Just Your Type

This was a challenge from my great friend, and sometimes beta, Elrik Lasanti. He said it had to include these three things, and have a limit of 2000 words – so, I don't know what the overall effect it, but I hope you guys like it!

Tags: plants, stalker ex girlfriends, and small round things.

Being tied up, back to back with Dean Winchester, by prickly, writhing flora is not exactly your idea of a good time. Considering the fact that the vines were alive and biting into your skin like teeth and smugness, giving you something akin to rope burn on your hips, wrists and ankles, and that the woman who was controlling them was pacing back and forth in front of you, cooing at the vines, at Dean, and at her cleverness in general – well, it all added up to be not exactly the best day of your life.

It all started with you finding a bouquet of black roses, wrapped up all prettily, with love hearts on cellophane, and a pink card with flowery writing addressed to Dean on your doorstep, just three days ago. Not exactly the typical start to your day. You doubted it was a typical start to anyone's day.

The point was, well, it was all kind of beyond weird. For one thing, Dean being sent flowers, when you'd all just arrived in town the previous night and, to your knowledge, no one knew any of you. For another thing – well, it was freaking black roses, and everyone knew they symbolised death. Third and foremost – it was Dean.

What had followed was a very confusing hunt, involving a series of vegetation-related murders – including one woman drowning in her watering can while she was trying to tend her azaleas, if that didn't beat all – that went like a gruesome treasure hunt, finally leading you here, with the villain of this piece turning out to be one of Dean's ex-girlfriend's… and a magical obsessed stalker to boot.

One side of you would find this hilarious – if the vines weren't creeping up to tickle your neck, and if Violet wasn't looking at you with crazy eyes. She's a green witch, which Dean, bless his ignorance – yeah, you're going to kill him as soon as you're free – hadn't known during the period he was 'dating' her, although he'd figured out she was the admirer at the start this whole screwed up hunt.

Apparently the black roses were her calling card or something. Then there was the fact that she'd signed her name on the pink card, along with a whole lot of kisses, hugs and a single 'See you soon Snuggle-muffin'.

You had found that unbearably amusing – him, not so much. Too bad you were both in the same boat now, and had no way of getting out of it. Neither of you had told Sam or Sharika where you were going. Dean had a plan see, a plan to rid himself of her cloying insistence that they were made for each other, and had been together for eons – or eternity, or something, as souls. You hadn't really been listening. The 'plan' was he'd take you with him to the meeting place she'd set up, and pretend you were his girlfriend now, then kiss her on the cheek, wish her the best of luck, and leave.

As if that plan ever worked with jealous psychopaths.

You'd said as much of course, and protested vehemently against having to get involved in his fucked up love life, then, when he'd succeeded in cajoling you into it finally – you have this damn weak spot when it comes to his big hazel green eyes – you'd fought against not telling the others. Of course, he was far too embarrassed to leave himself open to his brother's teasing for years to come, and had insisted that she was quite harmless, just a little deluded.

How wrong he'd been.

"So what do you think of that, snookums?" Violet asked, finally coming to a halt in front of you and Dean, smiling until you could see all of her white teeth, her voice jerking you back to your current predicament. You try not to snigger. Snookums. "We'll just rid ourselves of this little weed, and then we can live everlastingly in our own Garden of Eden…"

You suppose she's talking about you, because you'd gotten so far into the plan as to inform her of your 'relationship', before she'd thrown some dust in your faces and you'd woken up being held three feet in the air by the vines, rumps pressed together, incapable of movement, like you were both hybrid Lauren-Dean vegetables.

"Well, honey, as green as that sounds…" Dean said, voice dry as he held back his own amusement and, you thought, twinge of worry. They hadn't had the best time of it – she'd gotten jealous when he so much as came within five feet of another girl, or tree – and they'd only been together one night, and half a day. He'd left in the middle of the next night, hightailing it back to the motel, and Sam. So, in reality, they'd ended up having a couple of fucks and Violet thought it had meant forever. "You don't want to kill anybody, do you?"

"Oh, Dean – she's not just anybody," Violet trills, and laughs this pretty, flowing laugh like a waterfall on moss. You consider stabbing her with one of the giant pins holding her hair up, then discard the idea; it'd take you too long to get out of the vines and by then she'd probably grow some new ones. Stupid green witch and her stupid powers – "She's the creeper killing the tree of our love! We'll be much better off without her to bother you, you'll see." And the vines start winding about your neck, almost a caress.

