Becky Bats

Dean never really put much thought into flowers.

Chapter 1: Stopping To Smell The Purple Roses

They were pretty he supposed, some even smelled nice if you stuck your nose in them.

Girls also appreciate them it seemed, the few times he’s gotten a bouquet for one. But really, when you live on the road you can’t really put much thought into a dying beauty, flowers will wither and die long before the Impala reached her next stop. So why bother?

If and only if Dean had the time to truly look at a blooming bulb he might actually learn to find them pretty.

But when living on the road to hell itself, where you can’t really have that many possessions in the first place, flowers would not be making the cut.

Besides Dean was a man, men didn't keep flowers on their dashboard just because they looked nice.

Men drank beer, men listened to Metallica while driving on the road, men gave flowers to chicks and they didn't get to keep them.

Above being a man Dean Winchester was a hunter, which is what led him here, in front of a small one story house with bright violet flowers that reached the window sill.

He walked across the perfectly crafted lawn that screamed suburban heaven, making his way to the very yellow, very bright door.

There had been five murders within five different hobby groups in the small town of Perfectly Pleasant Hills, West Virginia.

Each grizzler then the last, only the head remained. The only hobby group within Perfectly Pleasant Hills (seriously who names a town that?) that hasn't had a grizzly murder was the florist group.

Which made Sam and Dean believe that its group of ladies were the monsters' next target. Sam of course insisted that he should stay at the motel and research more on whatever thing was causing harm in the town, so Dean had to be the one to bite the bullet and go to the meeting… again.

The brothers had visited last weak to ask them questions but all the women refused to answer any of them. Insisting that they were far too busy with their roses and daisies or whatever.

So Sam’s genius plan (that he refused to take part in) was to have one of them go to a meeting and get the information there.

Which is what brought Dean here, knocking on the bright bright door and stepping back, while mumbling under his breath. He was dressed in casual clothes, a red flannel tied around his waist, with jeans and a grey t-shirt underneath.

Although he looked like a very chill guy he also carried a gun on his hip and a smaller knife on his leg. He wanted to be prepared but not too prepared.

The yellow sunshine door opened and behind it was a middle aged woman, caucasian, with wavy brown hair that rested on her shoulders.

She smiled at Dean with the same warmth that radiated from her front door.

“Oh hello Agent Chandler, what can I do for you?” Dean internally sighed, then straightened out and smiled at her.

“Yes. Hello Mrs. Vampter, I was wondering if you had one more opening for your class today?”

Mrs. Vampter stood back in surprise, “My class? Well yes we do have an open seat today, why do you ask?”

“Well it has always been a dream of mine to learn how to do… all the things with the flowers.” Dean confessed, it was a lie of course, but as long as he could get into that house he would tell her anything.

“Oh really? Well what a coincidence for you to be in town!” she stood back and motioned for him to come in. Begrudgingly he entered her house, it looked just like the outside.

Flowers of all shapes and sizes littered the area, however, unlike the outside these ones seemed like they weren't real.

“We’re doing our class today with fake flowers, which should be easier for you to work with.” She whispered.

The two entered the living room, which had been transformed into a proper work space for the designers. Multiple tables and chairs lined the floor and in the middle of the area was a large group of boxes, with flowers organized by color and shape.

“Everyone give a warm welcome to Dean Chandler, he'll be joining our class today!” All the women in the room waved and smiled at him.

“It is so rare for a man to come to one of these!” An elderly woman in the back said, “I tried to get my husband to attend but he refused!” she continued.

Dean sighed, so it was gonna be like this then? Okay, if he could handle fist fighting monsters on the regular, he could handle an annoyingly talkative older woman.

Dean decided to take one of the empty seats in the middle, this would allow him ample coverage of the area (it would also let him be far away from that older woman).

Instead he sat next to a woman with dark dreadlocks all wrapped into a bun, with a red and yellow cardigan hanging from her shoulders. She smiled lightly at him when he plopped on the seat, and moved a stack of books out of his way.

Dean folded his arms over his chest and depaded whether or not to actually pay attention to the class.

“Alright everyone, today we are going to be practicing our ribboned tied bouquets.” Mrs Vamper said proudly.

Which is what made Dean look around and realize that he was the only one without a pile of materials.

Great.. And each pile was beautifully organized and picked out, the colors and shapes seemed to go perfectly together.

Then Dean’s eyes trailed over to the bins, so he would be the one going through the crap yard and hoping something would look good… not that he cared or not if it did.

“These types of arrangements are usually in a traditional style with a circle shape making up its body.” She quickly drew a circle with a triangle underneath to show the shape of this bouquet.

“These can best be displayed in a tall vase in the middle of a table or as decoration for your mudroom!”

Dean stared at the table, god what a simple life to live.

Only having to worry about decorating your living space with flowers. Not having to worry about your next meal. Not having to worry about where you’ll live next. Not having to worry if you’ll live at all.

Read the rest on A03!

Chapter 1: A Myriad Of Broken Glass (What The Fuck Does Myriad Mean?)

Acid

It tasted like pure fucking acid.

It welded and congealed like a disgusting fungus Heather would probably find under Martha Dumptruck’s feet.

Strangely it tasted like soap or not so strangely since it was drain cleaner. But she wasn't really focused on the taste that much,

Heather Chandler wasn't really focused on anything except well…. dying.

Heather supposed she was meant to come up with something important as her last words, her final words, at least in this world.

She searched the room, her mind, even her memory's for something relevant to say about her life, but came up empty.

Give her a break she didn't exactly expect that she would be dying when she woke up this morning!

Finally after a moment she saw Veronica's eyes, that bitch.

This was all her fault, her little freak of a boy toy had given her this poison and now she was dying because of it!

She had to die because Veronica fuckin Sawyer and her psycho boyfriend deemed it necessary. If only Veronica wasn't such a pussy, if only she was more like Heather.

It wasn't easy to grit and bare it but Heather did, she did it every damn day, because she was a queen.

A queen prepared to take life and rule over it. She knew people and she knew herself, everyone hated her but everyone wanted her to love them; just like in the adult world.

People lied about their feelings all the time and that was fucking that.

But no Veronica couldn't grow up and decided to kill her problems instead of sucking up and being an adult about them.

Heather looked at her supposed friend, her murderer and tried to say everything about how she was feeling.

How angered she was, how much more she knew, how sorry Veronica would be when she was a single mother of eight in four years. But all that came out was,

“C-corn-nuts!”

Then her body fell, shattering her beautiful glass table she begged her parents for in middle school.

She said she would take care of it, now look at it.

Perhaps she died on impact or she was dead just a few seconds before she hit the table. It didn't matter much, she was died either way.

Blackness was all that remained for her.

She thought when she was alive that she would have liked the fiery depths of hell compared to the angels singing in heaven.

But right now in nothingness, she would have preferred literary dying again and again forever, to this. To the darkness, the black.

She begged and pleaded with whatever god existed, let her go back and die!

Let her feel the pain of it again!

Let her feel something again!

Let her see again, even if just once.

Then she woke up.

Read the rest on A03!!