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queensoybean0724 · 3 years

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Succession Chapter 1 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fic

Here is chapter one of my new fanfic!

Title: Succession

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader, OCs

Rating: PG-13 for language and intense scenes (for now, this is a slow burn, but it will get very hot and spicy in later chapters)

Summary: You discover a long lost relative from Moldova that you didn’t know existed has died and you are his sole beneficiary. You are on board a plane to collect your inheritance when your plane crashes in a village in Romania.

Author’s Notes: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village. This is a work of fiction. Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

The music blasted from the car speakers as you drove down the main road towards the highway. You had your phone plugged into your car stereo, your favorite Spotify playlist on shuffle. Despite the A/C being on full blast, beads of sweat formed at your brow and rolled down your temple. You adjusted the vents on either side of you, making sure the cold air directly hit your body. The song that was playing had you tapping your fingers on the steering wheel, your head bopping to the beat.

The fridge at home was close to empty and it was beyond time for you to go grocery shopping. The grocery list was secure in your purse and you were determined to stick to the items on the list and not make any frivolous purchases. Money was tight and you only had so much money left before payday next week.

The song shut off suddenly followed by your ringtone. Looking at the screen of your phone, UNKNOWN stared back at you. Probably a spam call, you thought to yourself, reaching to press the red Ignore button. Unfortunately, your finger slid at the last minute and mistakenly tapped the Accept button. You watched as the call came through and the seconds ticked off. FUCK!

“Hello?” you greeted with a hint of exasperation in your voice.

“Hello, am I speaking with Miss Y/N?” a heavily accented male voice responded.

“Yeah, this is she,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You tried your best to avoid these calls, ignoring them and letting them go straight to voicemail. Very rarely was it followed with an actual message, which was more than fine with you.

“Miss Y/N, my name is Ron M. Dathermi. I am a lawyer residing in Chisinau, Moldova in Eastern Europe…”

You raised your eyebrows at that. Moldova? Who the hell was calling you from Moldova? Chalking it up to a scam, you were about to interrupt the man when he continued.

“...I wish I was calling under better circumstances, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your great uncle, Serghei Popa, has passed away from a short illness and has named you his sole beneficiary…”

You couldn’t help the amused huff that came out of your mouth. This must be some very elaborate scam.

“Umm...sorry, but I think you have the wrong person. I don’t have family from Moldova and I have never heard of this man in my whole life.” You were about to hit the End button when Mr. Dathermi continued.

“Am I speaking with Y/N, born on (your birthday) to (your father and mother’s full names) and the granddaughter of (your grandfather and grandmother on both sides of your family)?”

Your eyes widened at that. “Yeah, that’s me…” you answered.

“I know this may sound unusual, but Mr. Popa was the brother of your grandmother on your mother’s side. He was given up for adoption at birth and taken in by a Moldovan family. He did not have a spouse and had no children, and according to the genealogy report I have before me, your grandmother and your mother are both deceased. Your mother was an only child, yes? It appears to me that you are the last of his living relatives.”

You pulled off the road and into an empty parking lot. The information you were being given was a lot to handle. You didn’t have that large of a family. You were an only child and raised by your parents and both sets of grandparents. Both of your grandfathers had died before you turned 10. Both grandmothers died within 5 years of each other and your father and mother died of illnesses, cancer and pneumonia respectively, in the last year. Grief was a feeling that you knew better than anyone. You kept to yourself mostly and you didn’t have any close friends or a significant other.

“Listen,” you began, “you are correct about all of your information, but how do I know this is not some kind of scam?”

The man on the other end of the phone cleared his throat and the sound of shuffling papers met your ears. “I can imagine that this information is sudden and unusual. What I will do is send a copy of his will and a copy of the genealogy papers to your address. I encourage you to take this to your lawyer and have them look over the information. The reason I am calling is because I need you to fly to Moldova, sign these papers, and accept the monetary inheritance that he has left you.”

Your jaw dropped as you looked down at your phone. Fly to Moldova? Is this true? The only thing you knew about the country was that a foreign exchange student from high school was born and raised in Moldova. That about sums up your knowledge of the country. This seemed incredibly asinine and ridiculous. But the word that settled in your train of thought was “inheritance.” What inheritance?

“Mr...what was your name again?” you asked.

“Mr. Dathermi, but you can call me Ron,” the lawyer responded.

“Ron...umm, how much monetary inheritance are we talking about?”

More shuffling of papers was on the other side of the phone, Ron clicking his tongue as he looked through the information. “He has left you 53,806,746 Moldovan Leu...which translates to $3,000,000 in American currency.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!?!” you exclaimed before clamping your lips shut. You heard Ron chuckle. “I’m sorry, pardon my language. It’s just...wow...this sounds insane…”

“I can imagine it does,” Ron replied, “which is why I want to mail this information to you and have your attorney take a look at it so you know this is a legitimate will and testament. If you would like, I can mail the information straight to your attorney if you are still leery.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. Your mind was whirling. None of this sounded remotely true. You felt as if you were dreaming. This felt like something that only happened in books and fairy tales...a girl who had nothing and nobody suddenly inheriting millions of dollars from an unknown distant relative. What are the odds of something like this happening in real life? You gave Ron Dathermi your home address.

“Thank you very much, Miss Y/N. I will send this as soon as possible. I’ll also include my business card so your attorney can contact me and we can iron out the details. Thank you very much, Y/N...I’ll be in touch.”

You thanked him as well and ended the call. All alone in your car in the empty parking lot, you let out an excited squeal and started hopping up and down.

You adjusted the messenger bag that was slung across your shoulder as you heard the overhead speaker call for the boarding of your flight. Taking a deep breath, you got in line, extended your ticket to the airport employee, and walked down the tarmac and into the plane.

Butterflies were fluttering in your stomach. Your hands gripped your bag tightly as the flight attendant looked at your boarding pass and pointed down the aisle to where you were to be seated. You had never flown before and your nerves were on alert. Scenes from Final Destination flashed in your head as you walked down the aisle towards your seat. Taking a deep breath and willing your body to relax, you located your seat next to the window and sat down, plopping your bag onto your lap.

The small window was close to the wing of the plane and looking beyond that was a long expanse of grass that met a vast forest. You were thankful that you had the window seat and your headphones so you could tune everything out and relax in your own little world.

Once the papers from Mr. Dathermi arrived a week prior, you immediately called the attorney that helped you with the probate and will from your parents’ deaths several months back. He was more than happy to help, knowing that you were all alone in the world after your parents had passed. Two days later, he called to inform you that all of the paperwork was, in fact, legitimate and that Mr. Serghei Popa was the brother of your grandmother. He showed you the adoption papers, confirming that your great uncle had been put up for adoption and the family that took him in had relocated to Moldova when he was two years old. He had remained in the country until his death. Your attorney contacted Mr. Dathermi, who in turn secured a round trip plane ticket in order for you to come to Moldova to finalize the paperwork and collect the inheritance.

At the thought of the money you were about to acquire, another surge of excitement flowed through you. Your parents hadn’t left you much after their death and you worked at a dead-end job that had no room for advancement and no possibility for raises. All of these recent events sounded like something out of a fairy tale.

“This is your captain speaking,” the voice sounded from the speaker above your head, “we will be departing in the next ten minutes. Please make sure your seatbelts are secured, your tray tables are up, and all electronics are off until we are at the appropriate cruising altitude. I will inform everyone as soon as the coast is clear. Thank you for flying with us and enjoy the ride.”

You fastened your seatbelt and laid your head back, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Don’t be nervous…” a voice sounded next to you. You opened your eyes and looked over to see an older gentleman with wide rimmed glasses and a nice smile.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, returning his smile.

“It’s pretty obvious,” he chuckled, “my name is Bruce Williams. I’m the air marshal on board this flight.” You told him your name and shook his hand. “Just relax,” he assured, “we’ll be flying for the next 10 hours. There are lots of movies and tv shows to watch on the screen in front of you, or you can listen to your music and read a book if you brought one.”

You patted your messenger bag. “Yeah, I have a few books to choose from. Thanks,” you smiled.

Within minutes, the plane had backed away from the tarmac, turned towards the long expanse of runway, and increased speed before leaving the ground and soaring up into the clouds.

