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tequilai · 1 month ago

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TELEVANGELISM

DEAN WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

CHAPTER 1

PRÉCIS: There’s a new pastor in town. He’s young and handsome, but you can’t deny his faith—especially not after he helps your father get sober, right? But there's just something off about him

WARNINGS: dark fic, vamp!dean, father(pastor)!dean, religion, age gap, coercion, blasphemy, corruption, manipulation, dean is not really in his right body/mind as he’s a vamp, also not even a real priest.

A/N: I listened to Televangelism by ethel cain on repeat every time i wrote more for this and i urge you to do the same. It fits so well and it's so good and it really put me in the setting just from the music. This also took sooo goddamn long because i was debating on turning it into chapters or just a one parter... that being said CHAPTER 1!! PLS LMK IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES

That rabid dog. That rabid dog woke you up every morning at the ripe time of seven o’clock. Howling, barking, and foaming at the mouth for nothing. That rabid dog who growled as you passed by. The only thing keeping him from pouncing on you and mauling you to death was the tight chain secured around his neck, the same chain that was so snug against the weeping willow tree in the yard. You’re sure that if that rabid dog were smart enough, he would run around that tree fast enough to cut it down with just his chain.

Six years, that rabid dog has woken you up every morning faithfully at seven, but not on Sunday, no. On Sunday, he woke you up at nine, two hours before service would start, two hours before you would sit in those hard wooden pews, two hours before your daddy would swear on God's name at the confessional he would stop drinking, only to never stay faithful to his words. The same daddy who would kiss your head with his whiskey breath and make you swear to always be the good girl you are. You loved your daddy, but you couldn’t lie, especially when you would pray, pray for forgiveness on his behalf, pray for the lord to forgive him for that night with your mother.

When the news broke out that the church’s father had disappeared into the night, the only trace left was his blood splattered across the rotting wood of the church. You were devastated. He was as old as your daddy. He had sunken eyes and a yellowed, wooden-looking smile. His wife and three children attended the funeral, of course. Their shared tears and pleas for God to bring him back from the grave rang in your ears for the entire service.

You could almost smell the chemicals flowing through his body from the formaldehyde, almost like he was dipped in it instead of filled with it, but you couldn’t pay attention to that anymore. Not when the new priest, Father Winchester, walked in. He was to take the place of Father Murphy and have the honor of speaking at his funeral and introducing himself. You had heard whispers and gossip around town about him, how he was handsome, how young he was- how they’d never heard of him before in their lives. He was a mystery, but he would be the new priest until the church decided otherwise; considering how Mrs. Murphy was staring at him from her seat, you don’t think he’ll be going soon.

The old church was dimly lit, with one old and ugly stained glass window front and center behind the altar and choir, illuminating patterns all across the room. There was always a smell of dust, no matter how clean the church was- it smelled old, it looked old, and it creaked as if it was built two thousand years ago with the same wood they nailed Jesus to the cross with. The man's heavy footsteps let out a whine and creak on the cold wooden floor as he approached the altar. He didn’t look like a priest. He didn’t move like one either. There was no gentleness in him, no warm smile or soft voice to lean on. He looked like someone who’d been in a fight right before walking in. And won. The soft murmurs of the congregation filled the space, accompanied by occasional coughs and that wretched creak of the pews. Mrs. Murphy's children sat painfully still in their seats, their heads hung low as they refused to meet the eyes of the man who would soon replace their father. Father Winchester took this silence to look at his audience, his eye contact almost painful as he met eyes with almost everyone in the church. He grunted as he cleared his throat; you swear you could've heard an ant run by with how eerily quiet the church became.

“I regret that I would have to meet all of you under these circumstances, but I am extremely grateful that I get to be here today.” He pauses, meeting eyes with the church again, but this time his eyes flicker toward the back where you sat, and they keep coming back to you during his entire speech.

“Not only am I here to introduce myself with hopes that you all welcome me into your sacred church with open arms, I am here to remember the late Father Murphy” The sniffling starts- the sniffling from Mrs. Murphy that you think is simply just for petty brownie points that she would even care enough to shed a tear at her husband's funeral.

Every time his eyes meet yours, you fight not to call your daddy to sit with you. Usually, you beg him not to come in, as you’re sure that the gossip will only get louder and stronger about him being a raging drunk. He only agrees with a deep sadness in his eyes, promising you once again that he’ll get better- a lie. This time, though, you long for him and want him to give the meanest look he can to Father Winchester for ogling you.

