#fernsplace

summary: sam shows you that pleasure is anything but sinful. word ct: 3k content: smut. porn with plot. softdom!sam. praise. body worship. emotional intimacy. p in v. inexperienced!reader. lowkey sam munchester LOL notes: this is the final chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER! I WANT TO CLARIFY THAT SEX IS NOT BAD!!!!! IT IS NOT DIRTY!!!! VIRGINITY IS NOT REAL!!!!!!! IT IS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT!!!

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

< CHAPTER FIVE | ABOUT >

his breath is hot on your skin, and you feel an unfamiliar buzz as he plants kisses down your neck, beginning just beneath your ear. each one sending shivers through your body.

each kiss is placed with care. measured. your eyes flutter when he parts his lips, teeth grazing over your skin. he nips at the most sensitive spots, but he’s gentle. he takes his time with you.

nobody has ever touched you this way. you were raised to believe that intimacy should be saved. left for your husband, whose name you will take when you ultimately devote your life to him.

but this, this felt good. sam’s touch felt good. his hands, calloused and scratchy, rest comfortably, one in your own hand, while the other travels south. his leg rests between yours and its close proximity feels magnetic. you lift one leg to bend at your knee. you have to restrain yourself, keep your hips firmly on the grass beneath you.

sam lifts his chin and he travels back towards your right ear. your skin stings where his lips once sucked, leaving light maroon blemishes.

how sinful it is. to let a stranger taint your body. to let him paint it with bruises.

his warm breath tickles your ear and his lips hover.

“tonight’s about you.“

he thumbs over your left hand, and he shifts to look you in the eyes. you’re looking up through your lashes. eyes shining beneath the moonlight. lust. and he swears he could’ve let out a groan. but he didn’t want to make you weary.

he’s quiet for a moment, and you watch as his pupils search your face until his dips his chin back down, connecting his lips to yours. they taste sweet, not venomous. they’re slow in pace and soft as he sucks your bottom lip.

your lips, the same ones that speak to god, move harmoniously with a boy’s who has never been pure in His eyes. sinful.

“not god.” another kiss.

he brings his right hand to your chest. his fingertips are warm and daring.

“let me make you feel good.”

a soft, metallic pop follows his words, and you feel a tug on your hair just at the base of your neck. in the grass beside your head, sam places your silver cross necklace. the symbol of your faith—no longer attached to your body. the final act of defiance that preludes your inevitable rejection.

his words echo in your ears like a sermon.

your breath hitches and your cheeks grow pink. something flutters deep inside you, but it doesn’t feel like the rot you know too well.

there’s a moment of silence, where not even the leaves whispered. his forehead rested against yours. and a searching hand wandered down to your waist. his fingers curled beneath the hem of your sweater. he paused for a moment, until he felt you nod against him. you suddenly felt all too warm, and your breathing was growing heavier.

there were many nights where you felt that you couldn’t breathe, but never in this context, never while committing an act as dirty as this. rather, there were times where you sat in your room, anxiety-ridden, and choking on the mere thought of disappointing your father.

how would he feel if he knew you were lying breathless beneath the boy whose act of rebellion lured you in.

how would he feel if he knew that something was shifting inside of you. away from his cage. away from his eyes.

how would he feel if he knew that the guilt he implanted in you was condensing and being replaced by something much greater.

what he knew as sin, you were getting to know as desire. a part of human nature, not inherently evil.

sam’s hand slipped under your clothes. his silver thumb ring, cool to the touch, brushed along the skin of your waist. he moved with intent. to learn all of you. the curve of your hips, the concave of your dimples, the striations of your stretch marks.

you wanted him to be a part of you.

“sam.”

his touch paused immediately. he almost retracted his hand, but you shook your head. he looked pretty on top of you. a white light illuminated him and outlined his large frame. like an angel casting a glow from above.

he looked heavenly.

his eyes search yours. "d'you want this?" he asks.

"more?" you breathe out. it sounds like a question, like you're asking if he's okay with it. sam nods, the corner of his lips curling into a smile. you know you don't need to ask. you know where you two lie at the moment. that you both want this. it's in the way your hearts are beating together.

it's slow, the way it happens.

the way his fingertips tug the end of your sweater, slipping it over your head. the way his eyes linger over your body, letting his eyes fall from your lacey white bra, down your belly, and to the waistband of your skirt.

it's quiet, the way the guilt loses its grip, and the pressure deep down begins to subside. the touch of his lips as they kiss along your belly. he doesn't demand. no. he desires.

you were raised on sermons that taught you to feel shameful for even the private act of imagining the delicate touch of man on your body. sam, however, made it his mission to prove what god had failed to—that maybe your body is a temple, but one that should be worshipped.

your torso twitched beneath his touch. he was patient, taking his time with you.

"you are so beautiful." he spoke slowly between kisses, lips dragging along skin until he reached your skirt. your hips threatened to leave the ground. his breath tickled, sending chills down your spine.

you had a hand still tangled in his hair, curling around the thick strand. this action gave you stability, a more intimate connection.

he looked up shortly, as though checking in on you as he backed down your legs until his eyes were level with your hips. sam's pupils were blown. lustful.

how could a sin be so deadly if it felt so good to feel?

his hand disappeared beneath your skirt, and you followed the feeling of his fingertips traveling up your thighs. soft, lingering, until his thumb swiped gently over the cloth of your panties. you soft gasp slipped through your parted lips, and your hips jerked. sam's eyes were fixed on your face, watching your expressions change. he needed proof of your pleasure, just as a nonbeliever needed proof of god.

the difference here was that he could see you. and feel you. all of you. he could hear the pretty sounds you make. he could see the way you tucked your bottom lip behind your teeth. you were definitively real.

in pleasuring you, sam felt his sins wash away. not because he believed it was holy. no. because every twinge of impurity that once echoed behind him was silenced. he felt no fire. no uncleanliness. just your body trembling beneath him.

"please, sam"

he felt that the release of his name from your mouth could save him.

he scrunches your skirt up over your hips, letting the fabric drape over you. and places a soft kiss over the center of your panties from which heat radiated from.

he curled his fingers around the cotton fabric, pulling them to the side. his eyes were wild, but not hungry. you weren't his prey. he dives in, licking a slow stripe through your southern wet.

the soft hum that vibrated in the back of your throat made sam's heart flutter, and heat travelled down his own body. your twisted your fingers in his hair without substantial pressure. you're gentle with him, just as he with you.

his eyes flutter, the drag of your fingers on his scalp makes him feel fuzzy. he briefly pulls back from your body, and slips your underwear down your legs, tossing them carelessly aside. he starts with quick kisses on your hypersensitive clit.

your hips twitch and your legs threaten to close. sam's large hands grasp your thighs. not too hard. just enough to keep them down. he parts his lips, traveling downwards. warm tongue slipping through your folds. arousal pools on his tongue.

your legs are beginning to shake. a free hand reaches back to find something—anything to hold onto. you dig your nails into the dirt as you release soft moans.

"sam, holy-" you gasp when he hums against you. you tug lightly at his hair, accidentally. but you feel a shift in his movements. his flow is growing messier. his tongue fervent. he circles a long finger around your clit, and his tongue slides in the velvety walls of your heat.

"doin' so good for me, hun" he mutters against you, breathy and warm. your moans are growing more frequent, volume increasing just slightly. despite being the only people within a half mile, you try to silence yourself as you do when you've wrapped up in your covers in the middle of the night.

sam knows that you have it in you to be louder.