The steady hum of the plane’s engines provided a relaxed soundtrack as you slept. It was close to early morning, according to the clock on the tv screen, but your watch was still on your regular time zone. It read early afternoon and that threw you through a loop. You had heard that jet lag could be a bitch and you wondered how bad yours would be once you landed. Bruce had passed you a pillow and blanket once you were ready to sleep and he assured you that your bag and belongings would be safe while you slept.

You were so thankful to be seated next to him. Not only was he the air marshal, but he was a really cool person as well. You two talked about movies and actually watched a couple of them on the tv screen in front of you. Bruce was kind and nice to talk to. The crinkle of crow’s feet around his eyes, his laugh, and his hair color mixed with hints of gray reminded you of your father...maybe that’s why you liked him so much.

You shifted in your seat and let out a soft yawn. Stretching your arms above your head and arching your back, you wondered how much longer it would be until you touched down in Moldova.

“You weren’t asleep that long,” Bruce murmured. You looked over to see a book in his hand and his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom and then go back to sleep,” you replied, standing from your seat. Bruce stood up and allowed you out into the aisle. You made your way to the bathroom towards the back of the plane. The cabin was dark with little lights dotting either side of the aisle on the floor. Soft lights were shining here and there from people reading, watching the tv screen, or messing with their phones while most of the passengers were asleep.

Once in the bathroom, you did your business, flushed the toilet, and began washing your hands. The mirror in front of you showed a tired and weary version of yourself. Some of your eye makeup was smudged. You told yourself once you returned back to your seat, you’d retrieve the makeup remover wipes in your bag and do away with the dirt and oil.

Just then the plane hit an air pocket and dropped several feet, throwing you forward towards the sink and mirror. You let out a shriek as the plane quieted and went still. “God dammit,” you muttered, putting your hand over your heart, “that scared the shit out of me!”

Once out of the bathroom, you slammed the door shut and walked back to your seat. You tapped Bruce on the shoulder and he moved aside.

You lifted the window shade and looked outside. Natural light from the start of the day began to show. The plane was amongst the clouds so it was fairly cloudy and hard to see.

“How much farther do we have?” you asked Bruce. He shifted the book to his left hand and looked down at his wristwatch. “We should be there in three hours. I think we are flying over Romania right now…”

You nodded your head and thanked him, turning back to the window. The clouds gave way momentarily and provided the opportunity to see the ground below. Tall, snowy mountains came into view. You smiled and marveled at their beauty, wondering what mountain range this was. You cursed yourself for forgetting the basics from your World Geography class in high school. Hell, all you knew about Romania was that it was the setting for Dracula and the real life territory that was once owned by Elizabeth Bathory, who allegedly killed upwards of 650 maidens and bathed in their blood. You shook your head and smiled to yourself. You really did enjoy some morbid and fucked up stories.

Your train of thought stopped short when a large and spacious castle came into view. Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. It looked like something out of a Disney movie or from ancient castles that still sat throughout Europe. The place looked like it stood on several acres of land and who knows how many square feet. What a gorgeous and breathtaking place it was. You wondered just what was inside a monstrosity like that and who was lucky enough to inhabit such a place. Maybe there were castles in Moldova that you could explore and visit while you’re conducting your business.

The castle fell out of view and not far from it stood what looked like a village. You were too high up to see any people or any traces of lights or torches. You took everything in with total awe and appreciation. It looked like a small and sleepy storybook town.

A sudden movement close to the village caught your attention. You squinted your eyes and tried to look closer, pressing your forehead to the window. What the fuck is that, you wondered. It looked like a black tree, naked of leaves or any type of growth...and it was moving. It looked to be swaying in the breeze, but the size of it looked way too sturdy for any kind of gust to move it with such fluidity. As you focused on the tree, it appeared to be growing...getting closer to the plane. Was the plane descending? Were you getting closer to Moldova?

One of the branches of the tree slowly drifted to the ground before extending long and rigid, slinging itself up into the air like a bullwhip, hitting the wing of the plane. The plane suddenly tilted as the slithering limb wrapped around the wing and broke it off. You let out a loud scream as the plane turned on its side, Bruce falling against you, squishing you to the wall. “WHAT THE FUCK??” Bruce screamed as yelps, shrieks, and screams echoed in the cabin of the plane. Dozens of people were knocked from their seats, flight attendants falling into the aisle and rolling towards the cockpit. The plane shook and quaked as it dropped several feet in a matter of seconds.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” you screamed, grabbing hold of Bruce’s arm. The air masks dropped from overhead and Bruce grabbed yours, making quick work of putting it over your face. “HOLD ON TO IT! HOLD IT OVER YOUR MOUTH, Y/N!!” he commanded, reaching for his own mask.

“THE WING OF THE PLANE HAS BEEN DAMAGED!” the pilot yelled from over the speakers, “WE ARE LOSING ALTITUDE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!” People screamed and panicked, holding on to whatever it was they could. Panic surged through your body as your fingers dug into Bruce’s arm. The plane shook as it fell. Your stomach dropped and it felt as if you were seconds from impact. You looked out the window one last time before the ground came into view and everything went black.

He leaned over the body on the metal table in the lab of his factory. He fastened the bolts with a wrench and tested the strength of the metal against the rotting flesh. A soft horn sounded in the distance along with the various turns of chains and clangs of steel against steel. He wiped the sweat off his brow and walked to his desk, looking over the blueprints and sketches he had devised the previous day.

Despite the different array of sounds, nothing could mask the loud crash that sounded off in the distance. He lifted his head, silently trying to figure out what the fuck made that noise. Leaving the body laying on the table, he exited his lab and made his way down the stairs and to the factory doors.

With a grunt, he slid the doors aside and looked off into the distance. Black smoke billowed from an area that looked to be close to the village. Other than the crows squawking and flapping their wings in retreat, everything was dead quiet. He looked off to the right just in time to see the long, spindly limbs of mold retreating back towards the earth. Karl Heisenberg’s face tightened in a disgusted grimace.

“Mother Miranda...what have you done?”

#resident evil village #resident evil village fanfic #karl heisenberg #karl heisenburg x reader #daddy heisenberg #house heisenberg #heisenberg #karl heisenberg fanfic

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soyforramen · 4 years

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Prompt: betty, jughead, the same hooded/masked figure keeps showing up at their door on Halloween. Creepy or funny? Your choice!

(This is so much better than trying to figure out elasticity of demand, and I absolutely cracked myself up with this, so thank you)

xxx

“Howdy neighbor!”

Jughead gritted his teeth and nodded at Brett. Betty elbowed him in the side, smoothly turning it into a wave. While neither of them really liked their neighbors across the street (at least it wasn’t Donna outside setting up the Halloween display), they had to pretend to be polite for a little while.

“Good morning Brett! Already hard at work I take it.”

“Someone’s got to take back the Pumpkin King title from Southside Lane,” Brett said as he leaned on his pitchfork. His truck was loaded up with enough hay bales and pumpkins to start a petting zoo. “Let’s bring some pride back to this neighborhood.”

“It’s fucking September,” Jughead muttered.

In Brett’s yard was the most benign, suburban version of Halloween. Pumpkins carved with emojis, hay bales impaled with cartoonish, oversized bats, and gravestones with terrible puns (though Betty had to admit the, I was hoping for a pyramid was pretty amusing). It was everything that Jughead hated about Halloween, and Betty couldn’t help but be tickled at the thought of him having to see it every morning.

Jughead grumbled, the rain clouds over his head darkening with every second spent looking at the set up.

“Good luck with it. Looking good,” Betty called out. She herded Jughead and the rest of the groceries into the car, already stifling a laugh at the rant she knew would be coming.

Nancy Thompson let out a scream just as a knock came from the door. Jughead and Betty glanced at each other - neither were expecting company, nor had they ordered anything. Betty set aside her laptop and padded towards the door. She peeked through the peephole and gasped.

“Jughead,” she hissed.

He glanced up and she waved him over.

“What the hell?” he whispered when he looked through the peephole. “Is that -“

“Somebody dressed up in a Regan mask?”

“I knew this place was upper middle class, but …”

“But why?”

Jughead stepped away from the door and shrugged. “Probably a bunch of high school kids playing a prank.”