Eventually, you stop listening to his praises, not that it made sense anyway, and start eyeing him too, not for the same reasons he was eyeing you, but to look at him with a fresh eye. He was handsome- you couldn’t deny that if you tried. He had short brown hair with beautiful but striking green eyes, and a short and scruffy beard, accompanied by his strong jawline. Tall- about as tall as your daddy, but Father Winchester had muscles that could probably kill a man. He stood tall and confident, almost cocky, but he was still young. Younger than your daddy, but older than you- maybe by twelve years or so.

As church ended, people lined up to meet the new priest. You couldn’t even be bothered, it was ungodly for you to do so, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with Father Winchester, something that made your bones clack in your body. You’re sure your Irish goodbye goes unnoticed as you sit in the back of the church, but the moment you opened those damned wooden doors, your daddy stood on the grass field outside of the church, smoking his cigarette before he looks up at you- the only one, coming out of the church doors. He hacks up something in his lungs before looking up at you with a look of confusion. This was out of the ordinary for you. He was used to the previous routine. He would hear the chatter inside the church and know that service was finally over. That gave you seven minutes to say goodbye and hug everyone while they wished you and your father well.

“What you doin’ baby?” Your dad's voice shows nothing but concern as he looks you up and down. Maybe you started your monthly in church? Wanting to get out as soon as anyone saw the red staining the back of your beautiful peachy dress. Hell- he didn’t know, but he knew something was wrong. He knew because never in the twenty-three years you’ve been at church, even as an infant cradled in your momma's arms, you always stayed for a little while longer.

“Nothing, Daddy- jus’ wanna go home, I'm not feeling well.” You felt horrible lying to him. You can’t believe you mustered up the pathetic courage to lie to him on church grounds. Your dad looked at you for a beat- and then two before he lifted the almost orange butt of his cigarette to his lips, sucking in the last bit of tobacco before he flicked the cigarette into the grass. He looked down at his button-up shirt, dusting off the bits of ash that had fallen on his shirt earlier, and he looked up at you again.

“You can go sit in the truck, 'm gonna say somethin’ to the new priest.” You felt your whole body shiver, and you looked up from staring at your feet, a subtle pout on your lips as you spoke.”

"But, Daddy, I-"

“Quit it. Go sit in the truck, I’ll only be a minute.” Your face frowns into an angry expression before you stomp past him to the truck, listening to the hinges and springs scream at you as you open the door. As soon as you place your bible in the middle of the bench seat, you reach over to the door handle, pulling it as hard as you can and slamming the truck door- something your daddy was sure to chew you out about later.

Your father continues to look at you for a beat before he faces forward, shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath as he heads inside the church. The old beat-up truck reeks of cigarettes, and the stench sticks to your clothes like syrup. He always made sure not to smoke on the way to church, trying to maintain the sickly sweet perfume he spent so much on at the department store.

You tried to be mad. Mad at your daddy, mad at the church, mad at whatever that thing was staring at you from the pulpit. But you were tired. And scared. And maybe a little curious. With a sigh and a childish thrash, you grip the crank on the side of your door and, frustratedly, turn the handle to roll the window down with a huff. You rested your cheek against the warm metal of the door and looked out the window, watching the church doors, waiting for your father to return. He was a smart man, surely; he felt the destructive energy from Father Winchester just as you did. Unfortunately, your own body betrays you, and you start to feel sleepy, the pleasant breeze from the window not helping to aid your urgency to stay awake.

A thud on your side of the door jolts you awake, your heart leaping into your throat. Your eyes snap open, blurry with sleep, only to find Father Winchester's face inches from yours through the open window. His green eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"Sorry I scared you, sweetheart," he says, his voice smooth as the skin on his face, a smirk finding its way to his lips. "Your father wants to tell you something." He nods his head to the other side of the truck, where your dad opens his door. His hat was long gone from his head as his arm bent to hold it to his chest; he looked softer somehow, more kind.

“I’m quittin' for good, baby. This time I mean it.” You looked at your daddy’s face—really looked. And something about the way his hands shook, the way his voice caught—it made you believe him. Almost. Then you looked back at Father Winchester. He held your daddy’s cigarette pack in his hand like a trophy. “He’s done with these, too,” Father Winchester said. He smiles when he says it, but it’s not a normal smile. Not the kind that lifts your heart. It’s too slow. Too wide. And when the sunlight hits him just right, you could swear his teeth look too sharp. “I believe he’s ready. God’s got him now.” He looked at you when he said it. And you nod, because what else are you supposed to do? Because you want to believe your daddy. You need to.