"wanna hear you." he mumbles, his breath is quick. he jerks his hips when the grass beneath him rubs his sensitive bulge in just the right way.

the lewdness of his words excites you. you release your bottom lip from the grip of your teeth. he dips a finger in, thrusting slowly. in and out. you grit your teeth momentarily, but pleasure is quick to take over.

"mmm, sam," your lips part, quick gasps escaping. he picks up the pace just a bit, sliding a second finger in once he knows you're ready. he barely comes up for air, as though he has no care for himself. only you. you taste sweet on his tongue, and he laps it up. the sound of saliva and skin is pornographic.

sam feels the tremble of your legs get stronger, and he knows you're close. "so so pretty for me." he whispers, fingers moving faster inside of you. you let out a breathy moan when he sucks your clit, it pulses on his tongue. "almost there," he encourages.

your hips lift from the ground, but he pushes them wide again. soft whines escape your lips. you feel hot and feverish. gentle hands hold his head flush against you, afraid he might stop. but he doesn't.

you feel weightless, the sound of your own moans are muffled, and your eyes shut tight as his tongue dances through your folds. sam feels delirious himself, drunk on the way you taste. his own free hand comes down to palm himself through his pants.

in the symphony of wet sounds, your whiny moans, and sam's hums, you can't help but grind your hips into his tongue. you feel yourself losing control. your thighs shake and your head is hazy. "sam," your voice is barely there, lost to the pleasure.

his hair is tangled between your fingers as you reach the edge. you cum, your slick emptying onto his tongue. he doesn't stop, coaxing you through your orgasm. it's intense. like waves crashing on a shore. you gasp, his fingers still not slowing. they move with passion. your hips twitch wildly against his tongue, becoming oversensitive.

"s' too much." you barely get it out.

sam pulls away, lips glossed over with your slick. you just about moan at the sight of him as he licks his lips. you both take a moment to catch your breath, eyes never leaving the others. he keeps a hand settled on your thigh, nails scratching softly over your skin as you calm.

"y' did so good," he said, sitting back on his knees. his hair was a mess on his head, and his cheeks were flushed pink from exertion.

"i feel so good." you sit up, bravery running through your veins.

if sex with sam feels so good, how could it possibly be bad?

your hands find his belt buckle.

"uh, uh, uh." he hums, taking your hands in his.

"tonight's for you, remember?" he brushes your hair over your shoulder and reaches his arms behind your back, skillfully unclasping your bra.

you let his hands run down your body.

sam removes his jacket, dropping it to the ground behind you. then throws his shirt off to the side, his belt and jeans not too far behind.

his hands find your waist again, and he lowers you back down to the ground. this time, his jackets acts as a barrier between the prickly grass and your unclothed skin.

"probably should've done that earlier," he whispers against your lips.

you can't help but chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"i promise you i was too preoccupied to notice."

he smiles, grinding his hips into yours. his bulge is heavy and aching against you. he grunts when you slip your hand between your bodies, taking him into your palm.

"i like when you make noise," you hesitate to say, and it comes out as a whisper.

"yeah?" he asks, your core flutters.

"yeah."

sam's throbbing against you. you tug at the waistband of his boxers. seeing your eagerness excites him. in an unbroken kiss, he removes them, and his length stands stiff. precum dribbles from the tip.

your hands trace up his body, finding his back. tenderly, your nails scratch in long strides and you feel him shiver under your touch.

if the human body is a gift that is to be respected, what is more highly honorable than providing it pleasure?

sam brings his hand down to pump his member a few times, spreading his slick as he aligns himself with your hips. he's bigger than you imagined.

he dips his head down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

"tell me if it's too much." you nod.

he rests his head in the crook of your neck, tongue licking stripes behind your ear as he presses himself into you. you gasp, arching your back. sam pauses momentarily to let you adjust, but the digging of your nails into his back tells him to keep going.

he moves in and out slowly at first, and he breathes hard in your ear.

"fuck. kiss me," you roll your head to face him. his quick and compliant, kissing you with feverish desire.

his hair is already sticking to his forehead and he's humming against your lips. his hips roll into yours, trying to get as deep as possible. to fill you up.

"need more." still sensitive from your first orgasm, you know you're not going to last too much longer.

sam thrusts his hips rhythmically, and your walls squeeze around his length. he feels warm inside of you.

his cock is pulsing, the roll of his hips is methodical. he reaches the deepest parts of you. he grunts against your lips, occasionally whispering your name like a prayer. his voice is gruff, urgent.

sam moves a bit faster, a bit messier. the sound of skin slapping skin takes over the chirps of the crickets. "yes," you breathe, "god, yes!". you're approaching euphoria, and your hand finds its way to his hair once again.

your grip is stronger than it once was, and sam grunts.

"oh, shit." he drags out a long breath.

his thrusts are getting sloppy, and his moans come more frequent. strands of cum stick to the inside of your thighs.

"sam. sam, holy fuck-," you're breathless, and a pressure builds inside you. he smiles against your lips.

"almost baby, need you to cum for me again. can you do that?"

you nod quickly, eyes fluttering. your vision is clouding over. you whine, sam's name leaving your lips in an uncontrollable song. you let the pleasure wash over you. until you're spilling cum over his cock.

your legs tremble and tears prick your eyes.

"so good, so fuckin' good for me, baby."

once you're overstimulated once more, he pulls out, his hand rubbing up and down his length, thumb circling his tip— just how he likes it. he hovers his cock over your belly.

"sam."

"almost there." he hums, his breaths short and quick.

"no, no, sam." you lift his chin to meet your eyes. his eyes are glassy with need. his eyebrows furrow, and his pace slows to a stop.

"let me." you say, placing a firm hand on his chest to push him to the side and onto his back. he's confused, but he's in daze, so he follows suite.

his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head when you position yourself on your knees. not in prayer. not this time.

your mouth hovers over his length, and you circle your tongue around his tip. your other hand pumps him up and down, circling every so often.

you know he's close.

"shit, shit, shit." he moans. you like seeing him unravel. like seeing a new part of him.

your hand his messy with your own cum, and you pick up the pace. when his hips twitch and his abs tense, you stick out your tongue, your hand maintaining its pace.

he groans a string of your name, each iteration more of a mumble than the one before. in a quick rush, sam is spilling onto your tongue. it's warm and salty when it hits your tastebuds. his eyes stay fixed on you. he thinks you look so pretty like this, his cum running down your lips like wine from a chalice.

when it's over, sam uses his shirt to wipe you down, placing gentle kisses down your body. then you both lie down. the breeze that passes over you feels cool against your bare skin. you press your face to his chest, letting the heat radiating from his body ground you.

you smile tiredly. thunder doesn't crack. hell doesn't swallow you whole. beneath the cover of the willow, your breaths sync.

maybe this is the feeling you've been chasing.

maybe this is salvation.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

author’s note: teehee, that’s the end of preacher’s daughter!!! i haven’t written smut in literal years so i hope this was decent lol.

i forgot how much i missed writing, and i’m so happy lots of you are enjoying my works! more to come soon :P

if you'd like to be added to my taglist let me know! don't be shy!