“Still…”

Betty stood on tip-toe to peer through the door. “And, they’re gone. I’m going to post this on Nextdoor, certainly we can’t be the only ones who’ve had Regan show up at their door.”

“Honestly zombie Regan would be the best thing that could happen this year,” Jughead said as he walked back to the couch.

“I’d rather have zombie Nixon. At least he was impeached,” Betty said, following him to watch Glenn fall into a deep sleep.

Xxx

One week later, and they were watching Keanu Reeves go on a face journey through Transylvania. The door rang, and Jughead groaned. Betty snuggled in closer to his side and they both ignored the doorbell. Insistently, it rang again and again, only to stop suddenly. He untangled himself from her and went to the door.

“I swear, if it’s Archie needing a ladder again … It’s Obama,” he whispered.

“What?”

Jughead shushed her. “I think it’s that weirdo again. Only they’re in an Obama mask this time.”

Betty rushed towards the door and pushed him aside. “What the hell?”

As she watched, the figure turned and walked off into the darkness of night. She waited until the figure left, and cracked open the door.

“Gone again.” Jughead stepped onto front porch, Betty close behind, but they couldn’t see any sign of life. “What did your Nextdoor people have to say.”

“You mean our neighbors?” Betty shook her head and pulled out her phone. “No one else has seen anything, but Mr. Tate’s cat escaped again, so you might want to slow down when you turn the corner.”

“Hey guys!”

They turned to find Archie, their next door neighbor, waving at them from his garage.

“Do you think I could borrow your ladder?”

Xxxx

Two weeks until Halloween, and the neighborhood had exploded in festive decorations. The Blossoms’ two story manse had exploded in gothic horror decor imported from the south of France - “Allegedly,” Jughead had snarked - while the Lodge-Andrews had gone with simple, yet tasteful hints of the season. Along with the change in temperature had come an orange, passive-aggressive reminder about the HOA’s suggestion that every house participate in celebrating the holidays as a way to join the neighborhood in camaraderie.

“Let’s just put out a pumpkin -“

“No, not happening,” Jughead snapped. “I didn’t buy a house just to have some yuppie board - who aren’t even elected -“

“Just because you protested voting doesn’t mean they weren’t elected,” Betty reminded him.

“-Trying to control how I spend my time and money, it’s, it’s…”

“Un-American?”

“Immoral! To take a commercial holiday like Halloween, meant to sell more candy and increase dental decay, and turn it into some requirement -“

A knock at the door and a cheery voice cut through their argument. They both cursed when they realized who it was. Jughead stalked off to the basement and Betty made a mental note that this was the third time he’d left her to deal with the Westen Wallis’ alone.

“For better or worse my ass,” she muttered as she went to the door.

“Guten Morgen, neighbors! Donna made of her famous delectable pumpkin Tartts’ Tarts -“

“Tarts from the tart,” Betty muttered before she opened the door with a wide smile. “Why thank you, this is ever so thoughtful. And me without anything else to send back with you.”

Brett’s smile grew, and Betty feared for her soul. “Actually, I don’t know if you saw the flyer -“

“Yes, about the Halloween decorations? I just don’t know if we’ll get to it this year. Jughead’s been so busy with school, and I’ve -“

“It’s just that it’s a traditions, you know. And we do it for the kids,” Brett said. Betty slowly shut the door, but he continued moving to keep eye contact. “It’s the talk of the town, and it would -“

His words muffled and Betty walked straight to the kitchen and dumped the tarts into the trash.

“You owe me Jones,” she yelled out on her way upstairs.

xxx

“Why doesn’t she just go outside again?” Betty asked.

Black Christmas, while not technically a horror movie, was still on Jughead’s required October Horror-Thon, as well as on his anti-commerical-Christmas playlist. Despite seeing it twice a year for the last fifteen years, Betty still hadn’t gotten a good answer out of him for the seemingly huge plot idiocy.

“Horror movie rules,” Jughead said through a mouthful of popcorn. “If she goes outside, they don’t have a way to establish how big of a threat the killer is.”

“Then why doesn’t he just wait outside to kill her?”

“That’s not -“

A knock came from the door, and Betty gave him a look.

“I dealt with your neighbor this morning.”

“You’re right, it was terrible and treacherous of me, I’m a terrible husband,” Jughead said. He kissed Betty on the tip of her nose and she pulled him down to meet his lips. The knock came again and they both rolled their eyes.

“Don’t forget to put out your pumpkin,” Betty called in a sing-song voice. “Who is it this time?”

“Taft or Cleveland. Which one had a mustache?” he asked as he turned towards her.

“Both of them I think.”

“Do you think if I tell them we’re socio-anarchists they’ll go away?”

Betty snorted.

He opened the door and leaned over. “At least they left a ransom note this time.”

Jughead closed the door and double checked the locks while he waved an orange paper at Betty.

“Let me guess, decorations?” Betty took the paper from him and squinted at the paper. “Does that say pumpkin or party favor?”

“Either way I refuse to participate. Did you fast forward this?”

xxx

The day before Halloween, and Jughead braced himself for the onslaught of gaudy, irredeemable tons of plastic and paper decorations that would end up in the trash two days later. A waste of good materials, and all for what? A waste of a perfectly good holiday, that’s what.

He squinted against the morning sun, throwing his school bag into the back of the car. Seven AM came far too early when all the parents wanted to argue about last night was whether or not Halloween costumes should be allowed rather than thinking about shifting some of the football budget towards something more useful, like new textbooks.

“Ohayogozimasu!” Brett chirped from across the street. He looked both ways - twice - and jogged his way over to where Jughead stood.

Jughead dropped his head and counted to ten. He wasn’t caffeinated enough for this.

“Hello, Brett.”

“I see you haven’t put anything out for Halloween yet. I have some extra decorations if you want.”

Murder is not an option, Jughead thought in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Betty. Especially when my commute is only ten minutes, the voice reminded him.

“No, thank you Brett.”

“Are you sure? Because I know you and Betty have only been here for a few months, but we’re all really big -“

“No, thank you, Brett,” Jughead said through gritted teeth.

Brett held up his hands and smiled that inane politician smile of his. “Okay, but if you change your mind…”

“Goodbye, Brett,” Jughead said as he opened his door. Safe in his now locked car, Jughead dropped his head to the steering wheel and reminded himself that they’d moved here because of Betty, for Betty’s career, and it didn’t matter how idiotic the rest of the world was, not when -

A tapping on the glass and Jughead rethought over the consequences of manslaughter. Ten to fifteen wouldn’t be that bad.

“Yes, Brett,” he said after he’d cracked the glass.

“Just wanted to remind you that me and the missus are having a little get together tonight about Halloween candy -“

Jughead slipped the car in reverse and let it roll towards the street. Brett jogged to catch up.

“-After all, we don’t want the children -“

It wasn’t until Bon Nuit street that Brett finally peeled off to finish his early morning jog on Stonewall street, that Jughead could breath a sigh a relief.

Xxx

“That was ad libbed,” Jughead said through a mouthful of noodles.

“What? The dominatrix suit?” Betty asked. She stole his wonton and he put up a fight even though they both knew he’d have given her his entire order if she asked.

“‘Jesus wept.’ Originally it was supposed to be ‘Fuck off.’”

“Good change.”

The knock at the door came again, and both residents slammed their bowls down. Together they walked to the door and jerked it open. George Washington, sans dentures, stared at them.

“Well? What do you want?” Betty asked, arms crossed.

The figure held out a sheet, and Jughead shook his head. “No more games.”

With a growl, the figure yanked off the mask to reveal …

“Donna?”

“Put out a damn pumpkin,” Donna snapped. “I have been listening to Brett bitch for the last month, and if I have to listen to one more -“ she pitched up her voice and in a simpering tone said, “-Betty and Jughead I will murder everyone on this block.”

Donna threw the paper at Jughead and stalked off into the night.

“And put up a damn snowman in December,” she yelled.

Betty and Jughead exchanged glances.

“No decorations?” she asked.

He smirked. “No decorations.”

#bughead #tis the season #halloween fic? already?#yes don't judge me

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katehuntington · 5 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part ten) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Word count: ±6500 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part ten: Y/N is about to go on an adventure. Good thing she has her friend Jo to help her pack and her crush Dean to guide the way. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: The Man With The Harmonica - Ennio Morricone, Hide And Seek - Gareth Dunlop (end scene). Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettishfor helping me. You girls are awesome betas. Thank you for your endless patience!