Father Winchester doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I see something in you, too. Something sinful. An addiction of sorts.”

Your heart knocks once—hard. “I want you to come by the church tomorrow,” he says. “Just you. If your father’s busy, I’ll make sure you get home safe.” You open your mouth to lie—to tell him you’ve got class, or errands, or anything to keep from being alone in that church with him. But before a single word makes it out, your daddy cuts in.

“I’ll bring her,” he says, nodding like it’s already been decided. “Long as you make sure she gets back safe. I gotta head to work.” Your eyes dart to your daddy like he just handed you off. But he’s not even looking at you. He’s looking at Father Winchester’s car—a sleek, black Impala parked on the grass.

“Nice car,” he mutters.

“Thank you,” Father Winchester says, and he looks so damn proud you want to knock his jaw loose. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” He taps the side of the truck twice, fingers lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. Then he turns and walks away, slow and easy, like he’s got all the time in the world. He doesn’t look back. But you do. And you get this awful, sinking feeling—like tomorrow’s already swallowed you whole.

#supernatural x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural x you #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x younger!reader #priest dean #vamp!dean #vamp!preist dean #dean winchester x female!reader

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sacr1ficialang3l · 28 days ago

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†These crosses all over my body remind me of who I used to be.†

SUMMARY: Sam and Dean dress up as priest to investigate some mysterious deaths. What Sam does not expect is to find himself a little sacrificial lamb in the process. 4.7k

WARNINGS: smut (mdni). religious themes. religious trauma. mentions of self-harm. reader is an ex-catholic. one tiny scene of s.a. but nothing really happens. car sex. unprotected piv. blasphemy. priest kink. reader is heavily traumatized. if you're extremely religious or sensitive to religious imagery pls don't read. writer is also heavily traumatized and has a thing for rosaries.

NOTES: here i am again, writing about priest!sam. everyone say thank you ethel cain. as always, english is not my first language. enjoy<3

You knew something was going to happen today, you just didn’t expect it to come in the shape of a hot priest.

Your friend Alex’s cousin died a day ago. He was found in his room, his own wired earphones wrapped around his neck. He didn’t hang himself, instead he had somehow pulled on the earphones for long enough to kill himself. The police couldn’t really explain it, but there was no sign of break in or the presence of anyone else in the room either.

You had only met the guy once, which made your presence at his wake just a little awkward. It was supposed to be a family-and-close-friends-only kind of thing, but it was being held at Alex’s house, and she had begged you to come.

Alex didn’t have the best relationship with her family. They were all very religious, strict, and… moralistic. Her parents weren’t that bad, but the rest of the family was pretty awful. They never skipped a chance to comment on her clothes, or question her career decisions, and God forbid they saw her even glance at the beers her uncles were drinking like holy water.

You once even had to hear one of her aunts ask what was taking so long for her to get a husband and start having kids. You were both 20 at the time.

Now, two years later, you’re trapped in one small house with at least twenty of them. You convinced Alex’s mom that there would be too many people and she’d be way too busy to serve them all, so you offered to help by passing around snacks and drinks. It worked, and she let you stay. But that means you’re now stuck in the corner of the living room with a tray full of mini chocolate chip cookies, smiling at a bunch of people you really don’t like.

Alex had advised you to dress up for the occasion, and you had to dig deep into your closet to find the clothes you used to wear when you actually attended church. You wore a black dress that was supposed to hit your knees, but since you hadn’t worn it since you were a teen, it now hit almost at mid-thigh. It earned you a few questioning looks from the grand-aunts, but at least it covered what it needed to.

In your search, you also found an old rosary. It used to be your favorite, and the sight of it made you feel nauseous for just a second. Still, just for Alex, you placed it around your neck and pretended it didn’t drag you back to the dark times.

It used to be a comfort to have around your neck. Now, it’s tight and itchy. Like a noose, or a leash, or both.

It feels like a punishment—like the weight of sins you no longer believe in but still carry.

You’re walking toward a group of gossiping women—so much for “Do not go about spreading slander among your people,” you guess—when two new people walk through the door. You start to dread the presence of more self-righteous old assholes… until you actually catch sight of them.

