it was on the ground now, forgotten.
With the wave of heat came a sudden flash of panic, of urgency; his feet surged forward, body propelled toward some unseen place, desperate to find what awaited him there. As he broke through, the wheat thinned out until it was gone and the sun slid behind heavy clouds. The sweat that had once burned his skin was now chilled; his hands fisting as the cold bit at him. He came to a stumbling stop, staring, searching. There were figures up ahead; two, maybe three… No, no, just two. As he walked closer, fingers itching to reach for the silver gun he should but didn't have on him, he could make out features. Familiar. Family.
Brows furrowed, Dean stared at Chloe. She was kneeling on the ground, fingers curled into the dirt beneath her; it smudged her hands, dug in under her nails, a clump sat atop her wedding band. Blonde curls swept up in the wind, dancing at her shoulders; he wanted to reach out and tangle his fingers in her soft hair. His feet started moving; he needed to get her up, dust her off; he needed to help her. But the closer he got, the farther she became. What seemed like only feet between them suddenly became the length of a stretching football field. He started running; hurrying, rushing toward her. His arm outstretched, his lips moving; he was yelling her name, screaming it. Hunched over, she continued to stare at the ground, to sit there limply, as if every ounce of willpower she had left in her had simply evaporated. And still he kept running, kept screaming for her to hear him, to see him.
And the other figure moved with her; a man shrouded in darkness. Dean didn't have to see his face, he knew who it was. What he didn't know was who ruled behind that face. Laughter rang out; deep, thick, cruel. The man threw his head back, his shoulders shaking, his darkened face curled with sadistic amusement. And he began walking, casually, so easily toward the broken down Chloe Winchester, a woman who was known for being suspicious but didn't so much as raise her head in askance at the man before her.
"No!" Dean hollered, his face gnarling with anger, with fear. Desperately, he tried to run faster; tried to beat the man to her. And the distance between them seemed to be shortening; as if somehow she was coming to him now. His lungs ached with the effort, his feet moving so quickly he thought they'd trip any second.
The man looked at him, not the least bit worried that Dean might get in his way. He reached his arm out toward her limp figure, as if beckoning her to him.
"Chloe!" Dean screamed, shaking his head. "Look up! Damn it! LOOK!"
She didn't hear him, didn't move. Just kept herself hunched, hands digging in the earth before her.
"Get up! Run!"
Nothing.
"You had to know… Dean…" The voice, so familiar it sent a sharp ache into his chest. "You had to know this was how it would end."
The man dragged his arm across the air before him and with a snap of his long fingers flames burst forth from the ground and enveloped Chloe as she knelt in the center. Finally, she lifted her head, only to throw it back in a terrifying scream. Blood poured from her midsection, streamed from her eyes like tears. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe; past the flames, past the blood that bubbled up her throat.
Dean's feet ate up the last of the space between them and he fell to his knees before her, hands batting at the flames, trying desperately to put them out, to stop her tearful cries. But even as they seemed to disappear, swallowed up by the earth beneath her, she fell back, charred, bleeding. He caught her in his arms, felt her shaking, could hear her lungs as they rattled with approaching death. She stared up at him, her green eyes dazed, bloody tears making tracks down her cheeks.
"I got you… Hey, hey, I got you," he told her, over and over again, trying to reassure him and her that it would all be okay. That she would make it through this.
Her mouth trembled, her eyes dazed as she stared up at him, not quite seeing him. "Why…?" She shook her, her blonde hair wet with blood, curling and burnt. "Dean? Why?"
"I-I don't know, I-I can't…" His eyes burned, throat tightening up. "'m sorry… Chloe, I'm sorry…"
She shook her head jerkily. "You d-didn't stop him… You couldn't… You can't…" Finally, she looked at him, her eyes clearing. "You can't stop him, Dean."
She disappeared; like liquid seeping through his fingers, she slipped away from him no matter how hard he tried to stop her. He was the one digging them, desperately clawing at the ground as if he'd find her there.