Ride With Me Masterlist

“Wait, you’re not planning on bringing all that with you, are ya?” Y/N’s eyes leave the three pairs of boots from which she still has to choose. Not to decide what two sets to leave behind, but which to wear and which to pack. Jo stands in the doorway of her tiny room, staring at the bed, which is covered in flannels, shirts, tops, several hats, jeans, jackets, sweaters, towels, socks, matching underwear, swimwear, a makeup bag, and a toiletry bag. Even a hair iron and of course her phone charger lay amongst the collection of items that one way or another are going to have to fit into her bag.

The season is coming to an end now that September has reached its final days. It’s time to move the two-year-old horses down from the summer reservation. Bobby had asked his intern if she wanted to come along and of course she blurted out ‘yes!’ before he could even finish his sentence. She was so excited about the trail ride and started packing immediately. This is going to be quite an experience, especially for a show rider like herself who usually sticks to riding in a fenced arena. It’s a good thing that she started gathering her things early, because she has been contemplating what to bring for over an hour now. She’s the kind of girl who pays extra for exceeding the luggage weight limit on her flights, so no wonder she’s having it tough choosing what to bring.

A little helpless she looks over at Jo, who’s waiting on her response. “I was planning on bringing this, actually,” she returns, hesitatingly. “Damn… poor horse,” the blonde cowgirl comments, eyeing all her friend’s stuff. “Too much?” Y/N assumes. “Just a tad,” Jo scoffs as she walks in. “And what the hell are you bringing the entire electronics store for?” “It’s just my charger and my hair iron. I will look like birds are nesting on my head if I don’t straighten this out,” she objects, holding out the strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail. “And you can’t have that with Dean around.” The ranch owner’s daughter crosses her arms in front of her chest, knowingly frowning at her friend. Y/N tilts her head and glares back, but fails to come up with a decent counter, because she’s not wrong. “Shut up,” she mutters instead. “By all means, pack it.” Jo shrugs as she turns back to the door. “But unless you tie a generator behind that horse of yours or find a cactus with a plug, you ain’t charging a damn thing.” “Wait. What?” Y/N responds, confused.

Jo sways around, her blonde braid hanging down from one shoulder. She narrows her eyes, trying to understand how her friend could be so oblivious to the fact that there won’t be any electricity where they are going. “What did my old man tell you exactly?” “That we might have to spend a couple of nights out camping,” Y/N recalls, trying to remember his exact words. “Have you ever been out camping, city girl?” Jo wonders, her tone indicating that she has figured it out. Now Y/N crosses her arms defensively. Just because she comes from a wealthy family, doesn’t mean that she has never been on a trip back to basics. “I have, as a matter of fact,” she returns confident. “Let me define ‘camping’,” Jo kicks off. “I’m talking ‘bout the sleeping-in-a-tent, no-shower-for-days, cooking-your-own-food-above-a-fire kind of camping. Not the kind where you park the luxurious double axle camper nice and close to the restaurant and the power station and get that satellite working as soon as possible so y’all can watch Netflix.”

Y/N opens her mouth to claim that she is not that kind of person, but has to admit her loss. She’s right, down to the double axle camper and the satellite TV. “So, no electricity? No shower?” she asks, intimidated by the matter, a trace of panic in her voice. “Nope,” Jo confirms, amused. “Better start prioritizing. Let me get my saddlebags, you can use those. Everything that doesn’t fit in there except for your sleeping bag, is not comin' along for the ride.” “Alright,” Y/N agrees reluctantly, nonetheless grateful for the help. “But how are you going to pack if I have your saddlebags?” “Simple: I’m not. I’m staying home,” the ranch owner’s daughter says. Astonished, the intern looks at her. Wait, her friend isn’t coming on this trail? The thought actually scares Y/N a little, because Jo has been there to guide her since she picked her up from the airport over a month ago. “Are you kidding me? Why?” “Someone has to run this joint while y’all are having fun. Usually, the stable crew guards the castle, but with Ash gone…”

Y/N drops her head, her mind going out to the former cattle worker. Ash left a week ago. Bobby gave him two weeks' notice but said he was free to go anytime. The loyal employee showed character and stayed as long as Bobby could afford to keep him. But after those fourteen days, Ash had no choice but to leave. Everyone was sad to see the quirky fellow go. The exchange of hugs between him and every member of his working family was moving to witness. “Dad offered to stay behind by himself, but he’s getting too old to work that hard,” Jo explains. “Garth and I will make sure everything runs smoothly here.” “What about me? How am I supposed to function without my conscience?” Y/N pouts. “You’ll be fine. You got Dean to hold your hand the entire way,” Jo mocks. The worried cowgirl chuckles. “That’s the whole problem now, isn’t it?” Jo gets up and intends to leave the room to get the saddlebags. She halts in the doorway, though, offering good advice. “Just remember: don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” “He’s your cousin. Of course you’re not going to sleep with him,” Y/N returns smartly, pulling a laugh from the blonde cowgirl. “See my point?” she returns, winking back before she leaves the room.

Thirty minutes later, Y/N is packed and ready, but sacrifices had to be made. Obviously, the hair iron and phone charger didn’t make the final cut, but neither did her shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer, since she won’t be able to shower anyway. Her makeup didn’t fit into the bags either. It hurts to leave it all behind and she already feels insecure about spending days with the others wearing a blank canvas of a face. Sure she isn’t as fresh at the end of a working day as she was at the start of it, but so far she has been able to keep her hair and makeup in check. Now she won’t even have a mirror to judge how tired and ordinary she looks without a brow pencil and mascara. “You’re all set.” Jo, who is on her knees on the wooden floor fighting with the saddlebag, secures the last strap, shifts her weight back on her heels and places her hands on her narrow waistline. “I owe you one. I would have never managed alone,” Y/N says, appreciating her friend’s help. “You know you can count on me.” She shrugs it off after getting up. “I’ll lend you my raincoat and my gloves too. Never sure if you’re gonna need ’em, but if the monsoon decides to throw a curveball at ya, you’ll be thanking me.” She pops out of the room again, as excited for the intern as Y/N is herself. Jo’s bubbly personality has her smiling even after she leaves. It’s funny how it feels like they have known each other for years and yet it was only a month ago that she got into the pickup truck at the airport. One month ago, this challenge started. Her dad tries to hide the surprise in his voice every time she phones him to tell him how much she is enjoying her time here. He probably expected a plea for money. That, or a one-way ticket back to luxury and easy work.

Y/N looks at one of the pictures that she nailed to the wooden wall. It portrays her family; Mom, Dad, and her three brothers surrounding Y/N at her graduation ceremony. Sure, she misses them, but she is starting to become a part of this ranch family too. That’s how it feels anyway: accepted, wanted… even loved. Her eyes hover over the picture frames and other decorations that she used to spice up her room a little. Many of the photos show Meadow, some snapped during shows, others at home in the fields. Won belt buckles and ribbons are trophies of their success together, each memory a highlight of her partnership with the special Quarter mare. Y/N remembers when she won every single one of them.

“You’re not getting homesick, are ya?” She startles, jolted awake from her daydream, and turns her head to face her handsome supervisor. Dean leans against the doorpost, and judging by the amused expression, he has been standing there for longer than a second. Dear Lord, she got so caught in recalling past victories and happy memories, that she didn’t hear him walk up to her room. The sight of him has her lost for air, even after recovering from the scare. He stands on one leg, the other bent and crossing his back foot, resting on the nose of his boot. Fringe from his worn chaps fall down over his jeans, a dark brown Stetson to match it. Dressed in a red plaid buttoned shirt and a denim jacket over it, he looks even better than he did this morning. The handsome models in the old Marlboro commercials have nothing on him. “Don’t worry. I’m not going back anytime soon,” she responds before Dean can call her out on staring. “Besides, this is beginning to feel a lot like home, too.” The wrangler glances at the wall next to the bunk bed and lets his eyes roam over the photos, ribbons and buckles. He smiles at a goofy picture of her and her three older brothers. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he compliments. Y/N smiles at that. “Well, I am going to be staying here for a while. Might as well make it cozy.”

