#priest!dean

[thefriendlypigeon]

Preacher Dean Winchester is fighting to keep his flock together, but belief alone isn’t enough. No matter how hard he preaches hope, seemingly supernatural evils continue to plague his town. When a mysterious sickness begins to choke the life from his brother, Dean’s faith starts to unravel. Alone in his church, he crumples to his knees and prays, over and over, when suddenly…

[my social media links]

[headtraumasam]

SAM & DEAN WINCHESTER | NIGHTMARE, SUPERNATURAL 1.14

[priestesspie]

Midnight Mass . ݁₊ ⊹

ৎ୭ priest!dean was needed, along with a little friends-to-lovers. it does move a litttttle fast, but i just wanted to get right to it tbh. this is very sacrilegious and i will not apologize for that so deal or don't read. love ya. requests open :)

rated r, 18+ smut, VERY SACRILEGIOUS ⋆✴︎˚⋆ 3k words ⋆✴︎˚⋆ fem!reader (no y/n)

Midnight. 

Dean called again. His third check-in in the last two hours. Bored out of his mind playing Father Winchester to investigate a church with corrupted holy water. The rectory is quiet, the moon is high in the sky, and he’s begging you to relay some new information. He wants to lose the collar—and down a stack of pancakes.

Half an hour after the call ended, you slipped into the church, a Styrofoam container in your hands. The echo of your breathing filled the dimly lit space, moonlight poured through a large glass window at the back, and Dean was still borrowing holiness when he rushed in through the side door. He’d been watching out the window of the rectory, hoping to catch someone or something, but instead it was just you. 

“Hey, Father,” you said softly. A small smile sat on your face. 

“Thank god,” he mumbled, making his way over to you. His heart always fluttered just a little when you were near, something he pretended not to notice—yours did the same when you helped him put the collar on, which got him a little worked up. Maybe it was your hands on him, or the way your breath smelled like spearmint, or the lace of your bra peeking out. Nonetheless, you’d been on his mind ever since he went holy.

“Brought you pancakes,” you said, handing him plastic silverware and the container. His lips parted ever so slightly, grabbing both from your hands. 

“How’d you know?” he sighed, opening it immediately. He cut a piece and shoved it in his mouth without hesitation. His eyes widened at the sugary softness on his tongue—he almost pretended it was you. 

“I know you.” 

He swallowed another bite—so he didn’t choke on the flutter—and pointed the fork at you. “Any new information?” Air went through your teeth as you moved to sit in a pew to pull out your notes. 

“Not much, Your Holiness.” His next bite chewed away the tiny smirk on his face as your voice echoed softly through the church and his body. He paced around with his pancakes as you filled him in on everything again. Your gaze lingered on him, the pancake-eating priest you would do anything for. He’d been here for two days, trying to figure this case out, and only now did you realize how much you missed him. 

“Did you do a sweep?” you question, tilting your head softly at him. 

“Did I—of course I did.” He grumbles, shoving the last bite into his sticky mouth. You raise your hands slightly, sliding out of the pew and back into the aisle. 

“Well, Pancake boy,” you exhale, “maybe you didn’t do a good job.” He stops mid-step, staring at you and the wide smile you’re wearing. 

“Been here two days, sweetheart. ‘Course I did.” 

"Then you won't mind if I check your work, Father.” You start moving through pews, flipping through random Bibles, hoping to find something. He eventually joined you, flipping through himself and pretending like he wasn’t distracted by you. He was never really good at being subtle around you. He always found your eyes in the room, made an excuse to be near, and would say anything just to hear your voice. So, it wasn’t a surprise that you two made eye contact every thirty seconds. 

He started making his way to the pew you were in, looking through the Bibles you had already checked. “Already checked those D,” you mumbled, crouching down to grab another. 

“Then you won’t mind if I check your work, sweetheart.” His smile echoed through the church, fingers flipping through pages, but it didn’t last long. His eyes lingered toward you, running down your body before landing on your bottoms that were hugging your ass—he stared for two minutes, completely losing himself in you and every crouch you made. 

“Dean,” you said softly, noticing his lack of movement. 

“Yeah,” he spoke quickly, putting a bible back and moving down the pew with you. He was right behind you, pancake syrup on his breath, and your ass inches away from his aching cock. He was being stupid right now, and he knew it, but he didn’t mind being stupid for you. 

“What was that?” He said lowly, hands moving to your waist, pulling you close so that your ass was pressed to him. 