Two priests enter the living room, followed by Alex’s father. They’re in full getup—suits, Bibles, and clerical collars. And they are insanely hot.

Both guys look younger than thirty, and they’re explaining something to Alex’s parents. You stare for a moment longer than necessary, until the shorter one glances over and catches your eye.

You immediately turn around and start walking somewhere, anywhere. You try to find your friend, but she’s nowhere in sight, so you just head toward the group of ladies you were originally aiming for and offer them some cookies.

That’s when Alex’s mother finds you and hands you a new tray with the mini-pies you and her daughter made yesterday.

“The church sent their two new junior priests to pay their respects. Isn’t that so kind of them?” she asks, genuinely touched by it. You try not to grimace. “Go and offer them the pies, and make sure to get them everything they need.”

Cool. Now you had to serve two literal clerics. Like this day couldn’t get any worse.

You’re awkward and shy when around people you find attractive, so you walk up to the men with your eyes on the floor and a mental chant of don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

“Uhm—mini-pies?”

You meet their eyes for a second. First the shorter one’s, who at the mention of pie immediately looks toward the tray and starts digging in. Okay, safe. Then your eyes drift to the taller one.

And Holy fucking God indeed.

The guy is absolutely gorgeous. Big hazel eyes, his styled long hair already falling onto his forehead a bit from the heat of the summer, and just so fucking tall. You can only hold eye contact for a second before your gaze drops back to the floor.

“Hell yeah.” exclaims the first guy, mouth stuffed with mini-pies.

You raise your eyebrows, surprised by his cursing. Some priests, huh?

It’s not the most blasphemous thing you’ve seen a man of the church do anyway, so you don’t comment on it.

The taller—giant, just fucking huge—man sends him a glare and rolls his eyes.

“Excuse him, he is our newest recruit. I’m Father Frehley.” He presents himself, extending his hand towards you.

For the smallest second, you’re overcome with terror. That hand, sliding out from a black sleeve, framed by the white, crisp cuffs—it’s too familiar. Too sickening.

You swallow it. Don’t be fucking pathetic. Get over it.

You struggle a bit to grab the tray with just one hand, movements clumsy with nerves, but the other guy helps you by grabbing the whole tray and immediately devouring the rest of the mini-pies.

You shake Father Frehley’s hand, meeting his eyes again. One, two, three, four… you look away. Okay, an improvement.

“This is Father Simmons.”

The shorter guy shakes his hand in greeting gesture, crumbs and blueberry filling all over his mouth. You frown a little, looking back and forth between the priests.

“Frehley and Simmons? Like… Kiss?” You raise an eyebrow, making both men stare at you, taken aback for a second, before Frehley chuckles and lowers his head.

“Yeah, exactly. Freakish coincidence.”

You’re still a bit skeptical, but you let it go. You already had enough to deal with today.

“So, are you the daughter of the homeowners?” Simmons asks, using a napkin to clean the remains of mini-pies off his face.

You shake your head quickly. “Oh, no. No, I am their daughter Alex’s friend.” You introduce yourself.

“So you knew the deceased?” Frehley asks, glancing around the room. You take the chance to study his features. Once his eyes return to you, you look down at your hands.

“Not really. I think I met him once or twice,” you shrug. The priests look a bit confused, so you continue. “The truth is, Alex doesn’t really… get along with some of the people here.”

You glance around the room again, trying to find Alex. She’s alone at the dessert table, looking like she definitely needs a sweet treat. But she doesn’t need rescuing—yet.

“I’m here for moral support. Even though I don’t like them much either.”

“Well, it is in times like this when the Lord wants us to support each other the most,” Simmons begins. “I’m sure He is pleased with you—”

That’d be a new one, he never seemed to be before.

You can’t help the snort that escapes you but you quickly turn to the priests, apologetic.

“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” you add quickly. “Thank you for your words.”

You try to sound as genuine as possible, but you’re pretty sure your expression gives you away.

“So why do they have you handing out snacks?” Frehley asks in a low voice, leaning forward a bit. God, his voice is so smooth and warm. Maybe you wouldn’t mind attending Mass if he were the one directing it.

“That’s how I convinced her mom to let me stay.” You sigh, shaking your head. Come on, girl. That was a Father. “But my real mission is to keep an eye on Alex. The moment some invasive family member tries to interrogate her, I slide in and interrupt the speech with some desserts.”