He grins, his green eyes catching the rays of sunlight coming through the window. Specks of gold stand out amongst the apple green, his pupils adjusting as they flick over the captured moments. They stop when he notices a photo taken during a prize-giving ceremony. He recognizes Meadow instantly, her trademark white face is hard to miss. She stands proudly with a white and blue sash hanging from her neck, event sponsors standing next to the horse, presenting the prizes won while smiling at the camera. But the person who smiles the brightest is Y/N, who sits squarely in the saddle with a wide grin on her face and sparkles in her eyes. “You won the State Championships,” he says impressed, reading the footnote. “That’s pretty damn impressive.” Y/N lights up but stays humble. “Meadow was on fire. It was the ride of my life.” “I bet it was.” Dean watches her for a second, admiring, while she reminisces over the highlight of her riding career. Then he glances at his watch briefly. “We leave at ten. You’re all packed?”

“She is now,” Jo interrupts, holding out a rolled-up sleeping bag and neatly packed raincoat. “Gloves are in the pockets.” “Thanks, Jo.” Y/N takes them and looks over her shoulder in search of her saddlebags. Dean instantly moves in to pick them up, since she has her hands full anyway. “I got it,” he states, lifting her luggage over his shoulder. “Oh, how noble of you!” Jo teases her cousin, not at all impressed with his manors. “What are you gonna do next? Buy a white horse?” Y/N snorts, but quickly straightens her mouth into a thin line to silence herself and hide the sign of amusement. Luckily, the wrangler is too busy countering her friend, as he follows the two girls into the living room. “It’s called ‘being nice’. You should try it sometime,” Dean snarls. Before the ranch owner’s daughter pushes open the front door, she looks over her shoulder. “Would you like to hold the door for her too?” she suggests, a challenging smirk on her face. “Would you like to shut your piehole?” Dean fires back after rolling his eyes.

Y/N giggles at the bickering, and opens the door herself by pushing it with her foot. If she didn’t know any better, she would think the two are siblings. Maybe not by blood, but they spent a great deal of their childhood together in the same house, at least that’s what she understood from Jo. Over the years, the youngest Singer figured out that she might not be able to beat her older cousin when it comes down to strength and speed, but verbally she stands her ground just fine. Now is no different, because Dean might have had a comeback ready, Y/N doesn’t fail to notice the color on his cheeks. He carefully glances at her from under his hat, the cowgirl smiling back reassuringly before she descends down the stairs.

At the tack up area, the Joshua tree stands tall, offering meager shade to the horses and humans underneath its branches. It’s rush hour. Benny and Garth are readying the horses, assisted by the three riders that are coming along for the trail. Dean was against bringing people along on such a long and potentially dangerous ride, but Bobby said the tourists paid good money and were experienced, so eventually, he agreed. Eight horses are tied up to the rails around the yucca tree. Six of them will be ridden, the other two will be the group’s packhorses. Y/N spots Joplin amongst them, the feisty mare that has grown on her over the past weeks. “She’s yours for the next couple of days.” Dean points her out, heading over to the dark horse with Y/N’s baggage. “Since the two of you get along so well.”

Delighted, she faces the mare, who pushes her soft nose into the folded raincoat in her arms, sniffing up the aroma. Y/N likes the little dark horse. She is not easy, has different ideas about what the pace should be, and can get very offended when her rider tells her otherwise, but there’s something about her attitude that the intern appreciates. She’s fast, tireless from the second her rider puts a foot in the stirrup, to the second he or she gets off. The Quarter is perfect for a trail like this. It didn’t cross her mind to bring Meadow for the ride. The reining horse, which is used to train on smooth arena footing, would most likely injure herself on the uneven rocky slopes and narrow paths. The hours under saddle would be much longer than regular training too, and Y/N does not want to confront her four-legged best friend with a task that she isn’t up for. Dean swings the saddlebags over Joplin’s back and straps them to the saddle. He mounts the sleeping bag and Jo’s raincoat that he takes from the intern on top, his fingers briefly brushing against hers in the transfer. The tingling sensation lingers on the surface of her skin where he touched her, causing her to be the one who is flustered now. The wrangler carefully glances over as he secures the baggage. She feels caught, but his expression is soft and comforting; he felt it too.

“Okay, y’all! We’re goin’ in five!” Benny shouts loud enough for everyone on the square to hear with his Southern accent thick on his tongue. “If you have to use the john or forgot to pack clean undies, now would be your last chance to do so.”

Last preparations are made by the crew. Benny secures his lasso to the horn of the saddle with a leather rope strap, while Dean consults his uncle one more time before departure, the two of them looking at a map of the Superstition Mountains. Then Dean folds the map and shoves it into the inside pocket of his jacket, after which he walks over to Ted Nugent, the big brown gelding that he will be riding for the upcoming days, since his favorite buckskin is out with a tendon injury ever since that rainy morning when the cattle broke out. Ellen walks up to her nephew and hands him a paper bag which, without a doubt, contains something delicious. “Made you some pecan tassies for on the road,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to miss my baking too much.” “Thanks, Ellen.” Dean gives her a grateful nod and puts the tassies in his saddlebag. “Be careful out there, alright?” she presses, clearly worried about the quest that lies ahead for the wranglers. “Bring them back home safely.” “I’ll take care of the bunch. I promise,” he assures comfortingly, gently pulling her into his chest after which he gives his aunt a kiss on her hair.

Ellen and Dean aren’t the only ones who exchange a few last words before the group leaves. “Okay, grasshopper. This is it,” Jo’s voice sounds from behind Y/N. She spins on her heels in between the horses to meet the ranch owner’s daughter, who folds her arms around Y/N and hugs her tight. Happily, she returns the embrace before Jo pulls back and holds her by the shoulders. “Stay away from chollas if you don’t want Joplin to turn into a two-year-old who never had a saddle on her back before. And if the horses get nervous and you hear a rattle, get the hell out of Dodge, because there’s a rattlesnake within a few feet from you. Check your–-” Y/N cuts Jo off, because she has heard this before from either her or Ellen. “I know, I know. Check my boots for spiders and scorpions before I put them on and keep the tent closed,” she fills in. “Not just to keep out insects and reptiles, but horny cowboys as well,” Jo adds. Y/N snorts. “I’ll handle him. I will miss you, though.” “I’ll miss you, too, sis,” her friend returns, smiling.

They say goodbye while Dean unties his gelding and gets on swiftly, overlooking the group from the higher point of view. “Y’all ready?” he asks the company of six. When the riders cheer, he takes the reins with one hand and pulls it gently towards him, an aid for Ted to backup and move away from the other horses. The excitement rises noticeably, comparable to what one would feel when on an aircraft just before take-off and on its way to a new destination. Some of the animals start to get restless in the thrill, Joplin included. Y/N doesn’t waste any time and pulls the safety knot in order to free the mare, then puts her left foot in the stirrup and pushes herself off the ground with her right, swinging it over the back of the black horse. “Good luck, y’all,” Bobby wishes the six men and women. “See you in a couple of days!” Jo calls out.

Y/N waves at the people staying behind, a bright smile spreading from ear to ear. Looking forward to the adventure that will come next, she straightens herself in the saddle and faces the vast landscape. She might be twenty-four, but she feels more like a seven-year-old going on a field trip. In front of the rider, a pair of alert ears belonging to Joplin point forward. Beyond that view, the promontory of the Superstition Mountains stretches out. The sun has risen from behind the ridges in the East hours ago, already warming up the valley with its strong rays.

Dean watches the young woman, consumed by a different kind of scenery as his horse follows the path. In the past few weeks, she has grown more comfortable in her role as a wrangler and a ranch hand. The daily routine is starting to become her second nature and the people she works with are her friends now. He wouldn’t have guessed it at first - and he’s quite sure she herself wouldn’t have guessed it either - but she fits in perfectly. The rich girl from upstate with a master’s degree under her belt feels at home surrounded by a bunch of country folks in the dry desert lands of the south west. Who would have thought that? Dean smiles, content; something tells him that this trip will help her blossom even more.