As a shadow fell across him, he tensed. Muscled bunched, body taut from head to toe, he raised his head to look up. "Why…?" he asked, hollowly. "Damn it, Sammy… Why?"
A dark smile twisted his brother's mouth and he shook his head. "Casualty of war, brother."
Dean's brows furrowed, his head mid-shake. His mouth fell open to ask… something.
But Sam tisked, making him pause. "Just like you." With that, he raised an arm and let out that sadistic laugh that was all Lucifer before he brought it down in a lethal blow.
Dean woke up abruptly, safe and alone in the room he shared with Chloe at Bobby's old house. Sweat beaded across his brow and slid sickly down his back in a cruel reminder of his nightmare.
Shuffling the sheet away that he'd managed to get himself tangled up in, he pushed himself until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, inhaling thick gulps of air and rubbing his hands across his face. He swore he could still smell burning flesh, imprinted in his nose, and feel her as she disintegrated beneath his hands. Forcing himself to stand, despite the way his legs seemed to shake beneath him, he stumbled toward the bathroom. Thrusting the tap on, he cupped his hands and filled them with cold water, drawing them up to splash his face with.
His body was a ball of tension; he couldn't seem to relax, to let down his guard in any way. When his skin no longer felt like it was crawling, like sweat was cloying at him, he stepped out of the bathroom, drained. The idea of going back to bed turned him off; he walked past his empty room, hating that he couldn't see her there, sleeping, reaching for him like she often did. He made his way downstairs, hand gripping the banister tight, and walked through the dark, empty house. Outside, the sun was peeking out from the horizon; fingers of light were spreading inside, searching out dark corners and leaving the house less haunted looking.
As he walked past the kitchen, he missed the sound of voices, of laughter. The light was still out in Bobby's office and he felt a chill as he moved past it to stand in the kitchen. He couldn't eat; his stomach felt like a rock weighed heavy inside. Grabbing up the phone off its cradle, he made his way outside, taking a seat on the creaky old swing that had once held good memories. He distinctly remembered the last time he and Chloe had sat there; he remembered the feel of her soft skin beneath his hands and the warmth of her breath as she buried her face in his neck. How eager she was, how easily she let herself be with him; back when things were so fucked up and they were looking for a way to pretend they weren't. Back when the hope for a life after the apocalypse seemed nil but still urged them on. And now he was there; there was no Lucifer or Michael or vessels being hashed out; it was just him and Chloe and Bobby. Except they were off, back to life as usual, and he was stuck in neutral; not sure where the hell he even fit in anymore.
He turned the phone over in his hand, glared at it a long while, and finally dialed her number. He just wanted to hear her voice, just wanted to know she was okay. And then he'd bury himself in some car or another; he'd get his mind off everything. Off Sam and Cas and rugarus and how his wife was out there fighting something she shouldn't be. How she didn't have him there to watch her back. How she might not be coming back and it'd be just one more loss to add to the mountain high pile behind her. Just another casualty of war…
He hung up suddenly, his jaw twitching with the effort.
She was okay. Bobby would keep her safe. And if she wasn't… Well hell, he'd just have to accept it, wouldn't he? He'd just have to buck up and move on.
The very idea made his stomach roil, his chest ache painfully, but he left the phone on the swing and he rose from his seat, taking off toward the cars that lay waiting for his expert hands to fix. It didn't matter that he was barefoot with hardly any sleep and little food in his system. It didn't matter that she would always be on his mind; from the second he woke up to the moment he fell asleep.
He would forget; he would move on. And hell, if she made it home, he'd have made it through one more near miss. Because even his dreams couldn't deny the fact that anybody he cared about would eventually be lost to him and she was the next on the chopping block. It was just a matter of time.
If his eyes stung when he dug the wrench inside the old beat up Chevy before him, it was lack of sleep. He couldn't afford to care anymore; couldn't afford to do anything more than accept what fate doled out. Roll with the punches; it was how he survived all this time. And if every time the wind whistled he thought it was the phone and felt both a spark of hope and dread, he ignored it. He had to.