“What?” you chuckled softly. 

“I thought I heard something.” 

He needed an excuse to feel you. He was holding you tight, just in case he wouldn’t get the chance later. You look back at him, already in tune with the game he’s playing. So, you pressed your body deeper into him as you went forward to put a book back, which nearly caused him to moan. 

“We’re in a church,” he said, shaking his head. 

“Yeah…where you been?” 

“Don’t be a smart ass, sweetheart.” 

“I didn’t do anything, Father.” 

His grip eased once you made it back out into the aisle, but he still stayed close. He watched you walk down the aisle toward the front of the church, near the confessionals. His arms crossed over his chest as you opened the door, peeking your head in before slipping inside. He tilted his head, watching you scan the small space just in case. His voice rumbled through the church as he made his way over to you. “Need to confess something, sweetheart?” 

A hum left your throat before you pulled the door shut, garnering a small smirk from him. You took a deep breath, trying to ease the fluttering that was moving through your body. On the other side, you could hear the soft creak of Dean sliding into place, the space swallowing the sound of him clearing his throat. 

“Alright…Father Winchester at your service.” 

His words hung in the tight air, voice held by the wood, and face barely visible. Your body wanted to tremble under the suffocation. “Mm,” you exhaled softly, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” 

“Good start,” he hums, and your eyes drift toward the thin screen between you. The walls of his voice are caving in on you, pressing into your body like his hands do. You could listen to his words rumble from his throat for hours. 

“I’ve been wearing your leather jacket.” 

“Yeah?” he exhales, and you can hear his grin melting with his voice. “Does it look good at least?”

“It smells like you.” 

For a moment, the only thing you hear is Dean’s breathing on the other side. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Missed you too, baby.” 

The second the words roll off his tongue, you’re suddenly aware of just how small this space is. You’re suddenly aware the game has changed. Your bottom lip rolls into your mouth, but a soft whine escapes your throat. That tiny sound sends that familiar flutter through him, and without thinking, he is pressed against the screen.

“I like the way your voice sounds when you say that.” 

Fuck. 

The second he stepped into the confessional, you forgot the rules of the game. You forgot you were supposed to tease him and dance in the palm of his hand. 

“I like your hands,” you say quietly. “They always find me. Always feel good on me.” Your voice softens. “I like sleeping on your thigh when we drive for too long. And that you always smell like my shampoo.”

You can hear the soft thud of his head falling back against the wood. He swallows hard, and the confessional falls quiet again. His hands grab the seat between his thighs, creaking underneath his grip. “Baby…” he starts, then stops. 

“Say that again,” you say, lower this time. 

“Fuck baby,” he grumbles, shifting in his seat like it’ll bring him some relief. Your name slips out under his breath. His head turns toward the screen to find you through the lattice, and your stomach flips at the sight of him looking for you like that. 

“I think about you all the time.” You pause. “Such a distraction, Dean.” 

“I know,” he says quietly. Heart fluttering beneath his black suit. His mind is spinning; he’s caught on you and all the little things you think about—if they’re the same as him. “Tell me?” he asks, his voice deep and rough. A pause stretches too long in the confessional. He turns his head slightly toward the screen again, like he can’t help himself. His jaw is tight, and he’s looking for you, looking for your eyes in the darkness. 

“I wanna fuck my priest,” you say softly.

The booth goes quiet aside from soft creaks of the wood. You shut your eyes, trying to fight off the embarrassment about to take over. But then, the door to your side opens. 

“C’mere,” he mumbles, already moving towards you to grab your face. He doesn’t waste a single second before meeting your mouth. Once your lips melt with his, he’s absolutely undone. The door shuts behind him as he’s pulling you closer, deepening the kiss in the tiny space. He’s moaning softly in your mouth, and you’re tugging at his hair to keep him close. The confessional is practically swallowing you both whole, creaking louder around you.

He comes off for a second, eyes dragging over your puffy lips and dilated eyes. He’s taking you in with furrowed brows, reveling in you and the soft pout you’re wearing. His hand moves to settle on your throat, pulling you back in. “Think about you—“ he breathes against your mouth, moaning softly when your hand presses to his cock. “All the time.” You kiss him harder, whining into his mouth as you start palming his aching cock.

“Need you, Dean,” you pant, coming off of him. He can feel his cock twitch in his pants. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he pants, “Need you too.” His hand grabs yours, pulling you out of the confessional. His eyes scan over the church, trying to find a place where he can give you what you both need. You’re both desperate right now, and the feeling you kissing the side of his neck is making it worse. “Oh, fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you down the aisle and up the tiny set of steps to the altar. 