She could almost hear a harmonica play the theme from Once Upon A Time In The West, and she’s still waiting for tumbleweed to roll across the path. Cacti reach for the sun, their arms outstretching upward, like the giants are growing actual limbs. It’s a nice variation to the evergreens that she is used to, back in Maine. The rain that came down two weeks ago has laid a blanket of green over the dry lands; it’s amazing how nature can change in a matter of days. Jo warned her about the sun, and with good reason. Over the last month, the intern slowly but surely got used to the extreme weather circumstances that Arizona offers, but she has never been on a horse during the hottest hours of the day. It might already be late September, but the heat is blistering. She could use a shower right about now, and just the thought of not being able to take one for the next couple of days grosses her out. The temperatures weigh on the female rider, more than she thought it would, but her partner Joplin doesn’t seem to mind much. Her neck and shoulders are sweaty, but she still dribbles impatiently every now and then, eager to cover more ground.

Dean leads the group, guiding them from spring to spring. The group left the Hieroglyphic Trail about three hours ago, which ended at a small creek and a poor excuse for a waterfall. They took a break there and had a few of Ellen’s delicious pecan tassies while the horses drank. Now, they are well on their way to Willow Spring, but the trail isn’t getting any easier. As they conquer the steep slopes, the pace slows down. Y/N is amazed at how the horses are able to maneuver on the rough terrain, which consists of loose pebbles, slippery boulders, and cracked volcanic rock. One misstep could severely injure the large animals, but they seem to be aware of that. Joplin proceeds agile and fearless, almost like a bobcat, and her rider learns quickly to let her take care of the drops and jumps. She doesn’t need guidance, the mare knows the way. All Y/N has to do is sit tight and move along with her to maintain the balance.

“How y’all doing back there?” Dean is looking over his shoulder, his free hand resting on the cantle of the saddle. “We’re good!” one of the tourists assures. His name is Brad, the young guy riding next to his sister Macy and their buddy Jonathan. The head wrangler chatted a little bit with the three members of the group and they turn out to be good company. The trio is traveling across the country, enjoying a gap year from college. With Brad and Macy’s father being a rancher in Colorado, they know their way around horses. Jonathan is a little less experienced in the saddle, but he’s managing just fine. No doubt about it, though, that he’s going to be left with a serious muscle ache in the coming days. The leader of the pack shifts his eyes from them to his intern, asking her the same question silently. She nods, smiling reassuringly at her handsome supervisor, telling him in the same language that she’s doing fine. Content, Dean smiles back and winks at her before he straightens himself. It’s a good thing he’s not facing her anymore, because Y/N is sure that about a hundred butterflies hatched from their cocoons in her stomach, the feeling triggering her to take a shuddering breath. She huffs, annoyed with the response he triggered. Just look at him. He’s infuriatinglygorgeous, looking way too good on his horse, in those darn chaps, wearing that darn western hat. A part of her wants to dislike him, just for being so distracting. But she can’t be mad at him, not really. Just a glance her way with that grin and she’s a complete goner. Y/N watches as the cowboy catches up with Benny, slowing his horse down when they are side by side.

“Tell me, Chief, how are things between you and the intern goin’?” the Southerner wonders, making sure the woman in question is unable to pick up on the conversation. Dean looks aside at his best friend, amused by his curiosity. “It’s not going anywhere, really. Things are good as they are,” he claims. “Oh, c’mon, now. Did she turn you down again?” Benny guesses. Dean eyes him. “She didn’t turn me down. I just didn’t make my move.” The wrangler next to him seems to need a second to process the information. Dean Winchester didn’t make a move on a girl he likes in 0.2 seconds? That’s a new one. “Wait a minute. So you two haven’t even…?” “We’re just friends, Benny,” Dean claims, aware how terribly unconvincing it sounds the moment he pronounces the words. “Horse shit. You didn’t pass up Casey to be ‘just friends’ with the gal. You called dibs,” he reminds the head wrangler. “Besides, I see the way you look at her. You don’t look at a pal like that.”

Dean shakes his head, remembering the arrangement well. It’s not like he can deny he made that deal with the farrier, despite that it felt wrong to do so. But back then when he claimed her in order to keep his notorious friend away, he was still clueless about the affection he felt for her. The affection that steadily grew stronger to the point where he cares more about what’s best for the free young woman than what he wants for himself. “So what, Benny?” He shrugs, hoping his friend would let it go. “So what? I know it’s a little dusty here in the desert, but did you get sand in your eyes?” Benny returns, perplexed. “Look, I know she’s awesome, and yes, I wouldn’t mind hooking up with her, but I can’t, okay?” Dean claims. Unable to understand the math behind his choice, the broad-shouldered ranch hand throws him a look that somewhere between dirty and confused. “Why not?” “Well for starters, Bobby will kill me if he finds out, since he took me aside to specifically forbid me to pull anything. Secondly, she’ll only stay for six months--” Benny interrupts him, however. “Invalid, Chief. Bobby told you before to quit bouncing around with clients and staff and it never stopped you then. And since when is six months too short for you? You usually get bored with your lady friends after a--” The cowboy from the South stops mid-sentence and Dean can almost hear it click in his mind. Oh, boy. Benny has figured it out. Even though he tried to make up excuses in order to avoid being confronted by his best bud, there’s no way of dodging that bullet now. “Well, fuck a goat and call her Nancy! You’re in love with her,” Benny announces, shocked. Dean raises his eyebrows at the rider next to him, then scoffs and looks away, trying to act like the very idea is ridiculous. “That’s - that’s just… Y-you’re insane,” he stutters, unable to flat out deny it. Benny starts to laugh out loud, apparently very much amused with his discovery. “I can’t believe you walked straight into that love trap!” “Would you keep your voice down?” the rider next to him hushes. The farrier looks over the back of his horse at the intern, but she’s about thirty yards behind them talking to Macy, clueless what the two wranglers leading the group are discussing. Dean stays quiet for a few long seconds, trying to decide if he is ready to admit that she means so much to him. “She’s a nice girl, Benny. I don’t wanna hurt her,” he claims. “Oh, c’mon now! You’re seriously telling me you grew a conscience all of a sudden? You used to love ‘em and leave ‘em without a second thought.” Benny has crossed his wrists over the horn of his saddle, the reins loosely between his fingers, as he looks aside to catch anything that would indicate what’s going on in his best mate’s head. It’s clear that he’s astonished by the shift in his demeanor. “I’m gonna ignore the urge to ask you who you are and where my friend is,” the Southerner chuckles. “But is it really just her heart you’re scared to break?” Dean ponders, trying to make sense of the odds and ends that scatter his thoughts. Benny is not entirely wrong. It terrifies the wrangler to give in to these emotions. Is that maybe the true reason why he didn’t kiss Y/N that night under the Joshua tree? Or when she came looking for him after he had that argument with Ash? Maybe it’s a bit of both. “How long have we known each other? Fourteen, fifteen years now?” Dean recalls. “Give or take,” Benny confirms, looking down at the trail as he moves his hand over the mane of his horse in order to steer it a little wider around a boulder. “Do I seem like the kinda guy who does that? Fall for a girl? I liked the way things were, no attachments and all that,” the head wrangler continues, confused. “That’s the thing about falling in love, Chief. It happens to the best of us and always at a time when you least expect it. It hits you like lightning and you’re toast before you even got a clue why you’re feelin’ so crispy,” Benny says wisely.

The head wrangler glances at his companion sideways, reading into his words. It almost sounds like the Southerner knows what he’s talking about. “You’ve been there,” he realizes. “Oh, I’ve been there. I’ve been beyond falling in love, I loved her with my whole damn heart,” Benny acknowledges, smiling at the memory. “Her name was Andrea. We were both eighteen. She spent the summer with relatives in Louisiana and I was a lost cause from the moment I laid eyes on her. A Greek Goddess, and I ain’t exaggeratin’. She was pretty as a peach! Kind, funny as hell, too.” “Since she’s ain’t here, I reckon it didn’t end well?” Dean assumes again. “It didn’t; she went back to Greece and I moved here because everything reminded me of her at home,” his friend tells him. “You know you just proved my point, right?” the head wrangler says, a hint of triumph in his voice trying to mask the sadness in his eyes. “If love always comes to bite you in the ass, why even bother?” “‘Cause the heartache ain’t the clue, brother. What I had with Andrea was so good, so pure, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Even if I knew what I know now, how it would end, I would take that plunge again without a doubt in my mind.” Dean huffs, unable to believe that. “Despite that she left you?” “Fuck, yeah,” Benny states. “Better to love and to lose, than to not have loved at all.”