…
Chloe and Bobby rolled up to the Paradise Motel (which due to dead bulbs actually read Pade Mote) just before noon. Haggard, they stood in front of the manager, bargaining for a room. Chloe didn't bother stifling a yawn as she checked her cell for missed calls. One from Dean at just after five in the morning must've been the ringing she'd heard as she dozed in the truck. He hadn't left a message and she decided to call him just as soon as they were settled.
"Look man, this ain't no Hilton, all right? We got one-ply and that's it," the middle-aged man at the desk said, shrugging. His off-white wife-beater was spotted with grease and mustard stains, which only served to make his pot-belly even less attractive. He leaned forward, forearms on the counter, and eyed Chloe up like she was his next Big Mac.
She stifled the urge to fake-vomit… or possibly really vomit; his smell wasn't helping matters.
Bobby snapped a palm down on the counter, drawing the manager's attention back to him. "You wanna watch your eyes, bub?" he asked dangerously, eyes narrowing.
The manager pursed his lips. "Just wondering what a pretty thing like that cost, old man. I've seen my share and she looks too expensive for this dump."
Before Chloe could think to stop him, Bobby had the manager by his collar and half across the counter between them. "You're gonna apologize for insultin' my daughter-in-law… We got business here that doesn't have anythin' to do with what you're thinkin'… You so much as spit in her direction and I'm gonna rearrange that already ugly face of yours, you got me?"
He swallowed thickly, eyes wide, and nodded abruptly.
Bobby let him go, sneering as he stepped back. "Now give us a room, we'll settle up before we leave."
"Y-Yes, sorry, sure… Uh, 203 good for you?"
Bobby blinked. "I look like I care?"
"N-No, sir… Uh, here, i-it's just around the corner there…" He shoved the key toward them and stumbled back, obviously eager to get rid of them.
With a roll of her eyes, Chloe plucked the key up, shook her head at Bobby and made her way out of the office. As the older man caught up, she scoffed. "Is it the lack of sleep or are you just suffering a shorter fuse than usual?"
He frowned at her. "Did you hear what he was callin' you?"
Amused, she couldn't help a half-smile. "An expensive escort for the handsome but grumpy Robert Singer? Yes…" She turned around, walking backwards and winked at him. "At least I wasn't cheap."
He scoffed, clearly not thinking it was funny at all.
"Bobby…" She smiled lightly. "All these years and you haven't once had a motel manager think something else was going on when you checked into a place that usually only sells rooms by the hour?"
He glowered. "Ain't ever had a woman with me…"
"Makes you feel better, people usually think Dean and Sam are together- together…" She chuckled when a slight smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Yeah?"
She snorted. "Wouldn't you?"
He shrugged. "Guess it doesn't look too good."
"Hey, you should be flattered…" Walking to him, she hooked her arm with his. "You got the prettiest hooker around."
With a laugh, he shook his head. "You're just crazy enough to be a Winchester, y'know that?"
She smiled, taking it as a compliment, and they ambled into the motel room, tossing their bags to either bed.
"All right, so catch me up a little more…" she asked, kicking her shoes off and settling on the bed. "This friend of yours said this guy was acting weird… Eating raw meat?"
"You read up on these, right?" Bobby asked, taking a seat at the table offered in the room.
"Yes, but between John's journal and what I've researched there's some big differences." Taking a deep breath, she explained, "In Louisiana folklore, a rougarou has a human body and wolf or dog head… It says they're infected for 101 days and after that it gets passed around like a common cold via vampire-esque bites… Blood begets monsters, or something to that effect." Sighing, she sat back on the edge of the bed. "And according to Native American folklore, there's some argument over whether it's more like bigfoot or wendigos or even a merging of the two… Regardless, it's cannibalistic - feasting on humans, regardless of who they are or what they might mean to them. And apparently, if you see one, you become one…" Her lips twisted. "A little unbelievable, but I've heard weirder. I'm hoping if that's the case that we can pull a Medusa-mirror trick then, because going into this blind is going to be a whole lot worse."
"Any of that what John said?" he wondered, brow cocked.