" jesus can always reject his father "

you spend your sunday mornings on your knees. hands clasped tight, knuckles white and desperate.

around you, patrons of the church listen to the scripture that echoes from the walls. sacred words that are meant to invoke hope as they melodically falls on good ears.

are you not good?

your father, who stands behind the altar, preaches about goodness. judgement. sin. though not directed to you specifically, his words are venomous as they slip from his saintly tongue.

you don't feel Him. why can't you? a horrible rot consumes you instead. when will it be your chance to be saved?

preacher's daughter tells the story of a girl, who should be--by the virtue of god—considered pious. you follow His orders strictly as He speaks through your father. you maintain your sanctity under watchful eyes. and yet, an unexplainable guilt lingers.

on a hot summer's day, a boy, who’s rough around the edges appears at sunday mass. he stands out, and based on shrewd observation, didn't seem like the church type.

when he leaves in the middle of a sermon, you can't help but be intrigued by his bravery-his defiance. this leads you down a path of curiosity, subtle rebellion, and rejection.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

pairing: sam winchester x you content warning: themes of religious guilt. rejection of religion and the catholic church. negative depictions of religion. negative depictions of god. indirect mentions of abuse. please do not read if you are sensitive to these themes. nsfw(18+): smut. porn with plot. softdom!sam. praise. p in v. unexperienced!reader. body worship. emotional intimacy.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

table of contents

[01] SUNDAY MORNING! [02] LOVE ME THE WAY THAT YOU DO! [03] EDGE OF TOWN! [04] WOMAN SCORNED! [05] FAMILY TREE! [06] BATHE ME CLEAN! (18+, nsfw, smut)

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notes: i'm super proud of this work & i really hope you guys like it! please please please make sure to read the content warnings, as it can be really heavy at times.

the series is finished!

inspo: very loosely based on themes in preacher’s daughter by ethel cain! (no cannibalism oopsie, maybe another day)

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stay updated for new chapters! if you'd like to be added to my taglist, let me know! don't be shy!

summary: while your father preaches at the foot of the altar, you're entranced by an unfamiliar face. word ct: 1.9k content: religious themes. religious guilt. negative depictions of religion. one use of "y/n". notes: this is the first chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER!

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< ABOUT | CHAPTER TWO >

the heavy, wood rotted door squeals behind you, and the floorboards creak when you step into the church hallway. you knew which ones to avoid. your body seems to remember even when your mind drifts. the third panel from the left near the coat closet will groan loud enough to call attention, and the panel beneath the west window bends with a snap if you’re forgetful.

you learned to walk quietly. heel, toe, heel, toe.

your father’s gruff voice still echoes in this place, even when he’s not here. even when you’re in the back hall near the boiler room. where the heavy scent of rust and mildew invades your nose. you remember kneeling in the pews on sunday mornings, hands clasped so tight they cramped. your eyes would squint and sometimes you’d hold your breath. you prayed hard to god. you needed Him to listen. and you knew He was watching. your father always said He was. and you believed him.

but His presence didn’t feel like you were told it did. all encompassing, warm, light. no. instead, you felt as though dark, looming eyes were watching you from afar. the kind of eyes that send a shiver down your spine. the feeling you get when you know you’ve made a mistake, and your dad knows too.

you shake your head, as though to rid of the negative thoughts.

you walk down the aisle and through the church pews. you try to imagine yourself dressed in all white. long vail flowing down your back. the bouquet of flowers in your hands always appeared wilted, dull, and dying. you could never imagine yourself getting married in a church. you couldn’t understand why anybody would. don’t they feel It too?

on the alter sits a stack of pamphlets which detail today's service. you sigh, taking them into your hands. your eyes scan the text curiously even though you've heard every hymn and sermon under the sun. not to mention, it seems that church is all your dad talks about even when he leaves.

dressed in an angel white dress, frilly socks, and mary janes, you take your place near the front door of the church. there's still about five minutes before attendees start piling in. you listen to the condensation dripping from the rusted old pipes. the stillness is eerie, but strangely comforting.

living in a tiny midwestern town your whole life, you're familiar with every guest that walks through the doors. the gregorys are the first to arrive. the head of the household, tim, walks heavy on the aged floor, work boots thumping with every step. “mornin’, hun.” he smiled, taking a pamphlet from your grasp. your lips seal themselves in a smile of their own and you give him a nod. celia, the much smaller wife, walks much quieter, like she’s tiptoeing. she lends a smile, placing a tender hand upon your shoulder before walking into the main room of the church.

as boring as you thought this town was, you found comfort in the familiarity of its people. most parents awoke with sun and nodded off on the couch just as the sun hits the horizon. kids rode their bikes down the backroads. no helmets. no cares in the world. to them, there was so much more to life than school. to their futures. they still had so much hope.

the next family to walk in were the tuckers. the father went strictly by “big tuck”, but you swore to him you’d never call him that to his face, even when he pinky promised he’d give you twenty bucks. their three little boys bounded in after them. rascals they were. but you loved to watch them grow up.

next came the radcliffes, then the hughes, and the tawnys. you offered a small smile to them all. as the last family piled into the small church, you made your way to the doors to close them. but something—somebody caught your eye.

an unfamiliar face was walking up the rotting stairs. he walked cautiously, watching each step. his hands stayed tucked in his front pockets, and his loose carhartt jacket slipped from one shoulder. finally, he looked up once he reached the top of the steps. you tilted your head curiously, intrigued.

“not too late i hope?” he smiled quickly, teeth showing only for a split second. with your hand still holding onto the cold door knob, you stood straighter, suddenly aware of your role at the church. “just in time.” you breathed, stepping aside to let him in. as he passed you, a waft of campfire ash hit your nose. it was smokey and warm. it reminded you of the few camping trips you took with your dad as a young girl.

you closed the door behind him, the click of the latch echoing off of the wooden walls. you paused, confused, as he stood waiting. you furrowed your eyebrows, looking up through your lashes at the taller man. “um-aren’t you kinda supposed to give me one of those?” he held back a small chuckle.

your cheeks flushed and you could feel the palms of your hands sweating. you let out a nervous giggle, extending a pamphlet towards his hand. “yeah, sorry… i just—“ you took a breath, “it’s rare that i see a new face around here.”

he returned an understanding smile. “yeah, my brother and i moved nearby. we’ll only be here a few months, but i figured it wouldn’t hurt to integrate myself with the town.” he said.

“not much to see. but somehow i think that’s the beauty of it. do ya’ like it so far?” you lowered your voice as you heard the shuffle of everyone rising from their seats. mass was starting. you rocked back and forth on your heels, sort of captivated by the stranger. he smiled softly.

the boy peered into the main room of the church, coming to the same realization. he shook his head, his bangs curling over his forehead, just barely above his eyebrows. “not bad. rich history.” he whispered, nodding his head towards the pews as if to say shall we?

you nodded, placing the remaining pamphlets on small round table before making your way in. you made your way to your usual seat, back left. last pew. just behind the posey family. you’d sit with your mom, but you never liked the looks she gave you during the sermons. like she was silently judging you. that’s what you should be like, you imagined her saying. besides, the back row was never filled. this is where you felt the least claustrophobic.

you took your place, and straightened out your dress before clasping your hands down by your thighs. you jerked your head in soft surprise when a presence stood tall next to you. you hadn’t expected the boy to follow you. he looked down at you, eyes lingering for a beat. “didn’t mean to scare you, jus’ didn’t wanna go on a hunt for another seat.” he leaned in close, voice soft and breathy. 

a sharp exhale left your nose as the oldest brother of the posey family sent him a glare. the posey boy wasn’t somebody you wanted to be on the bad side of. sam looked at you with raised eyebrows and a teasing smile. as he turned to face the altar, you took in his features. his lashes were pretty and curled, his skin dotted with the tiniest freckles. and he had the slightest dimple when he smiled. his eyes were focused on the priest, studying him.

