“This is practically becoming a cliché, Dean.” Chloe said as she crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“You're the only one who can do this, Chloe.” Dean argued. He clenched his jaw in annoyance. They were the ones who insisted he come up with the solution. He couldn't believe that they were picking at the solution he came up with. Were they deliberately trying to set him up for failure or something?
“I just don't get why I'm always the one climbing on rafters, or getting shoved into holes, or drinking the bad-tempered Celtic drinking fairy under the table. Is this some kind of twisted initiation?”
“No,” Dean shook his head. He was a little hurt by her accusation. Did she really think he liked putting her in those situations? She may be able to heal – but anyone could see that she was a little bit freaked by her powers. He didn't want to keep shoving them in her face any more than he wanted to see the open wound she'd sliced across her palm to show them her power. “But you are the one who can't get drunk. You asked me what would impress this thing. If I was an Irish drinking fairy – and I'm not – but if I was; I would be real impressed by this pretty blonde girl who could drink me under the table.”
Chloe sighed. “I suppose it's better than one of you guys dying of alcohol poisoning,” she said. “I guess I'd better get its attention.”
“We'll be right here if you need us.” Dean hoped he sounded comforting, but judging by Chloe's glare – he was thinking not so much. He sighed. Why was it easier to impress some random chick in a bar than it was when it really counted?
She took a deep breath, and launched into an off-key verse of the raunchiest drinking song he'd ever heard.
Something about a hedgehog. Before she'd even gotten to the chorus, a tiny little blue dude was suddenly sitting at the end of the bar, and singing with her. Except for the height thing, the dude looked like he'd escaped from the move Braveheart. He looked up at her like he was love-struck, and Dean suddenly didn't think this was such a good idea.
When the little dude spoke, Dean could only catch the gist of what he was saying. The rest of it was so wrapped in accent and Gaelic and slang, that he would've sprained his brain trying to follow it.
Chloe didn't seem to have any problems with it, though. She nodded once or twice in understanding before speaking. “But there's nothing to drink.”
He gibbered at her some more, and then suddenly turned, and waved at Jo.
“He wants two pints.”
“Pints?” Jo raised an eyebrow.
“He's just off the boat,” Chloe said. “Cut him some slack.”
Jo picked up a couple of mason jars and held them under the tap. She looked up at Chloe with a questioning stare. Dean craned his neck around the bar to see what was going on. Next to him Sam did the same. Off Chloe's reassuring nod, Jo swallowed hopefully and turned on the tap.
Beer spilled from the taps like liquid gold. Dean smiled in spite of himself as Jo filled the drinks order, and then for good measure put a couple of jars in front of him and Sam.
As the night wore on, and jar after jar of beer was consumed, Dean realized two things. Firstly, Chloe was a walking encyclopedia of raunchy folk songs. It was amazing, because she totally behaved like she didn't have a dirty mind. And come to think of it, that in itself was a major turn-on.
Secondly, she may as well have been drinking water for all the good that beer was doing her.
After the first fifteen minutes, he and Sam stopped trying to keep up. After an hour, even the little blue dude was swaying. Finally, he put down his drink and slurred out some more gibberish.
“He said that he’s looking for a job,” Chloe tilted her head and looked at Jo.
“What do you think?” Jo asked her.
Chloe appeared to be considering it. She glanced up at the bar at the boys. “I’d have Sam handle contract negotiations. Little people can write in very fine print. And they write very complicated contracts.”
The blue dude hiccoughed. “Aye Lassie! Verra verrra com-lic-cated.” He shook himself, and placed his hand on Chloe’s forehead. “Ye’ve a bit of the stars in ye, for all that ye’re a childe o’ the Erin.” He nodded slowly.
Then there was this green glow that reminded Dean of what happened when Chloe healed.
Dean jumped to his feet, sending his stool clattering to the floor. He was at Chloe’s side before the freaky light show was over.
“Oh,” Chloe said in surprise. She looked at him with glassy eyes, and then she slid from her own stool bonelessly.
“Chloe?” Dean caught her before she could hit the floor. Fear shot through him, and he glared at the blue dude. “What did you do?” He growled.
“Soober’ed up.” The blue dude said. “Didn’a think she’d react that way.”
Jo leaned across the bar to look in Chloe’s face. She peeled back one of Chloe’s eyelids, and looked into the unconscious blonde’s eyes with practiced efficiency. “She’s about as wasted as anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Small wonder,” Sam said as he looked from Chloe to the blue dude and back. “If he just transferred all his alcohol to her, then she’s got more alcohol in her system than the crew of a navy battleship on shore leave.”
Chloe opened her eyes, and looked up at Dean with an unfocused smile. “Hi,” she smiled up at him. “You’re pretty.”
There are a lot of things a man wants to be called by a woman he’s kinda into. Pretty is not one of them. He heard Sam try to hold in a snort. He glared up at Jo and Sam. Jo was trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. Sam had given up and turned away, so at least Dean wouldn’t see him loose it.
By now, Chloe had her face buried in the juncture of his head and neck. “’N you smell nice.” She ran her hand over his head in a clumsy gesture.
“I think maybe you should try to get some coffee into her.” Jo said around her smile. “See if it helps?”
“Right,” Dean sighed. If he took advantage of the situation that would probably smoke any chances with her once she sobered up. Figures that Chloe would be a frisky drunk. Because his luck was like that.