Your lips came to meet his neck again, fingers curling around his priest collar. His hands gripped your waist as your fingers began unbuttoning his shirt. He’s melting, melting into the trail of kisses you’re leaving from his neck to his chest as you work your way down. You started lowering yourself onto your knees, lips running down his chest. His hands make their way into your hair once you’re fully on your knees. “You gonna pray for me, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah,” you hum, fingers moving to undo his belt. “This is my penance.”

“Atta girl,” he groaned, watching as his cock popped out, inches away from your small smile. You gave him a tiny lick before spitting on his cock and running your saliva down his shaft. He let out a moan at the feeling of being wrapped around your hand. His eyes were heavy as he watched you take his tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him. Your saliva started dripping down the sides of your mouth as you bobbed your head up and down on his cock. His sounds were low and deep in his throat, his hands were tight in your hair, and he was starting to lose the strength to stand. 

But you kept going. 

“Fuck…baby,” he pants, throwing his head back as he felt the back of your throat. You hold him there before coming off with wet lips and a hum. You look up at him, mouth dripping and eyes big. He lets out a deeper moan when you go back, taking him all the way again. You bob your head as much as you can before moving back to his tip, dancing your tongue over him. “God, you’re so fucking good,” he sighs, savoring every feeling of your mouth on him. 

After a couple of minutes of playing with his cock, you hum, pulling off with a breath. He grabs your face as he kneels, kissing you hard. “Lay down,” he says, hands already moving to take off your pants. He met the wetness between your thighs as your back hit the thin carpet on the floor. His hands dug into your hips, pulling you and your pussy closer. Your legs were on his shoulders as he moved his head between your thighs, immediately putting his tongue to you. 

“Fuck,” you whine. You could hear him groaning into you; he was enjoying every second of this—how you tasted, how wet you already were, and the sounds he licked out of you. He licked over you some more, his tongue delving into you before coming off with furrowed brows. 

“Taste so fucking good for me, sweetheart.” 

He went back for more, making you cry out. Your sounds were echoing through the church, even if you tried to lower your volume a little. Both your hands moved into his hair, gasping once he slid two fingers inside of you. “Dean…fuck…like—“ you pause, crying out in another moan. His mouth came off of you, fingering you deep while his wet lips met the side of your thigh. 

“Louder,” he said softly. “Gimme more, baby.” 

He goes back, licking and swirling you all over while his fingers stay moving inside you. You’re giving him even more moans, louder ones this time—obeying him. “Dean,” you whine, “You’re so—“ 

He hums in you, going faster with his fingers, getting you closer. His eyes flash up to look at you and the pleasure sitting on your face. He’s throbbing again. He’s in love right now—not like he hasn’t been. You’re almost there, and he can feel you tightening around his fingers, so he stays the course, not changing a single thing. Your hands are still in his hair, and his one arm is wrapped around your thigh to keep you close. And within seconds, he’s got you. A series of moans, whimpers, and mumbled versions of his name leave your lips, filling the church. 

He keeps going, making sure you get every ounce of your orgasm. You’re panting when he comes off of you to meet your mouth with messy kisses. His hands are in your hair, then they move to your face before he turns your head to kiss your neck. He’s so fucked right now, and he knows it. “Need to be in you, sweetheart,” he mumbles, kissing your jaw. “Need it so bad.” 

You whimper in his ear, and he lets out a breathy groan. 

“Fuck me,” you moan softly. “Please, Dean.”

“Yeah, baby?” he hums against your neck, voice rough. “Can’t wait to be in hell with you.” 

He immediately pulls back and wraps his hand around his cock, positioning it with your wetness. He looks at you before sliding in, and his jaw goes slack once he feels your warmth. A tiny gasp leaves you, only for it to shift into a moan once he starts fucking you. He’s watching you through heavy eyes, absolutely entranced by the pleasure on your face. He’s listening to every sound that leaves you as he fucks you like he’s never fucked anyone before—he’s giving you all he’s got, and it’s only been three minutes. 

He shifts the position slightly, moving your legs to his shoulders and stretching them toward you. He’s deep. So deep that your sounds are now visceral.

“Fuck,” you say through your teeth, hands moving to grip his biceps. “So good, baby, so good…please.” 