you looked away, hoping he didn’t feel your gaze. instead, you made eye contact with your father. he stood at the altar. up there, he seemed taller. calmer. not angry. he was framed by the golden sun that spills through the stained glass. the rays cut through dust, catching the edge of his shoulders. he held his bible open, and you swore the pages reflected the sunlight.

at the altar, he looked like less of a man and more like a statue. the kind with eyes that move to follow you.

his eyes shine a brighter blue beneath the light. piercing. the kind of eyes that upon first glance, made you feel safe. they swept the church like a floodlight, like he was peering into the souls of everyone in the room.

he speaks with the kind of voice that fills a room without effort. not warm, but certain. righteous. when he says sin, it spits from his tongue. when he says grace, it's with clenched fists. demanding.

you tear your eyes away before he sees too much of you. but you know he’s looking. you can feel them.

you stand straighter. shuffling your weight from foot to foot. you quietly clear your throat, looking down at your shoes. you’re uncomfortable now. there’s a guilt gnawing at your gut. one that you can’t rid yourself of. you’ve tried to pray it away, but He never seems to answer.

mass goes on. as it always does. every once in a while, the boy’s arms brush against yours despite having plenty of space to his right. you watch as his fingers, ringed in silver, flip through the thin pages of a bible. “…those whose hearts are pure are temples of the holy spirit” your father’s eyes locked with yours. your eyes felt heavy. your heart felt heavy. your fingers nervously cradled the silver necklace that hung around your neck. a shaky breath escaped your lips and you breathed slowly, grounding yourself.

momentarily, a shadow moves over you, and a warm breath hits your ear. “couldnt be me.” the boy whispered. you couldn’t help but give a sharp, breathy laugh.

you can hear the smile in his voice. dry, amused. but there’s something bitter beneath it, too. you shake your head, lips forming a dull smile.

the boy leaned back, settling into the pew like he doesn’t quite belong in it. he stretches his arms across the wood. his eyes are fixed on the altar, unreadable. distant. he doesn’t bow his head when the prayer starts. he never does. he follows the crowd, standing and sitting when he’s told. but never does he kneel.

you glance at him from the corner of your eye. his hands, blemished with spots of maroon and scarred, don’t fold in prayer. his sleeve is pushed up just enough for you to glimpse an old burn along his wrist, just beneath a black hair tie. he doesn’t flinch when your father speaks of hellfire. just watches like he has all of the answers. he not searching. he’s not waiting for salvation. but he looks at you like he knows that you are. you won’t find it here, you imagine he says. his eyes don’t burn. not like your fathers’.

you feel your cheeks warm as they did earlier and you turn back to the altar. a second later, you feel a light tap on your shoulder. he’s sitting up, leaning in. “i never liked these kinds of priests.” he spoke slowly. he was very close now, and your knees touched. you questioned him with a small hum. “the kind that force their holiness on you when they’re not holy themselves.”

your lips parted. and you watched as he shuffled forward, like he was about to get up. he nodded towards the main door. you glanced at your father, then back to him. “oh—uh, yeah. sorry” you tapered off, moving your legs to allow him space to pass.

he smiled, standing up to leave. “sam, by the way.”

the posey boy sent him another glare, this time with a harsh shh. he waited for your response anyway. “y/n”.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

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summary: you wander to your favorite part of town. where it's just you and the trees. but today, you have a visitor. word ct: 841 content: soft!sam notes: this is the third chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER!

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

< CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER FOUR >

the following saturday, you ride your bike until the road turns to gravel. the wheels hum beneath you, kicking up dust. it's dusk. your favorite time of day. the sky is shifting into light pinks and purples, resembling stained glass. your lungs stretch with every breath of air. it's warm, but it's cooling off. you're almost there.

the weeping willow sits at the far edge of town, past the abandoned silo and the classic red barn whose roof is caving in. a stream runs parallel to the road through the woods. nobody comes over this way anymore. but you do.

the long leaves hang low to the ground like curtains, surrounding the base of the trunk. inside their cover is quiet. in a sense, you feel holiest here. here, you escape judgement. the tree makes you feel small. much greater than you.

you lean your bike in the grass and take a seat at the base. crosslegged. you pull an old sketchpad out of your bag, fingers immediately stained by charcoal dust.

you don’t know what you’re drawing until your hand starts moving. that's how it always works. allowing you hand to slide across the paper freely.

you trace the curve of a nose, the sharp angle of a jaw. a figure bent forward, not quite visible, face shadowed. you don’t give him a name. but you feel who it is on the page.

you're almost done with the outline when a voice cuts through the leaves.

“you always draw in secret?”

your head snaps up.

sam.

he stands just outside the willow’s veil, like he needs permission to enter. his arms are crossed, his tshirt falls just above his jeans, and there’s a smear of dirt on one forearm. you see a few drips of sweat on his brow. he looks like he’s been walking for a while.

your breath hitches. “how'd you find me?”

he raises both hands in defense, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “saw you come in, didn’t know it was you. i was just… walking.”

“through an abandoned part of town?"

he shrugs. “heard water. saw some cool buildings. figured it was worth a look.”

you should tell him to leave. the familiar feeling gnaws at your gut. but you do nothing about it. you feel suddenly aware. of his presence, of his voice.

you don't say anything in response. maybe he'd leave on his own, feeling bad for bothering you. that way, you wouldn't feel dirty when you returned home. of course, they wouldn't know that you'd been speaking to the boy who'd walked out of church, but you could imagine your father's eyes. he'd know. he always did. and he forbade you from lying.

sam steps forward, slow, careful not to cross any invisible lines. the leaves brush softly over his head as he enters. "can i see?” he nods toward your sketchbook.

you hesitate. then tilt the page toward him, just a little.

his eyes linger on the lines. “that’s good.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you sound surprised.”

he laughs under his breath. “i’m not. just didn’t expect to find someone drawing under a tree like it’s a corny romcom.”

your face flushes. “didn’t expect someone to sneak up on me like a horror film.”

he grins, giving a small nod. “fair enough.”

there’s a pause. he walks closer. ever so slowly, as if not to scare you away. not like a predator waiting to catch its prey, but like he's watching a small animal from afar.

you glance at him. he’s not looking at the sketchpad anymore.

“do you come out here a lot?” he asks.

you nod. “sometimes. it’s quiet. nice to get away from everyone.” you're sharing more than you would like, seemingly abandoning your rule of giving as little detail as possible.

he hums. “i'm not a fan of crowds either.”

you don’t tell him that it’s not the crowds you’re avoiding—hell, there's now crowds in a town like this, but it’s the church. the way people stare too long at your clothes, eyes flickering to your necklace. on a good day, the townspeople were as friendly as they come. on bad day, their holy tongues dripped with condemnation.

they call you pure like it’s the greatest compliment, but you never quite knew what it meant to be pure. and you're not sure you felt it.

sam walks a little closer. still doesn’t sit.

“do you draw people often?”

you shake your head, you can't help the soft pink that rushing to your cheeks. “'m more into landscapes.”

he catches that. tilts his head. “so who’s this?”

you pause.

