𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈ℯ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓈ℯ, 𝓅𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈ℯ 𝒮𝒶𝓂.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : cult leader!sam winchester x fem!reader.
𝐜.𝐰 : +18 MDNI. suggestive. manipulation. sexual desire. ingenuity. author's scattered perception of religion. mr. sneaky hands. barely any proofread. author's sleep deprivation really showing.
"Mhm, that's really nice."
The little girl beams up at him, clutching the bouquet made out of wildflowers and weeds she just picked out and tied with a wonky ribbon she pulled from her braids, bouncing the balls of her feet up the grass and down with excitement. Like her offering couldn't have been worth of anything until it had his approval.
"Yeah, real pretty, honey," He nods his head towards the bundle of other kids waiting to be taken to The Temple.
"Go, I'm sure He's gonna love them just as much as I do." His voice is soft like the gossamer fabrics you sometimes wear on special occasions, and it reminds you of how much fleecy it can sound under the dim light of stick candles.
You, with your knees sunk on the damp soil where you're knelt in front of the gardenia shrubs, watch him with stars in your eyes and the roseate path only cohibition could leave behind drawn over your the apple of your cheeks and nose bridge.
Something that's been wrapping itself tight around the soft flesh of your thighs scurries its way up to your lower belly and clamps there hardly when his eyes meet your figure.
His gaze caresses the slope of your shoulder and your dirt-stained hands, slowly traveling all the way up to very briefly notice the sun kissing the exposed skin of your cleavage.
The white fabric of your dress pooling around your knees on the grass, the warmth that's gotten all over your face just because he's got his attention on you now, like you're ready to be blown to pieces with his grandeur and die happy.
You. Sweet, little, tender you. Such a pretty, malleable thing like you falling into his lap really fills him with pride. You just had to end up here, it was destiny.
Because when he had just found you, alone and cold standing outside a dingy gas station, he saw the pain in your eyes, the kind of agony only faith could heal.
He gave you something to believe in. He gave you himself, as well as he did with the others, and that's more than enough.
When Sam first understood that no one could ever save him from himself or the cruel circumstances he was put in from a young age, he knew he had to build a place of his own where his uncommitted—yet harshly punished—sins were washed away along with his tainted blood and the rage of his father that still bites at his jaw from time to time.
If he couldn't have it in the traditional way, then he was going to fabricate it.
Something that came out of a loving place. A trusting place. Somewhere no one could question him for.
And, well, who could ever doubt him when he has the light of paradise itself shining in his eyes and the honesty only a saint could brandish against adversities?
Sam is a leader. A benevolent, magnificent, merciful master for the confused, lost souls that came to him and are now inhabiting this beautiful cottage, with these beautiful flowers, and this beautiful community he's shed sweat and tears for.
He has to love the way you cling to his every word he says when he's standing behind the lectern of the old chapel that now works as a sacred place for this cult colony, modest and white and with the paint peeling off the wood everywhere.
He even took down the old cross that used to call people in as a beacon long ago.
See? He only wants the best for his people. No indoctrination, no fairytales. Just the truth.
And you believe it. Every time.
When he decides he's tortured you enough, he looks away from you, walking past and towards the congregation waiting for him beyond the wooden fence, but he still pats your head gently, a little praise for the good job you're doing with these flowers.
His hands linger more often, you've came to notice.
Like right now, with your knees once again pressed heavy and purposefully hurtful against the bare and squeaky hardwood boards beneath you.
You've wet the crumpled linel sheets that are layed on your bed with the tears falling from your eyes with more force and guilt than necessary, because, why wouldn't you want it?
What's so wrong about wanting more? Who says you can't feel all of this and just keep it to yourself, without ever having to let it show? Who decides if you should or shouldn't sigh his name in the dark when you think of him late at night, hand between your thighs and a foggy head full of traces of him?
And, most importantly, if it were to be terribly condemned under the flaw of you being merely flesh and bones and a fragile heart, why would his hand run through your hair this way?
"You have to let it out," Sam's breath is tepid against the shell of your ear, his right hand resting on your back, feeling your heartbeat slamming back and forth against your ribs.
The other one is pressed against your chest, as if he's holding you together in this dim bedroom, knelt beside you as well.
"And you have to let Him in, hm?" His nose brushes against your temple and his sigh of your name stroking your skin makes you think he's absorbing your pain and taking it as his own. "You have to give this to me, you have to let me take the weight."
Sometimes, when you're broken down like this and you need too much, Sam feels for you. He genuinely does.
He sees the tremble of your hands, he sees the way your eyes shy away from him like you can't stand the possibility of him knowing. He sees the clench of your thighs now, he hears the stutter in your breath with every sob, and he knows one of these days he's going to give in to you.
"All of this sorrow," His hand, broad and sore from past wounds and the need to go further and further down, trails down to press into the space between your breasts, the string tying the front of your dress together now undone. "you have to let me take it. You have to ask Him to give me the strength to hold this for you."
You've barely stopped crying, but his lips are soft against your cheek, and then against the corner of your mouth, and you're not strong enough to pick up your own pieces and sew yourself back shut and away from his loving touch.
"Okay," You breathe out weakly just as his mouth stills inches away from yours.
"Okay," He whispers back, giving the both of you a moment to settle into this moment. "It's going to be okay, you just have to trust me."
And you do. You nod against his forehead and let his fingers trace your moles on your skin that's sticky with sweat on your chest.
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : this gave me a headache. my skull feels tight. also i hope there aren't any inconsistencies or spelling mistakes or strange grammar cause i really couldn't be bothered to read it again.