You yawn loudly, and try to see your watch, wondering if telling the truth will do you any good, if you'll be able to tell the truth before the vegetation chokes you, and, if not, if you'll be able to haunt Dean as a result of the violent death. Before you can decide, the choice is taken out of your hands. A loud clatter comes from somewhere outside, and Violet sighs delicately, before coaxing the vines down so she can stroke a hand across Dean's cheek, telling him she'll be back in a few minutes, and petting the flora, telling them to wait, because she wants to watch. As soon as she's gone you reach a hand into Dean's waistband and start groping around. His flesh is smooth and hot against the palm of your hand, but you try not to let your mind linger on this, taking yourself into business mode.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hisses, jerking away from your hand, where it's trying to reach the front of his jeans. It hurts a little, after all, they may be a little cold, but it's not like you have hand herpes or something. And it's not like you particularly wanted to be touching him like this.

Yeah, okay, total, utter lie. But he didn't know that.

"I'm searching for your knife, dumbass," you mutter, and finally your fingers close around it. As soon as you'd woken up you'd taken inventory of your weaponry – she'd taken all your guns, all your knives – but, you suspected, she hadn't frisked Dean down entirely, not thinking he'd hide a Swiss army knife so close to his… valuables. Which is stupid, really. It's the first place you'd have looked. Thankfully, it worked in your favour this time. "Now, let's start pruning, shall we?" You quickly slice the vines around your waists after a bit of careful, surreptitious manoeuvring – of course, Dean still whinges, because you gave him a tiny scratch on his hip, the big baby – and then the ones on your wrists and ankles are made short work of. The plants, after emitting high pitched screaming noises and green blood whenever you cut them, slunk away into a corner. "Cowardly plants," you say, smirking. "Who'd have thunk it?"

"Hey, look at this!" Dean called you over to Violet's hand-made, Hessian bag, pulling out a small, round sphere marked clearly 'Sex Pollen'. You have got to be kidding me, you think, then say it out loud, trying not to giggle.

"Sex pollen? She's that desperate? No wonder she went with you in the first place," you say, widening your eyes at him, and he scowls at you, then suddenly grins.

"Wanna try it out?"

"Hell no, cowboy," you say, mind actually dwelling on the possibility. That's just how fucking sexy he looked, grinning down at you, the red sphere held in his fist above his head where you can't reach it. "Let's just get out of here before she comes back, then blows more of that crap in our faces. I doubt we'll be so lucky as to escape next time she catches us – and you'll end up fulfilling her every Adam and Eve fantasy."

The grin quickly disappears after that, although he does stuff the sphere in his pocket for later, 'just in case' – you don't ask what the just in case might be, following him out a side door, one that – oh coincidence of coincidences – leads you directly to where Violet is.

You both try and jump back into the shadows, but she sees you, and gasps when she notes the green plant blood on your clothes. "You hurt my babies!" she screeches, and wind starts whipping black hair around her face and into her eyes. She holds her arms out to her sides, and all the plants on the grounds start to grow, to get darker and block out the moon.

Whoops. Now this is why you try never to piss off witches.

"Down!" Dean shouts, hauling you with him to the dirty concrete as a branch whips the air where your head just was. You stay down, pressed to the ground as Violet's eyes grow white and she gathers more and more power around herself, the plants struggling against their nature, the soil, everything creaking as their roots try to free themselves.

"Do something!" you yell in Dean's ear, half pressed against him, holding onto his shirt as the supernatural wind becomes stronger – almost strong enough to lift you off of the ground.

"Like what?" he roars back, and then seconds later the two of you are flying through the air, you clutching onto Dean's waist still, as though it's going to do you any good now, closing your eyes against his shoulder. Then there's a jarring halt, and when you open your eyes again you're both still in the air, lower bodies streaming out behind you like kites as Dean's hands clench, white knuckled, on a bench concreted into the ground. Just fan-fucking-tastic, you think, and the wind changes directions, snapping your bodies around. Dean grunts in pain, his stomach now perpendicular to the sky, and you rush through options in your head, nothing connecting.

Then you feel something small and round digging into your hip, and, cursing the lack of anything else, start manoeuvring until the sphere marked 'Sex Pollen' is in your hand. You look up and meet Dean's eyes; he nods, and you let go of it, seeing it connect with Violet's chest, the fragile glass shattering on impact.

Swirls of tiny, red-gold balls – that look kind of like cotton spores – spin around Violet, some of the stuff going down her throat as she gasps in shock. Immediately the wind drops away, and you both fall onto the bench, Dean knocking the air out of you as his whole weight falls onto your stomach. He apologises, rolling off you, before you both look back up at Violet, you trying to breathe past the elephant on your chest.

She's making out with a tree.

"Let's… give them their space, shall we?" you manage to gasp out, as Violet starts grinding her hips against the trunk, and he nods, giving you a hand up. You both leave the compound, quick smart. "There's an actual word for her, isn't there?" you ask, and he grins, looking down at you with an expression of mild chagrin. Dendrophiliac?

"Crazy?"

"I'm thinking more…" you pause, grin back. "Just-your-type."