“no one,” you say. “not really.”

he looks at you for a beat too long. “okay.”

he doesn’t ask more questions. just sinks down into the grass across from you. his legs are outstretched on the grass, arms propped behind him. he's taking up space. unapologetically.

you press your charcoal to the page again. try to ignore the way he watches your hands.

he doesn’t talk much after that. just sits. he listens to the wind and looks up through the leaves. for a while you two sit there. until it's time for you to get back home for dinner.

you mutter a soft "goodbye, sam," and leave him there beneath the tree.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

if you'd like to be added to my taglist let me know! don't be shy!

summary: you befriend a mysterious transfer student at stanford. after months of hanging out, you still know almost nothing about him. he disappears some days, showing back up worn down and tattered. you've finally had it. pairing: stanford!sam x f!reader (no use of y/n) word ct: 1.9k content: cw: suggestive ending. sam angst. fluff. soft!sam. secret identity trope. she falls first lowkey. mystery. dean mention?

you meet sam on a thursday.

he's new. sits in the back of the lecture hall, tall frame, but hunched over in his book. flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers wrapped around a coffee cup that never leaves his hand. he never comes in late, but always leaves early. there’s something about the way he listens, eyes focused, lips slightly parted like he’s starving for knowledge.

you notice him because you’re always the first to arrive. and he notices you, because you hold the door when it tries to slam shut behind you. he murmurs a quiet thanks every time. voice like molasses. eyes that linger.

you don’t talk until week three.

"hey," he says one day when you're both caught in the hallway traffic. "do you know if he uploads the slides somewhere? i missed monday."

you tell him yes. he smiles a soft smile. crooked. not practiced. not perfected.

he introduces himself as sam.

just sam.

—

you two grow closer. shared notes. study partners. he’s brilliant, but reserved. like his brain is a library and you're only allowed to check out one book at a time. he never talks about himself unless you ask directly, and even then, the answers are vague.

he has a brother, older. he travels a lot. his childhood was “weird.” he likes research. hates when people call attention to his height. doesn’t drink much. hasn’t dated in a while. religious? maybe catholic? ambiguous?

you ask him what he did before transferring here.

he shrugs. “odd jobs.” he doesn’t elaborate.

—

there’s a quiet sort of comfort that settles between you. you don’t push, and he doesn’t offer. still, he always remembers how you like your coffee. he walks you home when it’s late. he listens better than anyone ever has.

sometimes, you catch him watching you. like he's memorizing your features, as if he’s scared you’ll vanish if he looks away.

you pretend not to notice how fast your heart beats when he’s near.

—

you don’t realize something’s wrong until the night he disappears. you had left his dorm after a late night studying, forgetting your textbook on his old rug. you couldn’t be bothered to go back, mental and physical exhaustion overtaking you. so, you opted to send a quick text:

hey, forgot my textbook on your floor. can u bring it tomorrow pls?

but he never shows.

you sent another text. half teasing him for sleeping in, half pissed because you spent the entire class looking over the shoulder of the student in front of you.

a day goes by. then two.

you don’t want to seem clingy, but it’s unlike him.

he shows up again five days later. tired. bruised. there’s a thin cut across his cheekbone and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his under eyes are sunken and dull.

you stare at him in the library, stunned.

"what the hell happened to you?"

he blinks, shrugging his shoulders. "oh. uh. got mugged."

you lift your hand to cup his cheek. thumb brushing lightly over the maroon blemishes. his eyelashes flutter softly. he lifts his own hand, placing it on yours. he tilts his head back, trying to escape your touch. he feels bad, but his pain is seering.

“jesus,” you breathe. “are you okay?”

he nods. doesn’t meet your eyes. "i’m fine."

he’s not.

—

after that, the gaps start to grow. he vanishes for days, then shows up again like nothing happened. sometimes he looks fine. sometimes he looks like he’s been dragged through hell.

he won’t let you question him. he dismisses it, changes the topic, says that he wants to go to bed and he’ll talk later.

one night, you call him out.

"you’re lying to me."

you're standing outside the dining hall, half-finished tea cooling in your hand. he freezes.

"what are you talking about?" he asks softly, eyes blinking rapidly.

“you disappear and come back with bruises. you flinch when people slam doors. you always carry a knife—don’t think i haven’t noticed. and last week, i saw you picking a lock on the back door of the chem lab like you’d done it a hundred times before.”

you had to force your eyes to stay on his. you had to be heard. you needed the truth.

sam’s jaw tightens. the silence grows thick. he shifts his weight from foot to foot. you can tell he’s uncomfortable.

you step forward, voice shaking. “i don’t care if you’re running from something, sam. i can try to help. but if you’re dangerous—”

“i’m not,” he says quickly. “i wouldn’t hurt you. ever.” he shakes his head and he locks eyes with you. he steps forward, a gentle hand mediating between you.

“then tell me.”

his eyes search yours. something breaks behind them. they’re glassy. he lets out a long, shaky breath. his mind is racing. meanwhile, you tremble with worry.

“okay,” he says. “but not here.”

—

you don’t expect monsters. you expect “i’m in a gang” or “i’m running from the cops.” hell, you thought nothing would shock you. you thought you’d come up with every possible justification for his absences.

ghosts. demons. vengeful spirits. shapeshifters. all real. and he’s been hunting them since he was a boy.

you blink at him in stunned silence. he's standing in the middle of his dorm room, fingers clenched at his sides like he’s bracing for you to scream.

instead, you chuckle nervously. has he gone insane? “that’s… absurd. you’re crazy.” he just looks at you.

“you think i’m kidding.” his voice is a bit louder now, getting defensive. your faux smile drops and you weren’t quite sure how to proceed.

he pulls a battered leather journal from his backpack and places it on the bed next to you. you pull it onto your lap and flip through the pages. it's filled with drawings. sigils. yellow notes written in a spidery hand. names, dates, locations. photos.

you brush a finger over a page titled wendigo, heart beating faster. it all seemed so sinister. so real.

you look up at him through your eyelashes, lips parted in shock.

“this is real,” you whisper.

he nods once. solemn. his eyes are almost apologetic. regretful. “yeah.”

“and you kill these things?”

he nods again, taking a slow seat next to you.

you breath a hard breath out and close the journal slowly.

“why the fuck would you come to college? aren’t you worried about like— the fucking world ending?”

you’re breathless. you run your hand through your hair and swallow hard.

he runs a hand over his mouth. “to feel normal. to be someone else for once.”

you believe him.

you shouldn’t.

but you do.

“sam…” you trail off, eyes distant. he places a gentle hand on the small of your back, his thumb brushing softly over your shirt.

“hey, listen to me.” he speaks slow and soft, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “i won’t let anything hurt you. you can trust me.”

—

you keep his secret. and in return, he keeps you safe.

he starts staying over at your dorm more. not in your bed, not at first. just in your room, sleeping on on pile of blankets on the floor, boots near the door. you offered to buy an air mattress, but he claims he’s slept on worse. you catch him murmuring in his sleep sometimes. latin, was it? other times, he startles awake gasping, eyes wide, heart pounding.

you let him stay anyway.

you ask him to teach you how to protect yourself. despite this news of monsters laying heavy on your chest— like your world has completely shrunken, you couldn’t help but be curious.

he doesn’t want to teach you, but he does. slow at first. baby steps. pepper spray. salt lines. a silver knife.

you see more of the hunter in him after that. the part of him that sharpens into something lethal when there’s a threat. the way his eyes darken when someone gets too close. the way his hand always finds yours, grounding, when things get loud.

he saves a family in the next town over. a poltergeist. doesn’t tell you until he’s back and sore and covered in bruises.