He’s panting softly, and his hand moves to grip the altar behind you. His knuckles are white, and his cock is drenched in you. He’s suffocating in your sounds and the echo that follows them. 

“God—“ he pants. “You take my cock so well, sweetheart.” 

“I know,” you say through a shaky breath. You’re practically spiraling. You don’t move your eyes off of him; even in the dimly lit church, he is still visible as ever. He looks unreal, and it almost makes you angry—you wanna live in this forever. Your name falls off his tongue, and he starts going faster, hitting you deeper, stretching you out even more.

He is making you a mumbled mess. Moans are flying off of you and mixing with the low ones he can’t help but let out. His cock is thick and soaked in you. You feel like nothing he’s ever felt before, and you keep tightening around him just to hear him groan. He’s about to break the altar with the grip he has on it, and you’re about to scream so loud someone might come barging in. 

He doesn’t want this to stop, but he moves your legs off so he can come closer—so he can kiss you. His one hand cups the side of your face as his mouth dances with yours. You can barely kiss him back because of your sounds, but he doesn’t care; he eats them up. He’s pounding and pounding. He’s groaning your name in your ear, and you’re moaning in his. He can feel himself getting closer by the second; maybe it’s the way his name sounds falling from your pleasure-stricken lips. 

“Dean,” you cry out. “Don’t stop. Please…want you to—“

“Baby,” he chokes out, your words pushing him right to the edge. 

“Yeah,” you pant. “Come for me, handsome.” 

And he does. Instantly. 

A low moan leaves his throat as he soaks in every second of his orgasm. Your hands run through his hair and kiss his face—which sends a flutter through him. He doesn’t move, just falls on you and fills your ear with soft pants. He stays there for a few moments before rolling over next to you. 

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” he says, voice rough.

“What?” you breathe, looking over at him. 

“Y’know.” He waves his hand around the church. “Pretty sure we had an audience.”

You chuckle softly, “Wish they’d give us a review.” 

Dean smiles, looking up at the ceiling. “Well,” he exhales. “Took us long enough, sweetheart. Pretty sure the review would’ve just said, about damn time.” 

ৎ୭ sorry if this is kinda sucks, hope you enjoyed anyway! feedback and requests are welcome here! or in the replies lol

MASTERLIST

[sunsbaby]

deans eyes were glassed over with something that could only be described as lust. his hands gripped tightly onto your body as you lay beneath him. eyes shut and mouth wide open—moans spew from your lips like prayers as the rough seats of the pew dig into your naked back.

"shhh angel, be quiet, we're in the lords house right now." dean's voice came rough as his thrusts quickened, but he never did anything to stop the sound of your moans echoing through the empty church walls.

"father!" you shouted, hands gripping onto his clothed back, legs wrapping around his waist as you attempted to push him deeper—eager to feel all of him inside you.

it got roughed, harder, faster, as he became close to finishing. what got him off the most was seeing you, the good girl type—church every sunday, no dresses above the knee, and the cutest glass–which were now fogged up–adorning your face all sprawled out in the place you call your second home for him.

"you can do it baby, be good for your father." he murmured into your ear as he spilled his seed into you—your body shook and trembled as your orgasm hit you hard.

his calloused hand came to softly cradle your face as you panted, a large wolfish grin on his lips as he slipped it out of you.

𓍯𓂃

sunny yaps! HIII everyonee this is very short but ive been getting back into the feeling of writing again and honestly have been feeling wayyy better! I love you all and thank you sm for the support!

special tags! @bruisedfig @sturnspup @bluemerakis @floralscented @bejeweledinterludes2

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ® 𓂃 do not repost or copy my works without permission!!

[bleachedduck]

❝ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐏 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐎 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘. ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : priest!dean winchester x fem!reader.

𝐜.𝐰 : +18. MDNI. angst. heavy religious and moral guilt. self-deprecating dean. probable depression. oral sex (m receiving). crying. accidental facial and overstimulation if you squint.

Dean Winchester.

The man who's fought unimaginable evil forces. Who's bled for people who weren't vicious enough like him to just shoot that shotgun and get rid of the problem. Who's given his body and soul expecting to patch up some rupture in the heart of the world.

The same man who then ran away from the blood, and the filth, and the violence, and the generational trauma, to very reluctantly let himself fall into the arms of God, "selfishly" leaving his little brother behind in exchange for a stiff mattress in a small room that smells like mildew and to wear the same garments every day.

Guiding people through a path he's never walked down before, hoping they can get there together.