She shook her head. "No, John basically wrote that rugarus could grow up as normal as any human until their nature kicks in… and then they're hungry for KFC without the secret spices or the grease bath… Straight up raw meat until they realize what they're really craving is their neighbor's thigh, not the Colonel's."
Bobby nodded. "When they turn, they do it quick… Only so many raw steaks before they start gnawing on their friends and family."
Her nose wrinkled at the visual. "Okay, so how do we know this guy your friend sent us after just doesn't like his meat very, very rare…?"
"Like you would anything else… We keep an eye on the guy until he starts showing signs."
She shook her head wonderingly. "Like…?"
"Super-human strength, his bones'll start moving under his skin. Hell, you see him chewing on anybody and we know what we're dealin' with." He scoffed.
"I was kind of hoping we'd avoid casualties," she sighed. "And the only way to kill them is setting them on fire, right?"
He nodded. "But they aren't gonna hold still while you light 'em up, either." Frowning, he leaned forward, staring at her sternly. "Look, Sully, truth is it'd be smarter for us to take him out before he takes a bite outta anybody… Soon as he has one human snack, he'll change into the monster… and it's a lot harder to kill when it's not distracted and confused. When he turns, he's got no emotion anymore; no fear for killing."
"All right, so… So we hunt this guy down, keep up our guard and watch for moving bones and an uncanny ability to open really tough jars…" She pursed her lips. "We've gotta be sure though."
He snorted. "I won't kill any civilians if you won't."
She rolled her eyes. "Fingers officially not trigger-happy."
"Good… Now I know you wanted to get some rest but the sooner we can find this guy, the better."
Nodding, she rose from the bed. "You mind if I shower first? The drive over a certain someone left the heat on too high…"
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Quit your damn bitchin'. Ya should be thankful I brought you along at all."
Snickering, she gathered up her bag and walked toward the shower. "Brought me along? Try begged me to be your partner."
He stared at her stonily. "I never beg anybody."
She smirked. "Maybe not on purpose, but you definitely needed me here."
"We'll see about that," he muttered, jutting his chin toward the shower. "So far you're just a pain in my ass."
With a laugh, she walked into the bathroom and kicked the door closed behind her.
"Dunno how Dean can put up with her," he said, shaking his head. Still, he found himself a little more lighthearted than he was used to on a hunt.
As the water came on, the pipes whining in protest, Bobby dragged out his cell phone and dialed his home number. Felt weird to be calling his house when usually there was nobody there to answer; he'd been alone so long, getting used to constant company had been a whole new experience. One he couldn't say he didn't like.
It was only four rings before a breathless Dean answered, his tone gruff and worried, "Chlo?"
"Sorry to disappoint," Bobby replied, rolling his eyes. Damn lovesick kids…
He cleared his throat. "No, hey, Bobby, what's up?"
He tried for casual but Bobby knew him better than that. "We're fine... She's fine," he assured. "Takin' a shower and snarkin' up a storm, as usual."
"Good," he said simply.
Lost were the days when he'd make a joke or even laugh at something so simple. Bobby felt regret welling in his chest. "And you? You all right back there?" Leaning back in his chair, his brows furrowed with concern.
"Yeah. Not a whole lot that's gonna take me out. Been keeping busy with that old blue Chevy… You know it had a brand-new transmission? She's a beauty."
"No, I didn't…" Glancing at the closed bathroom door, he hesitated but finally pushed forward. "Look, Dean… We haven't had much time to really talk lately. Before me an' Chloe took off for this hunt, I was cooped up in the office and you were permanently glued to your wrench, but, uh… We should... Some time soon."
There was a pause on the other end. "Bobby, if this is leadin' up to a lecture-"
"No, no." He shook his head. "Y'know, you just got us worried… You got me worried, Dean…"
"I'm coping, all right?" He sighed. "Whad'you want me to say?"
"Nothing. I… I just don't want you to give up what little you got left."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, voice tense.
"Damn it, Dean…" he sighed thickly. "You've been like a ghost walkin' around the house this last week. You think that's not affecting her?"