“you’re going to get killed,” you whisper, pressing an ice pack to his temple. his hand brushes along your arm.

he doesn’t argue. he thinks somehow, that he always knew god wasn’t watching over him. but it was something much more evil. maybe a demon, the devil, even. or maybe death himself.

he watches you. long and careful.

“you still like me?” he asks softly. a teasing smile sits on face.

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

he leans forward then. testing. you feel his cool breath along your teeth. mint. and when you don’t pull away, his lips brush yours. slow, like he’s unsure if you’re really there.

you kiss him back. his touch is like silk. you feel your cheeks grow warm and your body melts into his. your hands reach for his hair as his move to your waist. he’s tender in his touch.

he parts his legs, allowing you to move your body closer. he needs you close. to feel you near him. you tug his hair lightly and a quiet, just barely audible groan leaves his lips.

you smile against his lips. this boy just keeps surprising you.

in this moment, you feel real. and sam, he feels normal. calm. he’s not in fight or flight. now, he’s here. and he’s yours. tomorrow, he might find himself in the middle of vamp nest, or tied up in a basement. but right now, he’s with you. he vows to himself to protect you. and to not become a monster himself.

—

lowkey not a fan of the ending, but it’s getting late. i love soft sam so much nobody understands.

planning on writing some darker, grungier fics i think!

summary: he raised you better than this. he raised you to be good. you're made to think you've contaminated your family's reputation. all in the search for the truth. word ct: 1.9k content: angry father. verbal abuse. religious themes. negative views of religion. religious guilt. unclean, in the biblical sense. soft!sam. suggestive ending. emotional intimacy. notes: this is the fifth chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER!

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

< CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER SIX >

your father’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, his knuckles white and angry. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at you. the gravel road rattles the car, and every bump feels like a bruise.

your mother sits in the passenger seat, lips pressed tightly together. her hands are folded near in her lap. is she praying or bracing herself for what’s to come? you wonder if prayer is necessary.

inside, the light are too bright. like a spotlight. you go straight to your room, figuring you’d be sent there anyway. better to get out of the rain now than wait for the storm.

you stand still for a moment in the center of your room, afraid to get comfortable. you’re unsure what to do with youself. for split second you consider getting down on your knees.

you hear the creak of floorboards and a knock follows. then your father’s voice, low and steady. "come out here."

you obey. not because you want to, but because it’s easier this way. you follow him to the kitchen, where he leans against the counter. arms crossed. you hold your breath.

“sit”, he says. not unkindly. that’s what scares you most.

your mother hovers near the hallway, arms wrapped around herself. her eyes follow you as you take a seat. the silence stretches too long. then your father speaks.

“do you know what it looks like?” he starts, “for the preacher’s daughter to sneak out of church? with a boy?”

you don't answer, and he leans forward. when the preacher talks, he demands his silence.

"do you know what it does to your name? to your mother’s? to mine?"

you feel it in your stomach. a sickening mix of guilt and resentment.

he exhales through his nose. you can tell he’s trying to bury his rage.

"i raised you better than this." his words are sharp.

your bottom lip quivers, but you don’t cry. not yet.

"we gave you everything. we built you a life. we kept you safe. from—from boys like that. and you repay us by... by walking out with a stranger like you were raised in a barn?"

you swallow hard.

"you don’t even know him like that.” your voice trembles, and your vision is blurring with tears.

"i don’t need to."

“we didn’t do anything.” your voice was just barely above a whisper.

your father sighed. “it’s not about what you did or didn’t do, it’s about the message it sends." he wiped his hand over his face.

you look to your mother. her eyes meet yours. they’re unreadable.

your father goes on. "you think I don’t see what’s happening? you hesitate. you’re silent during prayer. the way you look at the door like you’re waiting for something better to walk through."

you bite the inside of your lip. “i just wanna understand.” a single tear lips down your cheeks. you can’t face his eyes.

"what? what is it that you can’t understand?”

"everything. why we are the way we are. why church feels like punishment. why—why i can’t ever do anything right by you.” you cry.

he stares, then shakes his head. “you feel like that because you're believing lies to be truth. and do not blame me for your feelings.”

“how do you know anything is the truth? why can’t i dec—“

“you’re too young to decide that.” he slaps his hand to the counter.

“i’m twenty—“

“i don’t care if you’re four, twenty, i don’t care if you’re goddamn fifty. you live in my house, under my rules.” his voice loud.

a priest using the lord’s name in vein felt sinful.

you stand. “no, dad. i think i finally understand.” you raise your voice. it’s not strong, but it’s enough.

your mother shifts, but does nothing more.

"until you come to your senses, you’re grounded. no phone. no friends. no more distractions."

you feel the walls close in, and you shout. “i don’t have friends, i don’t have anyone in this town! i spend all my time at the fucking church wishing i felt what everybody else is feeling!”

"oh, don’t you raise your voice at me.” he straightens, side stepping around the counter. “that boy will never set foot near the church again."

you turn on your heels and walk back to your room before he can say anything else. you hear your mom approach him, mumbling.

you slam the door, letting the tears fall fast. your chest heaves and you can barely catch your breath. you slide down the door, fingers tangling rough in your hair.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

that night, you lie awake for hours. your cheeks are tear stained and your eyes are bloodshot. the moonlight filters through your curtains and it illuminates the bible on your nightstand.

god might still be out there, but He sure as hell doesn’t live in this house.

with a sigh, you throw on a sweater. you stand still for a moment, listening for creaks in the hallway. once you were sure your parents went to bed, you opened the window.

you climb out like you used to do as a kid when you wanted to lie in the grass and watch the stars. the air is cool against your skin. the wind brushed softly though your hair.

you know where you’re going. past the fields and the silos. down the gravel road and toward the willow.

once you're there, you push through the leaves, and under the soft glow of the moonlight is sam.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

he looks up when you approach. he wears tired eyes and an apologetic smile. he says nothing, just pats the grass beside him.

it’s cold and prickly on your legs. the twinkle of the moon and the occasional firefly are your only sources of light. yet the whites of his eyes still sparkle.

you find comfort in the silence. but you both have something to say.

he stares forward, arms resting on his knees. he doesn’t ask until he’s sure you’re ready. when your unwrap your arms from your body and bring them down to twist blades of grass between your fingers.

“how bad?”

“best case scenario.”

he looked at you, his head cocked to the side.

“wasn’t kicked out.” you shrugged. you’re coming off braver than you felt.

he nodded.

“what’d he say?”

you exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “every word he could possibly use in place of calling his daughter a whore.” you felt an ache in your chest, and your eyes threatened to glass over.

his gaze is soft. he doesn’t try to offer his apologies. not yet anyway. instead, he lets you speak.

you lie back, looking through the leaves. it’s comforting—the grass framing your body. it cradles you. sam stays put.

“he thinks i’m turning away from god,” you start. crickets chirp among the tall grass. “but i’m not sure i ever believed he was really there.”

“no?” sam questioned, voice blending with the gentle hum of the trees. his eyes were still fixed on you. you felt them. not looking through you, but reading you. studying you. he wanted to understand you.

you shake your head, you shift your eyes to meet his above. they’re very pretty in the moonlight.

“sometimes, i thought i felt Him. but it never felt right. like i was always in trouble. like someone was watching my every move… like i’ll fuck up any second…become a sinner,”

“i prayed every night as a kid, that i’d be different in the morning. that i’d be good.”

sam let out a breath. he stayed quiet. his eyes never left your face. they traced every curve of your jaw and crease of your eyelid.

he lifted his hand, bringing it to your temple. he swept a strand of hair from your face, and his fingers brushed over your scalp. he continued. despite his stature, his touch was tender and bore no weight.

he hummed, an invitation to keep talking.