Dean is quiet now. The path narrows and he holds Ted back a little, merging behind Benny’s horse. As he lets his friend’s words sink in, he glances down the slope at the intern again. She’s several yards down the steep hill, focused on Joplin as she rides her up the trail. Her braided hair already has strands peeking out from under her hat, and he is sure if she had a mirror she would fix the mess, but he loves it. He loves it when the wind rustles her locks, or when the desert dust smudges her skin. Once again that feeling overcomes him, the feeling of a lantern being lit in the pit of his stomach, warming his body as it slowly rises through his core to his chest, where the heat lingers. It feels so good, but there’s a catch to the sensation. It comes with the emotion that creeps up on him when he lays awake at night thinking about Y/N; fear. The fear of her leaving him after her internship. The fear of her reaction if he would let her witness the scar tissue that lays thick on his soul. The fear that this love will consume him, just like the love for Mom consumed his father. The fear of failing her. But now that the true meaning of Benny’s message dawns on him, another kind surfaces. It’s a thought that he hasn’t had before, and as it pops into his head, the question reverberates louder through his mind than all the others. What if he misses his chance? What if there are only so many opportunities to win her over?

He straightens himself before she looks ahead and spots him staring, and he closes his eyes and tips his hat forward. Shit, you’ve been so worried about losing her that you forgot that in order to lose her, you have to have her first, he thinks to himself. A sigh slips from his dry mouth, reminding him how thirsty he is. He reaches for his water bottle from his saddlebag, pulls out the cap with his teeth and gulps down the water, knocking his head back as he takes a few swigs. Nope, he’s not dehydrated. In fact, he’s still having these contradicting thoughts. When he slips the bottle back where he took it from, his eyes wander down the path again, this time looking straight into hers. As he tries to decide on his next move, he holds her gaze as she smiles up at him. Dean wasted two shots already; what if it’s three strikes, you’re out? If he fucks this up, at least he tried, but if he won’t give this a try at all, he’ll beat himself up over it for the rest of his life. Either way, failure seems to be inevitable.

Then he remembers something. Something that he was taught at a very young age. He had just turned four when he took a fall off the neighbor’s Shetland pony. It was the first time he had rode alone without his mom holding the miniature horse and the naughty pony took advantage of that situation. The Shetland picked up speed and bucked once, sending him straight into the dirt. After making sure that her son was okay, he recalls his mom picking him up. “You wanna give it another go?” she asked. “No…” he said. “So that’s it? You never wanna ride again?” she questioned again, her voice gentle. Now he was quiet, not sure how to answer that. “I don’t wanna fall off,” he mumbled eventually, looking down at the ground. “Falling is a part of riding, sweety. It’s a part of life. It’s okay to fall,” she told him. “But it hurts,” he said, rubbing his scraped elbow. “And it’s scary.” “Yeah, sometimes falling can be very scary,” Mom acknowledged. “But you won’t get any better if you stop trying. You have to face what you’re scared of, to grow. You know what they say about falling?” He shook his little head, waiting for the elaboration patiently. “You have to fall off seven times before you'll become a good rider,” she says. “Seven?!” he repeats, eyes wide. “Seven,” Mom pointed out. “But you know how he becomes a great horseman?” Dean shook his head again and listened eagerly. All that he wanted was to become a horseman, so this was the time to pay attention. “A good rider becomes a great horseman when he falls seven times and gets up eight.”

The wise words always stuck with Dean as he grew older. He remembers when he was twelve and got back to his feet after his seventh crash landing, this time from a young bronc. He was a horseman now, because he got up beaming, and brushed the dirt from his jeans. Every time when life beat him down, he did the same. Sadly, Mom wasn’t there to see her son become a horseman. She was long gone by the time he reached that age, but her life lessons will never be forgotten. Life is filled with setbacks. No one walks this journey without encountering them. For some that one setback is enough reason to give up and never become good at anything, for others, it’s a way to push through. And yes, getting up and trying again is not easy. But Mom taught him to look fear in the eye and get back in the saddle anyway, because quitting will definitely not get him anywhere. Whenever he hit the ground, literally or metaphorically, he would think of that memory. Now is no different. Mom was right; he has to face what scares him in order to grow.

Dean slows down his horse, pulling the bit just enough to stop Ted, giving the horse behind him a chance to catch up. When Joplin comes alongside, he glances at the rider from under his Stetson. “Hello, Cowboy,” she greets, a small but delighted smile on her lips. Dean chuckles at that, his eyes not leaving hers. “Hey, beautiful,” he returns. The compliment brightens her eyes even more and heats up her cheeks. The trail barely allows the two of them to ride side by side, their stirrups touching occasionally. He aches for her knee to brush his like he would crave rain after a long desert ride. When the denim of her jeans does rub against him, it leaves him electrified. And then he realizes that Benny is right, too. It is better to love and to lose, than to not have loved at all.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part eleven here

#Ride With Me #Dean x Reader #Cowboy!Dean #Dean Winchester #Dean Winchester series #Dean Winchester AU #Cowboy!Dean x Reader #Supernatural #SPN #Supernatural AU #spn au fanfiction #Dean x Y/N #Dean reader insert #Dean Winchester reader insert #Dean Winchester fanfic #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Dean angst #Dean fluff #Kate Huntington

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ofmontys · 6 years

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“ — and if you’re just tuning in now, you’ve made it just in time for our ‘ sleep with me ’ segment. nightfall has sufficiently fueled my ego and i’m reared and ready to go, compiling a playlist curated to get one lucky, hand-picked bastard in bed with me. tonight’s submission comes from camila, age 18 2/3, from two towns over. ” rustling paper. a delighted scoff. “ tonight, as per camila’s request, i’ll be attempting to seduce vincent van gogh. vince, this is acid ghost’s ‘ the artist’s high ’, also known as what i hope i can be for you. ”

or, alternatively : yo yo, my dudes! the name’s linc (19/est/she&her) and you just witnessed an excerpt from bez holmes’s radio show quite appropriately named, ‘ fuckin’ hell ! ’ that airs weekdays and sundays from 7pm to 8am!

i am absolutely stoked out of my mind to write with all of y’all! beneath the read more you’ll find a very unapologetically messy introduction to my strange son, killian beelzebub holmes !

* TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET & CISMALE / / here we’ve got KILLIAN BEELZEBUB HOLMES , the TWENTY-ONE year old LOCAL RADIO HOST. with a reputation for being + SLY, + ANOMALOUS, - OSSIFIED, and - RECKLESS, it’s surprising we haven’t heard more about him. BEZ has been around faulk hollow for TEN YEARS, but they ain’t leaving anytime soon. you hear ME AND MICHAEL by MGMT? that means you’ll see ‘em soon.

“road work ahead? uh, yeah, i sure hope it does!” ( alternatively: bez holmes, a roadmap. )

so bez is… kind of a nutcase. he’s just… he’s that guy in the bar who seems so desirable. voice like warmed honey, a smile that could kill – but dear lord, don’t get close to him. he’s fucked in the head. and unless you’re prepared for that, friendships/relationships with him can get... pretty darn overwhelming.

he’s a host at the local radio station, so he curates the music and talks through little segments throughout the day. well, i should say night -- because the show he’s known for occurs weekdays and sunday nights from 7pm - 8am. weird hours. weird guy. so it all clicks right into place! people tune in for the music ( a lot of indie eclectic vibes ) but also his personality. bez tends to veer off-script a lot, which both aggravates and amuses his superiors. he’s basically the only reason the tiny radio station is still alive & kickin’, so what are they gonna do to him, huh? fire him and take the whole station down with that bullshit move? not likely. so bez’ll keep doing and saying whatever the hell he wants on air, thank you very much.

can he get... a mfing... cinnamon raisin waffle??? dude’s friggin’ obsessed. don’t mess with his waffles, man. waffles don’t play.

has a knack for stumbling into stupid situations. y’know how there’s two kinds of people in this world? the kinds that act upon the universe and the kinds the universe acts upon? bez is that guy in textbook math probelms who has 42 apples for no apparent reason. he’s the dude in on top of spaghetti all covered with cheese whose poor meatball fuckin’ rolled out the door. things happen to bez holmes no matter how much he might try to convince you otherwise. his whole life is just a string of varied ( and usually nonchalant/unbothered/troublingly chill ) reactions to crazy shit.

case in point: why did the holmes family move to faulk hollow? well. their old house had like... a freakin’ meltdown. yes, the house. it swallowed their dog. and their mom. casual... house-y things. but when people ask, bez and his father like to say they just wanted to “ see the sights ”. and apparently faulk hollow was one of those.