* * *
Dean would have figured that Chloe’s healing powers would have filtered out all that alcohol by now. But apparently fairy drunk trumped meta power. Once Chloe figured out that there would be no drunken nookie, she settled down at a table in the corner, and amused herself by singing loudly and off-key.
It would’ve been freakin’ funny if Dean hadn’t been forced to play babysitter. As it was, he’d happily trade this charming little facet of Chloe’s personality for Sammy’s sullen drunk and Jo’s REO fetish any day.
As it was he’d heard songs about drinking, sex, the catholic/protestant conflict, the IRA, U2 (God help him), death (and the wake, which was basically just a big excuse to get drunk, as near as he could tell), fighting, the potato famine, how much the English sucked, and how much she wanted to be in Dublin.
At that point, Dean really wished she was in Dublin too. But then she switched to Sea Chanties, which were basically Irish drinking songs with pirates in them, as near as he could tell.
When she finally quieted down, Jo shot him a sympathetic smile. “Dean? We’re probably going to be working out the fine print for a while. If you want, you can take her back to the back room and let her sleep it off.”
Sleep. Sleep meant she’d shut up. Dean gave Jo a grateful smile.
“Chloe?”
She frowned at him. “What?”
Great. She’d slipped into sullen drunk.
“You should get some sleep.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Come on.” He picked her up, and carried her down the hall that Jo had pointed out. He kicked open a door and found a storeroom with a futon set up against one wall.
“I messed up,” Chloe said quietly.
“What?” Dean looked at her in confusion. Sad drunk. He had to hand it to her. When she went on a bender, she went all out. “No. You did fine.” He sat her down on the makeshift bed, and pulled a couple of empty boxes off of it. Then he knelt next to her, and started pulling off her boots.
“No,” she whined out. “Not that. I messed up my dad’s life.”
Great. Freakin’ awesome, Dean thought as he tried to get her left boot off. If she remembered this tomorrow, she was either going to hate herself or hate him for hearing all her inner thoughts.
“We’re talking about the same dad who we just talked to on the phone, right?” He looked up at her. “’Cause I think he damn near worships the ground you walk on, Chloe.”
“I don’t deserve it.” Her eyes were all teary, and Dean just knew that any minute she was going to be all blubbery, and her nose was going to get all red and runny. He held in a sigh. He hated dealing with chick flick moments like that. Part of why he respected Chloe is that she didn’t have chick flick moments like that.
He finally got both shoes off, and crawled up onto the cot next to her. He got comfortable with his back to the wall, and pulled her against him with her back to his chest, his legs on either side of her.
She leaned her head back against his shoulder and shut her eyes. The way they were sitting, he could easily whisper in her ear.
“Why don’t you deserve it? What did you do that was so bad?”
“Everything,” she said with a vague wave. “I was born, ‘n I’m a freak.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” He brushed his hands over her hair in a soothing fashion. “I kinda like you this way. Your dad would too.”
She sighed, and leaned into his touch. “He had to work so hard to keep us going. Especially after Mom.”
“What happened?” His stomach tightened in dread. He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“She went away,” she said quietly. “Sometimes Mommies do that.” Judging by the rote way she said that, that was probably the explanation she’d had burned into her brain.
Dean closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against her hair. He tried to keep all the painful memories locked away in their own porcelain boxes.
“Yeah, they do,” he whispered softly. She was like a damned bull in a china shop with the way she used her words.
“He took that job in Smallville to keep us together.” She spoke quietly, oblivious to his inner torment. “Then I caused him to lose the job, the house, and everything. I do that to people I care for, cuz’ I’m the Typhoid Mary of relationships.”
Her drunken ramblings worked to snap him out of his own pain. “You are not.”
“I totally am,” she argued. “I’m totally unlovable.”
“That’s not true,” Dean said. “And when you’re not so wasted, you know that.”
“Which is why I had the guys tripping over me to get to Lana in high school.” Dean didn’t know who Lana was, but figured she was probably some teeny bopper rival.
“So you never drank, and you didn’t date.” He shook his head. “No wonder you got issues.”
“Oh, I dated. It just usually ended in disaster of the ‘oh my God he’s trying to kill me’ variety.”
“And I say again, you lived in one messed up town.”
“Guess so,” she shrugged. “The normal guys didn’t so much like me. And most of the Jus—hot guys I know fell for Lois or Lana.”
“And they’re all blind,” he said. “You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re just sayin’ that to get into my pants.”
Dean bumped her ear with his nose playfully. “Darlin’, if I was tryin’ to get into your pants right now, they’d be off.”
“And you just made my point.”
The hell?
“Seriously. Everyone who told me about you said that you were a total player. And yet here we are, and you’re not trying to get into my pants.”
Dean shook his head. She had to have the most circular, screwed up logic he’d ever seen. “So you want me in your pants?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said meekly as she started to sit up.
He let out an exasperated grunt, and pulled her back against his chest. “You are so shit-faced drunk right now; you’ll never remember this conversation in the morning. Trust me, sweetheart. When I get in your pants, you are going to remember it.”
“Promise?” she asked around a sleepy yawn.
“Oh hell yeah.” He grinned.
“’S nice,” she muttered as she slipped off to sleep. Dean gathered her into his arms and shifted so that both of them were lying down. She was probably going to have the granddaddy of all hangovers in the morning, but he hoped that it wouldn’t last. If she was this much fun to deal with drunk, she was going to be a total freakin’ bitch with a hangover.
“You are, without a doubt, the most exasperating woman I’ve ever met. And I’ve met my share.”