“i’d tell myself that i was good. but those eyes—“ you sniffled. “i’m starting think it was just…my dad. he’s so insistent in who i’m supposed to be. when i’m with him, i feel this guilt in my stomach. and—and since forever, i’ve attributed it to god’s distaste. but, i’m realizing that—“ you paused.

“it was just his. the parish's. maybe i never felt god at all. maybe he can’t save me.”

your voice tapered off, trembling. you lean into sam’s touch. “do you really believe?” you whisper, rolling your head to look at him.

you don’t wanna know the half of it, he wanted to say.

“i do.” you’re a bit shocked. “i’ve seen enough to know he’s there, just…not in the way most think. i don’t think he lives in churches, or people’s homes.” he knows what it's like to feel unclean.

you watch him curiously. he speaks with genuine belief. “where does he live?” you ask.

he shifts. he’s not going tell you that god is no better than a dead beat dad. “in people, i think.” he opts for, and he remains somewhat truthful. he believes that some people think of god as an almighty decision maker—someone who tells them the right way to live. and, he understands. he understands the need to have something greater to look to.

you soften. “i try to find meaning in everything. and if i write it down, or draw it, then maybe it'll tell me something.”

his hand pauses momentarily as he thinks. and he lowers it to run along the bottom of your jaw.

“maybe it already has.” he murmurs.

his eyes are darker tonight. they’re filled with intent and something else that you can’t quite describe. a cool breeze nips at your skin.

you're suddenly aware of the warmth that radiates from his fingers, and your heart flutters in your chest. it thumps against your rib cage.

“you’re different. a good different.” he added, “you’re hunting something. most settle for what they’re told."

your cheeks flush.

"you?”

sam doesn’t answer right away. he lays down on his side, one hand elevating his head, while the other stays cradles your head, thumb moving lightly over your skin. an unfamiliar warmth washes over you.

"i guess i stopped believing that there was anything good waiting for me. until now.”

your lips part, trying to form a sentence. the air between you is suddenly thick, and the breeze has halted.

"why me?” you dare to ask.

his voice is low, almost a whisper. "because we're not all that different.”

the moment lingers, and you turn on your side to face him. you’re so close, you can feel his warm breath hit the tip of your nose.

you take ahold of his wrist, but you don’t move it.

“if you touch me,” you begin, “my father will say it’s sin.”

“let him.”

your breath hitches and he intertwines his fingers with yours. his palm is warm and calloused. hardened presumably from years of honest work.

he guides you to your back, and raises your hand to the grass next your head. slowly, he moves himself to hover over you.

“for the record, i don’t think you need saving—“

he places one leg between yours. you’re cheeks are pink with anticipation now. and your heart thumps in your ears. your body feels fuzzy.

“—just someone who will see you for who you are.” he breathes.

he lowers his head towards yours. the tips of his hair curls at the ends and it covers his forehead. you wanted to reach out and touch it. so, you lift a hesitant hand to brush his hair back. he doesn’t resist, rather he dips his chin lower. your lips are almost brushing.

“will you let me?”

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

if you'd like to be added to my taglist let me know! don't be shy!

summary: your father noticed the way sam left the church. and you're afraid might have noticed the way your eyes lingered for a beat too long. word ct: 1.3k content: religious themes. religious guilt. negative depictions of religion. notes: this is the second chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER!

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

< CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER THREE >

you step into the sweltering heat of the midwestern summer. the grass blows with the wind and you feel like you can finally breathe. “hello, my angel.”

your dad’s voice cuts through the hum of chatter as families leave the church. he places an arm around your shoulder and plants a kiss atop your head. you stiffen, but return the gesture. “the service was really well received. by the poseys especially.” you said, making lighthearted conversation. this elicits a chuckle from him.

it was genuine. he was a genuine man. well respected. he never lied. not to you. somehow that’s what made his words hurt worse. they were bitter, often laced with judgement, and a venom that rotted you from the inside out. worst of all, you knew he was completely unaware of the way they made you feel. impure.

“oh, you say that everytime.” he teased, releasing his grip, and turned to place his arm around his wife. she was a beautiful woman. softer, but no less devout. she was graceful and took pride in the community. her hands were wrinkled, and her wedding band worn from years of pressing damp cloths to foreheads during prayer circles that she led every wednesday night.

she wore her faith like a second skin.

when she touches your face, it’s with the same tenderness she uses to clean the altar. when she tells you to lead with grace, it’s a duty, not a suggestion.

“got outta there quick. thought you might have bailed early.” she spoke. her voice didn’t match her face. it was rough like gravel. mostly from years of huffing cigarette smoke behind the church. sometimes you wondered, despite this, if her body was still pure in the eyes of god. in the eyes of your father.

“saw her sitting next to a boy,” your father spoke in a low tone, “one i’ve seen before”. he tilted his head, a testing look in his eyes. you bring your hand to your necklace once again, the cold silver forces you to focus. your eyes dropped to your shoes.

“he’s new to town.” you spoke quiet and quick. as little information as possible. your mother smiled. the guilt gnaws low in your stomach, familiar.

“is he a common churchgoer?” she asked. you were about to speak, but she continued. “doesnt seem so. walked right out in the middle of a hymn. my favorite one no less.” she huffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“he wanted to try it out. always wanted to go. maybe it wasn’t right for him.” you were barely audible and avoided their eyes. of course, you didn’t know if this was true, but something inside you made you want to cover for him. save him from something he didn’t even know was after him.

maybe it was fear. maybe deep down you thought that it was righteous, sticking up for a stranger. a neighbor. maybe it was a divine law. or maybe it was much more simple. maybe you were intrigued by the mystery with which he came and left.

“god will find him soon enough.” your father spoke with certainty. this he was good at. most you believed him. that is, until you felt something that contradicted his words and your mind busied itself into a spiral of doubt.

after saying goodbyes to the final patrons who leave the church, your father drove the three of you home. on the short ride back, you rest your head on the door. the wind blows softly through your scalp. the radio is low and muffled, playing 90s rock music. you feel lighter once more.

you can’t help it, but just as folks claim to hear the voice of god speaking to them, a name repeats in the back of your mind.

sam, sam, sam.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

that wednesday evening, your mother returned from the sunroom where she held her prayer circles. the guests had left, and dinner was ready.

you set the table, it’s gowned in a baby blue runner and antique plates with matching gold details. tonight, you roasted a variety of summer vegetables while your father handled the steak. to nobody’s surprise, you led grace.

supper speak, you called it. every night around the dinner table, your parents hit the same talking points, never having anything new to say. first, they’d talk about the church;

“oh, what a lovely solo that was. the boys choir is improving so quickly.” your mom would gush.

then, about mother’s prayer circles; “jane is having such a tough time right now, oh i don’t know how she does it.” she’d cry.

your least favorite topic; “so, angel, how’s the art business coming?” your dad spoke wearily, not really knowing how to approach the conversation. you were lucky to sell a few large oil paintings recently, giving you a considerable amount of spending money. “it’s going good. a few landscapes. some stained glass. the usual.” you prodded at your food with the tip of your fork.

your dad clears his throat. “good… it’s honest work.”

you nod slowly. “it is.”

finally, your favorite topic; neighborhood gossip.

some people hate living in towns where everybody knows everything about everybody. you however, loved it. you kept your head down and watched from afar.

