still, something changes. “it’s a small town,” he says, mouth curving faintly. “everybody knows everybody. you’ll get used to it.”

“that sounds vaguely threatening.”

his laugh slips out before he can stop it, warm and surprised, and your mother glances between you with the kind of innocent curiosity that makes you want to disappear into thin air.

father winchester clears his throat. “welcome to st. michael’s.”

you see him every sunday after that.

at first, it’s normal. he gives homilies in a low, steady voice and listens with his head tilted when people stop him after mass to complain about teenagers, marriages, weather, money. he remembers names. he helps older women down the church steps when the pavement is slick from rain. once, you catch him outside after a weekday service, trying to repair a broken hinge on the donation box with a multitool and a level of concentration that seems holy.

“should i call someone?” you ask.

he looks up from where he is crouched near the wall. “for the hinge?”

“for you. it looks personal.”

his smile is quick, crooked, more dean than father winchester. “i’ve got it.”

you stay for a while to hand him the tools anyway.

that becomes the problem.

not the tools specifically. the staying. the ease of it. the way conversation settles between you before either of you notices it happening. you stop by the church library one afternoon to return a book and end up sitting across from him for nearly an hour while rain rattles against the stained-glass windows. he asks how you’re adjusting to town, and unlike everyone else, he waits for the real answer. you ask why he became a priest, and the silence that follows is long enough that you nearly apologize.

“thought i could do some good,” he says eventually, eyes dropping to his coffee. “thought maybe that would be enough.”

you shouldn’t understand the ache beneath the words. but you do.

“is it?”

his gaze lifts to yours. “sometimes.”

after that, he starts avoiding you. dean is too careful to make it obvious. he still nods when you enter the church, still shakes your father’s hand, still asks after your mother with the same easy warmth he gives everyone else. but he stops lingering when you’re nearby. he no longer joins you in the library. when you catch him alone near the altar after mass, rearranging candles that don’t need rearranging, his shoulders tighten before you even speak.

it irritates you.

it also hurts more than you want it to.

“did i do something?” you ask one evening, finding him in the sacristy with a stack of old bulletins in his hands.

dean looks up too quickly. “what?”

“you heard me.”

“you didn’t do anything.”

“then why do you keep looking at me like i’m sin incarnated?”

his jaw shifts. he places the bulletins down carefully, buying himself a few seconds with the stupid little task. “you should go home.”

“that isn’t an answer.”

“it’s late.”

“dean.”

the use of his name lands hard. you know it immediately.

his eyes close for half a second, and when they open again, the warmth is gone from his expression, replaced by something tighter. frightened, maybe. of himself.

“you don’t get to call me that here,” he says quietly.

your pulse trips. “why?”

he lets out a breath through his nose. “you know why.”

dean stands a few feet away in black, collar bright against his throat, hands resting flat against the edge of the table as if he doesn’t trust them anywhere else.

you should leave.

he’s a priest. you’re a member of his parish. he’s made vows that existed long before you stepped into this town and smiled at him on the church steps. none of this is simple, and wanting it doesn’t make it right.

still, you don’t move.

“i thought i’d imagined it,” you admit.

his laugh is soft and humorless. “you didn’t.”

“okay.”

“it isn’t good news.”

“i didn’t say it was.”

dean looks at you then. properly. no careful priestly distance, no softened expression meant for parishioners who need reassurance. just a man who has spent weeks trying not to want something and is exhausted from failing.

“you think i haven’t asked myself what in the hell is wrong with me?” he says, voice low. “you think i haven’t stood in that confessionary and doubted if every decent thing i’ve ever tried to do means less because i can’t stop noticing when you walk into a room?”

your throat tightens.

“dean—”

“i took a vow.” his eyes flick briefly toward the door, then back to you. “and you trust me. your family trusts me. that matters.”

“it does.”

“then why are you still standing there?”

you swallow. “because you keep talking about what everybody else wants from you, and i’m trying to figure out what you want.”

his expression breaks slightly around the edges. for one breath, neither of you says anything. then dean steps closer. slowly. carefully. enough time for you to move away if you wanted to, enough time for him to stop if fear won out at the last second. he doesn’t touch you immediately. his hand hovers near your cheek, uncertainty visible in the tense line of his shoulders and the way his mouth parts without any words coming out.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

you shake your head.

his palm settles against your face.

the kiss is gentler than you expect. not reckless. not hungry at first. dean touches his mouth to yours as though even this small thing carries more weight than either of you knows how to hold, his thumb shifting softly against your cheek while your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.

then you kiss him back.

something in him gives.

he exhales against your mouth, hand sliding to your waist, drawing you closer with a restraint that feels hotter than carelessness ever could. the edge of the table presses into the back of your thighs. his collar brushes your knuckles when your hand rises toward his neck, and dean makes a rough, quiet sound that seems to startle him as much as it does you.

he pulls away before it becomes anything more. he doesn’t go far. barely even enough. his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, fingers still warm at your side. “this is a terrible idea,” he murmurs.

you open your eyes. “probably.”

his mouth almost curves. then guilt settles back over his face, familiar and heavy, and the distance returns before he actually steps away.

“i need to think,” he says.

you nod, even though disappointment twists low and sharp inside you. “i know.”

dean lets you go carefully, like the softness of it might undo the fact that he’s letting go at all.

when you leave the church, the rain has stopped. the street shines dark beneath the lamps, quiet and empty, and your lips still feel warm from his mouth.

behind you, the church door never opens. you walk home alone, knowing that tomorrow he will still be father winchester and you will still be the woman he should not want. ever.