Preaching proverbs he's made sure to carve into his brain after years of driving around, visiting different places where he thought he might've found Him. Or Her.

He doesn't really care as long as he has someone to talk to before he goes to bed.

Everyone in this town loves him, with his good looks and his easy smirk he's learned to tame down into something less cocky and more amiable.

Father Winchester. The young priest who arrived into town with nothing but a beaten up duffle and a stolen rosary tucked away under flannel.

The title still feels lost on him, even after all of these years he's spent working his ass off for being here, in this small church in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama. He never thought he'd get this far with his GED and a trunk full of weaponry.

But he's never been his biggest fan, always putting himself down in an attempt to fit himself into everyone else's perspective of who he really might be for a few reasons he doesn't want to unpack in this small confessional booth.

In this small, sweaty, overwhelmingly constricted, sacred wooden stall that feels like a matchbox. If you brush up against him only once more he's sure the Devil will rip a whole in the earth and light the whole place on fire.

And the last thing he wants right now is the devil he knows, but the one knelt between his jagged loafers right now, making his whole body squirm with every leap of her tongue.

Although he can't help but swat that thought away, thinking of you a teary eyed rudy angel instead.

He hates himself for admitting this, even if it's just inside the secrecy of his perturbed mind—he hopes it's just him in there—, but he's missed this.

A pair of forgiving eyes instead of ones that seek for his forgiveness when he can't even grant that to his own self.

Warm hands that touch him in places he swore before God not to be touched at ever again.

A balmy, snug mouth that will take him and take his sorrows away, and yours feels like heaven on earth if he knows anything about that.

To say that he never again fell for temptation's traps after he became a priest would be a lie, one that he's not willing to play along with. He's deceived himself and other for far too long, and he's tired of pretending it doesn't weight down on his long list of regrets.

A boisterous blonde after a rough week years ago. A shy redhead barely a month after his priestly formation.

"...who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name..." The collar of his clerical shirt is tight around his neck, choking the prayers he's struggling to utter out, hoping it'll make a difference.

His hand on the top of your head gentle and fragile like it's trying to thread through the veil of humiliation making his stomach churn, wishing he'll find something that justifies the disgrace he's putting the both of you in.

If the sleazy magazine he's greedily kept for himself, hidden away between the folds of the few pieces of clothing he brought with him when he first moved here didn't make him nauseous at the thought of getting hard, then this definitely does.

You, beautiful and sorrowful and pliant, giving him something he's not worth of being entrusted with.

Knelt down before him like this is the only chance he'll ever get to be loved again, doesn't matter how much this isn't about love.

You, who arrived into this thwarted temple with a polite smile and hundreds of curious inquiries about what a man like him was doing here, asking him where he came from and what led him to lock himself away under a cassok and a chipped chaplet.

Dean played it cool, brushing away the questions he wasn't ready to answer.

Because, strangely, you had him almost all figured out barely two weeks after your first encounter, and Dean just couldn't resist being seen for the first time in such a long, unfortunate while.

Visiting him to oh so thoughtfully check on him after service, listening to him like he's giving you the key to survive the Armageddon. Every single time.

Batting your eyelashes in the most genuinely innocuous way, puckering your lips before you spoke, brushing your hair behind your ears as you helped him brush the pews clean...

Long story short, Dean started feeling a problem growing bigger in his pants after every afternoon shared alone, but, most importantly, in his chest.

The familiar ache that wanted to swallow every inch of affection that was thrown his way, always eager to take more than what he's being handed.

Maybe this is romantic. Maybe that's what's bringing unwanted tears to his eyes as his hips twitch in place, stopping himself from pushing further inside your mouth, shame narrowing its hand around his throat after every current of white hot pleasure rippling through his body.

When was the last time Dean didn't feel shame for being wanted?

When was the last time shame took a different approach to punish him for not being pure enough?

The lewd sounds of your spit squelching up and down his girth making him flutter against your tongue, tightening the buzz squirming deep in his lower belly.

"...thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven— God," You suck him in harder than he had expected you to be capable of, and the whimper he lets out turns into a sob quick enough to bring more heat to his face, his hand on your hair tightening without meaning to.

Your eyes flicker all the way up, from his crumpled clerical shirt to the askew clergy collar, to his eyes, wet and afraid, like he's expecting you to get up and leave him there after finding out that he disgusts you to your core almost as much as he's disgusted by himself.

He doesn't remember how long ago you beckoned him here. Three, four minutes maybe.