Both men chuckle at your words, and you study their faces again. What were two sexy guys like that doing in the church? You guess life does work in mysterious ways.

They continue asking what you know about the cousin’s death. You recount what you’ve heard, always keeping an eye on your friend. At some point, you two make eye contact, and she sends you one of those “those guys are fine” looks. You have to bite down a laugh.

“It was nice of you to come.” you add once the silence gets a bit awkward. “I am sure many here find comfort in your presence.”

“Not you, though?” Simmons jokes, and you can’t help but let out an amused huff.

“That obvious?”

“Just a bit.” Frehley looks at you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. You swear this is divine punishment.

“Yeah, well… my relationship with religion isn’t the best.” you avert your gaze again. “Grew up very Catholic—and I’m talking all-girls, nun-run Catholic school kinda thing.”

And now I feel guilty for breathing… and also kinda wanna fuck a priest.

“Oh, so the hardcore stuff.” Simmons teases, and it makes you laugh.

“But you’re not anymore?”

You shake your head. “No,” You had worked for years to keep the apology out of your voice when you said this. “I’m not.”

The eyes of the Christ in the front of the bible being held in Frehley’s arms burn into your skin.

“Let's say my relationship with God is very complicated.” You scoff, taking in a deep breath. “I really don’t mean to offend, but… many things happened that made me—well, not a fan of all things religious.” The scars on your back ache just a little, but you ignore it.

Both priests nod, and they don’t seem angry. They’re young, and seem smart enough to understand. You relax a bit, feeling less uncomfortable than you usually do around clergy members.

You feel both their eyes on you then, so your gaze drifts around the living room. And thank every deity you’ve ever heard of—because there’s Alex, cornered by the man you two had dubbed Creepy Uncle.

You quickly grab the old tray with the cookies (Simmons had finished off all the mini-pies) and turn back to the priests.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Fathers,” you say quickly, walking backward. “I think the mom’s in the kitchen if you wanna talk to her—but right now, I’ve gotta go play superhero.”

Turns out, going to save Alex from Creepy Uncle was a very bad idea. Because the moment she’s out of sight, he latches onto you.

He keeps inching closer, backing you up against the dessert table. His breath reeks of beer, and the way he pronounces every word—slow, suggestive, like he thinks he’s clever—makes your skin crawl. Even the spit flying from his mouth feels calculated. It all reminds you of the men from your old church: the cheating husbands who hovered near high schoolers, that one youth pastor you still try not to think about.

His hand starts to move toward you, and you freeze. Too many years of being taught not to fight back. Your stomach flips as his fingers reach for a strand of your hair—

And then your guardian angel steps in.

“Mrs. Evergreen wants us to pray.” Frehley hovers behind Creepy Uncle. His dark eyes and twisted mouth make him look menacing, almost scary. Like a predator—big, stealthy, quiet, but ready to sink his teeth into your jugular if he had to.

A different kind of fear bubbles inside you. The kind that makes you press your thighs together, heat pooling in your lower stomach.

Creepy Uncle finally leaves, looking bashful in front of the priest.

Frehley gives you a careful yet somehow comforting look before walking away to stand next to Simmons.

You stay in the back, hiding in the corner of the living room as the family begins to pray. You try to keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to be respectful. Not everyone who believes in God is bad, you tell yourself, over and over.

A few tears are shed during the more emotional speeches. The priests stand in the background, both of them looking a little lost. Did the church really send their newest, least-prepared members for this?

You’re already congratulating yourself for how well you're handling the situation when Alex’s aunt, the mother of the deceased, walks to the front of the room.

“Oh merciful God, I beg for you to forgive me.”

There it is. You see it in her eyes, her trembling hands, the pained tremor in her voice. The guilt, the shame, the self-blame. The same weight that was once tattooed into you, the one you can’t seem to get rid of.

Her son is dead, and she’s apologizing for it.

You shift on your feet, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. It tastes like wine and sacramental bread, the same taste that was forced into your mouth the day of your first communion.

“I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“In my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done, and in what I have failed to do.”

Your knees weaken, and your throat tightens. Not this one. Not this prayer. Not again.

“Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault;”

You’re drowning, choking, dying. The rosary around your neck tightens. The crucifix on the wall looms over you, ready to strike. God is here, and He demands repentance with blood.

“Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin, all the Angels and…”

You run. You did back then, and you do now.

You stumble out of the house, breath ragged, panic clawing at you.