"I'm dealing with it… Sorry if that doesn't mean I'm sharin' my feelings and crying at the drop of a damn hat." A crash sounded; no doubt a wrench being tossed at some nearby car. "I'll deal it with my way, all right? The only thing you gotta worry about is making sure you two get back here alive. 'Cause hell, Bobby, you come back without her and I won't just be actin' like a damn ghost." With that, he snapped the phone shut and Bobby sat back in his chair, eyes falling closed and a scowl dragging his mouth down.
With Sam in hell, Cas in heaven, and Dean all over the damn place, he only had Chloe left to lean on. And despite her strong front, Bobby wasn't blind. Seeing her husband, day in and day out, getting more and more distant was only hurting her. She hid it well and he commended her for the effort it must take, but just weeks ago they were in wedded bliss, desperately hoping for a future. Now that they had one, it seemed to be falling apart on them. Tossing his phone down, he shook his head. With all that had already been sacrificed, he didn't want them to be the next to go.
He loved Dean like a son and Chloe had grown on him a lot more than ever expected. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he wouldn't let what little of his family he had left fall apart.
…
On the porch surrounding a sunny little two-story house, Devin Reed was impatiently pacing the floorboards, waiting on Carl Ross to get home. He'd promised to sign the papers and hand over the check for the land beneath Sal's Tavern almost a week ago and she'd had enough of waiting around for him to get his ass in gear. The money he was offering wasn't going to have her living in riches; hell, it might not even get her settled in wherever she was headed. Right now, life was up in the air. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wanted her old man's dilapidated bar off her hands. So she worked the bar since she was a little girl and she could mix drinks with the best of them, that didn't mean she had it in her to fix up the old joint.
Sal was a bitter drunk that forgot too often he had a daughter relying on him. While he was cleaning up after drunken brawls, she was waiting on someone to read her a bed time story. He never came. And now that he was finally dead and buried, the only thing she had left to remember him by was the bar he loved more than her. Some dark part of her was glad that it would be just as broken and forgotten as he was. Just as soon as Ross got his ass home to sign the papers, she'd be rid of Sal and his remaining ramshackle tavern.
As a creak sounded, Devin came to a stop, turning around to frown. The front door was open a few inches and hell if it hadn't been locked up tight when she'd arrived. If she had a tendency to let herself in and not care about those too easily broken rules and laws, so what. "Hell… You been here this whole time, Carl?" she called out, scowling. "I've been out here two hours, jerk-off! You want the land or what?"
When no reply came but the door opening a little wider, Devin rolled her eyes and stomped forward, her boots making a rough clomping noise. If this had been any other situation, she would've just left the asshole in the dust. But she needed that money and the freedom that came with it. The sooner she could get out of Ohio, the better. She was sick and tired of being little Devin Reed, Sal Reed's overlooked and underappreciated daughter.
Shoving the door open, Devin walked inside and looked around impatiently. "I got the papers and a pen, Ross… All I need is your signature and the check and you never have to see me again, a'right?"
The door slammed closed behind her and she whirled. Suddenly, her instincts were screaming at her. Having grown up in that pissy bar, the only good thing she got out of it was knowing when something very bad was about to happen. Her stomach twisted and turned and she realized she just walked into the dark cave and poked the bear. Feeling a looming presence behind her, she turned quickly.
What was once the mild-mannered visage of Carl Ross, a middle-aged real estate agent with gapped teeth and a few too many pounds mid-center, was now a drooling, eager man who stared at her with both a desperation and hunger that she'd never seen before. This wasn't sexual; it was primal. And she felt her skin crawl all over. Stumbling backwards, she thought she might've just become dinner. And hell, that freedom had been so close…
With a sneer, Devin stopped. If she was going out, it'd be with one hell of a fight. Maybe her old man had left her with one other good thing… A kick ass right hook and the desire to fight death to the very end.
She hoped she fared better than Sal had, because Carl looked ready to eat her alive.
[Next: Chapter IV.]