He made sure to kiss you gently before you unbuttoned his pants, to treat your body and your limbs as if they were part of the altar waiting for him outside.

When you pull him out of your mouth, his stomach drops, fear kicking in, ready to tuck himself away and step down from his title.

But you just keep stroking his needy cock, watching the first tear trickle down his rosy cheekbone, allowing him to hurt, and in turn allowing himself to break down in front of you, confessing his need for affection without having to say anything.

"It's okay," You whisper against the angry red tip, leaving a small kiss there, to which he leans his head back for a second, thudding against the thin wood panel, biting down on his plumpy lower lip to quieten down another sob.

Your lips embrace the side of his pulsing length, latched to the base of his dick and dragging themselves up pick up the withish precum with your tongue. "It's okay, I can take it for you. You can cry it out. I can make you feel better, just let it go."

Dean hadn't felt this relieved and sick to his stomach since his first time being with a girl.

He was timid and inexperienced back then despite the big mouth he had on him that made everyone believe he knew far more than he actually did.

Now he's just sad and you happened to be there, open and lenient.

Unknowing, accepting. So mellow, so humane in a way he didn't know to be possible.

And so he keeps crying. Barely restrained and attempting to be quiet, paranoid of someone having entered the church while he's in here with you.

What would he say if one of the old ladies that make their duty to fill the front pews of the church every Sunday found the two of your leaving the booth?

What will he say to God tonight, when he's alone and regretful and the bile crawls up his throat like fire from Hell?

Trembling fingers comb through your strands as your lips wrap around his tip again, a gasp getting stuck and mingling itself with the pitiful, wet moan begging to come out and show you how much he wants you to take his agony and suck it out of his body.

At least until he cums. Until his skin cools off and he despatches you out of the building.

Which he unexpectedly does.

Cumming, not kicking you out.

The fire in his pelvis flares up at the simple, slow jerk of your hand at the base of his cock, lazily blinking up at him like you're begging for him to get it out of his system one way or another, spurting out of his slit and landing on your chin and his pants.

"Nono— Fuck— Fuck," It's like the air has been punched out of his lungs after so long of keeping it from happening with cold showers and flagellation that turned out to be something he couldn't do without feeling something other than shame pooling at the bottom of his stomach.

He's choking on the tears and the whines he can't hold back anymore, his whole body stiffening and shuddering inside the confined space of the confessional booth.

Dean wants to apologize. To scratch his way out of your gentle touch and the terse handkerchief you've drawn out of somewhere in your jeans to clean him and yourself up, whispering reassuring words when his first instinct is to shoot up and run.

"Dean— Dean, it's okay, look at me," Your voice makes him want to throw a fit and cry his eyes out until he's evicted from every church in the country for such a vile thing to do in this consecrated space.

You're on your feet and sat down beside him in the blink of an eye, the motion a little awkward from the lack of room for you two to exist in here.

Wordlessly, you place a hand on his nape, the other one laid down on his softening length, and bring him in so he can hide away in the crook of your neck.

Dean tries to put up a fight at first, flinching away from you like you're the Devil and he's just woken up from a spell, but the withered, broken part of him, which would be his entire being, gives in soon after.

The tip of his nose rubs against the ticking vein under your slightly damp skin before his whole face is pushed onto the slope of your shoulder.

You can hear him finishing his prayer while your hand strokes the remainings of his arousal away, his breath warm and frail where he's still calming himself down, hitching at the feeling of your fingers.

"—but deliver us from evil," Hic. "A-amen."

You sigh softly, leaving a merciful kiss on his temple. "Amen."

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : angst and cum slope yummy. i don't have anything else to say besides sorry. (maybe?)

﹙DIVIDERS BY @ chrisssiren.﹚

[ozonecologne]

✝️ father winchester ✝️ drawn in photoshop, ~10 hours

bless that one photo of johnny cash

[reginaphalangelobster]

Knife blood deans mouth i need to see a priest

What kind of priest are you looking for, ma'am?

We have a few models in stock at the moment, I'll get them out of storage for you.

We've got the 2 for 1 deal, this package comes with or without sleeves

Also sold seperately

And we have a couple of older models, some like the new ones more, but personally, I find if they're a little older, they work a hell of a lot better and are pretty reliable

Then we've got something a little different, slightly smaller - in some aspects - but much more powerful if you ask me

So, would you like me to wrap one up for you?

[cyxoi-chert]

“The personal sin”