[ tw: death, murder mentions ] basically, faulk hollow offered a place for them to disappear, since the disappearance of bez’s mother couldn’t exactly be explained to and/or believed by police. bez’s father is wanted for her murder. so they friggin’ skrrt skrrted out of iowa and plopped down here, under the radar. “holmes” is an adopted last name.

so bez has been here since his 11th birthday! honestly, he probably earned a reputation pretty quick for being that kid who’d, like, “hey buddy!” at all the insects on the playground. “ do you believe in magic? ” was often his best icebreaker.

so... fun fact. he accidentally inherited his dead dentist’s vintage jukebox. yes, i know how that sounds, and it’s exactly that. but dear lord, that thing has just been infinitely fucking with him since the day it showed up on his doorstep three months ago. more about that later!

an example of a normal occurrence in bez’s life: “hey. so, uh… i know we just met, and maybe this is moving fast? but i saw this keychain in walgreens and it made me think of you. so… yeah. here. tell anyone i did anything nice for you and you’re dead to me tho.”

he seems smart. he seems so cunning, you guys. like, holy shit, he makes these deep ass statements on the air and curates music that makes people feel things. but don’t be fooled. he’ll drive wearing shades at 10pm just to look cool, all while bumping 80′s glam rock from his blue ‘67 impala. he’ll do that cliché head bop at stoplights, encourage other drivers to join in.

don’t call him killian!! killian who?? his parents gave him “beelzebub” as a middle name to be funny and fuck with his mother’s father, who was a pastor. what they didn’t bank on was four-year-old bez insisting on being called by it – you can guess how well that went over with his teachers and his peers. so to appease them, he accepted the nickname “bez” and has gone mainly by that ever since. most people probably don’t know his true first name, since he goes by “bez” on the air. but close friends and trusted individuals might occasionally call him “kill” or something to that effect.

pets are not bez’s thing. every houseplant he’s had has died. succulents wilt in his presence too, and he thinks maybe at this point, it’s a running joke among plantkind because his birth name has the worldkill in it. still, even with his track record, he has a fish named nigel. nigel dislikes affection and bez. they engage in staredowns and silent mental warfare. bez often “forgets” to feed nigel or change the water in his tank, but that fish just will not die. nigel’s probably just truckin’ on to spite him.

aggressively writes the wrong date for like… 8 months following new year’s. so he finally gets it right for the final ¼, and then the cycle begins again. additionally, cannot keep the days of the week straight. he’s started a multi-song alarm campaign in an attempt to rectify this situation. bez’ll report his findings in a week. if he remembers.

one time he got pulled over for speeding back from the radio station at 7 in the morning, and you know what he did? he freakin’ offered the cop some hard shit from his flask and some of his opened bag of funions. so the two of them got tastefully buzzed in bez’s car and talked about the kardashians for two hours. and it was through that very conversation that bez learned he’d been doing a very shit job of keeping up with them.

scared of birds. yes. those things? with the wings? terrified. how dare they occupy space above his head. how dare they swoop and swerve all around. no. his neighbor in iowa had a parakeet. maybe that bird finally went missing one day, while they were on vacation. maybe it escaped. to like, the afterlife. maybe bez helped. maybe.

he’s really bad at like … taking care of himself? funions, candy, and takeout forever. what do you mean raisin bran crunch isn’t a wholesome, well-rounded meal? you mean you’re not supposed to pour the entire carafe of syrup on your waffles every time? someone… pls fix that.

hella prone to bullshit! like… did you know aliens are real? yeah. really. hey did you check your horoscope today? what zodiac sign are you? he’ll pretend to know what zodiac he is like: hey, uh… listen .. . if your zodiac is asparagus don’t even bother being my friend… i’m a caprisun & it’s just not gonna work out. sorry.

memorizes commercial jingles. will sing them to prove points.

“what the fuck’s a kanye” - bez holmes, 2k18

“a mug shot? i don’t even drink coffee.” ( alternatively: more pointless headcanons because apparently i think this is necessary. )

don’t be fooled by the title of this section. he drinks coffee. a lot of coffee. with a lot of sugar added to it. could probably kill a horse, tbh. he’s not sorry.

his signature half-smirk drives folks mad. he also has a collection of faithful listeners who like to call in and tell him how soothing his voice is.

lowkey writes his own music? lowkey was in a band called ashes when he was 13; it lasted about 6 seconds. lowkey has a few things recorded on his laptop? but he’ll never actually do anything with ‘em.

owns an unironic walkman! enjoys it immensely! i know!

catch him in the local 24 hour diner spending his life savings on cinnamon raisin waffles and dimes for the jukeboxes! because LMAO, he’s not using the old one at his place!!!

convinced said old, stupid, 1947 jukebox in his apartment lays host to goblins. that thing shakes and quakes at odd hours. it’ll play shitty pop music that isn’t even in the dumb catalogue. sometimes it lights up when he trips over his own feet or accidentally burns his microwave popcorn. the fuckin’ thing is possessed and it’s mocking him. so, naturally, what is there to do but appease the tiny beings inside it?? he makes biweekly sacrifices to it – mainly consisting of snack foods, candies, a casual sprinkling of his own blood. y’know. casual.

super into space? honestly would love to grab sushi with an alien sometime?

uh… he’s convinced everyone he sleeps with kind of mysteriously dies exactly 53 hours after. maybe that was inspired by like... two isolated incidents. but you can see how this is… kind of a problem, for a guy who likes to sleep around from time to time. is he a murderer? uhm, no, not exactly – but he’s grown kind of immune to the guilt at this point. he stalks obituaries a couple days after his one-night-stands, just to check. so far, it hasn’t been a 100% consistent thing, but... he’s worried. he’ll still leave the bar with you tho. ;)

he’s trying out this whole new thing of like… not going all the way? trying to save lives? but it’s really difficult and he’s losing resolve. he also can’t exactly tell his buddies, “ stop introducing me to your hot friends; if i fuck them, they’re dead. ” that probably wouldn’t go over well. he’s got enough crazy on his plate trying to appease the damn goblins.

consistently blindsided by genuinely liking other people? so if he’s into you... he’s gonna look awestruck and baffled like 99% of the time your face is within a 1-mile radius.

he’s always running his hands through his hair, which just adds to his #indiegrungeaesthetic, if i’m honest.

“girl, you’re thicker than a bowl of oatmeal!” (alternatively: wanted plots.)

childhood neighbor / best friend. i would love to have a person ( or several ) who knew him growing up (from age 11 on), and kind of got to bear witness to how strange he’s become? maybe even be weirdos together? i dunno, let’s talk. we

past relationships. i imagine he’s had his fair share of flings in the past. he’s made many mistakes for sure. let’s uncover them.

close friends. #squadgoals. but really, though. i’d love for bez to have a tightknit group of 3-4 people who he just clicks with. they wreak havoc, but it’s all in good fun.

enemies. i would love to have an enemies plot that’s actually hilarious? like one tiny thing catapulted these two into a mutual, deep, to-the-bones kind of hatred. it’s irrational, but they’re so infuriated by one another’s presence that all they can do is think of stupid quips and glare from afar. i imagine their public interactions bring onlookers a lot of poorly stifled laughs, because it’s just like… they’re so obviously trying so hard to hate one another with absolutely zero grounds.

miscellaneous. maybe they got his mail and returned it to his door, and it sparked the beginning of a beautiful friendship. maybe they met in the park when this person’s dog peed on bez’s shoe. maybe they’re a frequent listener to bez’s show and they bonded over that? or perhaps they both enjoy engaging in semi-friendly grocery store competitions to see who can get to the ripest apples the quickest? anything’s possible!

chris! is that a weed?! smoke with him, my dudes!! or like, anything? my guy’s not shy about investing in “life enhancements”.

but yes come message me on here for plots or hmu for my discord! so hype!

#faulk:intro

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