“pat—down the street,” your father started through a mouthful of food, “he’s painting his house bright yellow. can you believe it? it’ll be an eyesore!”

your mother gasped, placing an exaggerated hand over her heart. “oh, that’s terrible! well—i heard that amy, john’s girl, moved to europe. europe! what even is there to do in europe?”

“are you kidding? europe has such a rich history. and the architecture is unlike anything i’ve ever seen! the colosseum, the notre dame cathedral?” you gasp.

“quite the history buff we have here.” your father chuckled.

this was your favorite part of supper speak because it was lighthearted. you felt normal. like you didn’t have to walk on eggshells. your parents didn’t look at you with questioning eyes.

they saw you as a daughter. not as a vessel for shame.

“that church boy—sam is his name.” your mom spoke suddenly.

you nearly choked on your vegetables, and quickly took a sip of water. you watched intensely as your father raised his eyebrows, sending his wife a quick nod to continue.

“yeah. martha said he and his brother—dean i think was his name— helped build a fence around their yard. guess they go around picking up odd jobs in the next town over.”

“what kinda odd jobs? and how’d martha get ahold of them?” your father questioned. he was suspicious of all newcomers. maybe somewhere inside, he knew it was unlikely that people were drawn here. this is a town that once you’re born here, it’s hard to leave. but if you’re brought here, it’s usually not by choice.

most come due to the cheap cost of living. but that’s because every building is worn, and the roads haven’t been paved in years.

“guess they come from a family of mechanics. good with tools. handy.” your mother spoke fondly. “nice boys, she says. only cost two hundred bucks. a fence like that doesnt come cheap.”

you couldn’t help the smile that rested on your lips. sam was strange. you hadn't seen him since church on sunday. but now, there was evidence that he lingers around the town. like a spirit. he moves quietly, bringing little attention to himself.

you imagined him walking around the town, eyes low, sleeves rolled up. there was a mystery to him. from the little you knew about him strictly from observation, he didn't seem like the rest.

he didn't wear pristine loafers to church. no bleached white polo shirt that had a special space in his closet. his hair was damp and messy. and his carhartt jacket was ripped and fraying at the seams.

if you had a brother, you knew your dad wouldn't have allowed him anywhere near the church looking like that. much less inside.

he looked like a boy who had a lot to share. but wouldn't unless asked specifically. for some reason, you want to be the one to ask.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

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summary: you are the first in your family to rebel. word ct: 1.8k content: soft!sam. religious themes. negative views of religion. religious guilt. unclean, in the biblical sense. angry father. notes: this is the fourth chapter of my series, PREACHER'S DAUGHTER!

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< CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FIVE >

sunday morning, you’re back in the church. it feels colder today. even with bodies packed tight in prayer, it feels hollow. too loud and too quiet all at once.

dark clouds hover low to the ground, threatening. there’s no sunlight to illuminate the altar. your father’s eyes are a deep teal now, darker.

your hands are clasped tightly in your lap. your nails pierce your skin.

your father preaches. judgment. wolves in sheep’s clothing. resisting temptation. you try not to take it personally. somehow, his sermons always felt relevant. or maybe you were just trying to make meaning of something where there wasn’t.

the old church is dusty despite your mother’s attempts to wipe it away, and the pews creak beneath the bodies. your eyes flicker toward the door.

he’s not here.

you knew he might not come. sam doesn’t belong here. at least, that’s what you figured. then again, your father had said god would find him. and he was a truthful man.

you keep glancing toward the back of the chapel like he might appear in the shadows. the want creeps up into your throat.

the hymn rises and falls. people around you stand. you follow. your father’s voice booms through the rafters.

“lying lips are an abomination to the lord…”

maybe he knows. maybe he doesn’t. but he watches you more now. as if something in you has shifted.

you hold onto the pew in front of you, digging your fingers into the wood grain. feeling suddenly unbalanced.

just when your faith begins to flicker, he appears.

sam stands just inside the church doors, near the back wall, arms folded, head bowed. you barely recognize him like this. his hair is neater. he wears a white button down with his sleeves still rolled to his elbows. he doesn’t sit. doesnt kneel.

your breath catches. he looks… not out of place. but captivating in a way that makes your heart beat faster.

you can tell your father has noticed his presence. his eyes narrow, but not threateningly. satisfied.

you look down to your shoes, lips tilting into a smile. short. guilty.

sam doesn’t move for the longest time. he just watches the priest. then, slowly, he shifts his gaze to finds you. in that moment, your father’s words are nothing but a hum. white noise.

he does that thing, where he nods in a single direction, beckoning you to follow. without thinking, you’re making your way out of the pew, legs trembling. like something else has taken control. something greater.

you pause to glance back at the altar. your father is preoccupied, pouring a maroon liquid into a chalice. you shift your eyes to the back of your mother’s head where she sits in the first row.

you’re nearing the door when the weight of your actions hit.

what are you doing?

your heart is thumping in your chest and you feel your chest rise and fall a bit faster.

nearby, sam watches.

you could sit back down. pretend it was a mistake. go back to being good.

but you take another step. your curiosity is overwhelming. or maybe it’s desire. something about him makes you want to know more.

you were sure the next sermon would be about greed.

sam doesn’t reach for you. he waits.

you force your legs to move past the pews. all eyes are focused on the man behind the altar. this is your only chance.

your mind raced with explanations that you could give. but you forced them away for right now, choosing to not think about your parents' reactions when they wait to take you home after mass, when they realize you’re not even there.

sam slips through the doors just before you reach him. you follow in silence.

outside, the clouds are darker. much darker. they’re warning you it seems. go back inside, you hear them say.

the church doors creak shut, and you breathe out.

you two walk side by side for a few minutes, his pace slow, steady. neither of you say anything. the wind is picking up, blowing harshly. wind chimes scream on front porches.

finally, he says, quietly, “you didn’t have to.”

“i know,” you reply, voice trembling.

“you could’ve stayed.”

you glance up at him. “i didn’t.”

he pauses and turns to you. “what made you come?”

you chew the inside of your cheek. “i don’t know.”

sam’s expression doesn’t change, but his shoulders soften and he nods. then, quieter, “you okay?” his eyes searching your face. you resist the urge to cave in on yourself.

you want to lie. say yes. instead, you say, “i don’t know.” sam nods again.

your chest feels heavy with fear and guilt and every unholy thought your father had ever warned you about. the thrill is washing off.

you continue walking for what feels like hours but can’t be more than fifteen minutes. the town is still. its inhabitants packed in the church. 

sam doesn't fill the silence, and neither do you.

you're walking to no specific location. eventually, you drift toward the edge of town, toward the spot behind the old school where wild grasses grow up to your knees. there’s a bench nearby. it's warped and crooked.

you sit, tucking your dress neatly beneath your thighs, arms crossed loosely over your chest. the air is chilly in the absence of the sun.

sam sits beside you. not too close.

you take in his profile. pointed nose, lashes dark and long, jaw clenched.

he finally speaks. “you don’t like being there.” it’s not a question, but an observation.

you glance down at your lap. “that obvious?”

he shrugs. “you looked like you were holding your breath.”

you nod, breathing out. “i usually am.” your voices were quiet, barely above the level of a whisper.

sam leans forward, forearms on his knees. he tilts his head to meet your gaze. “your father… he’s the one up front?”

you hesitate. then nod. “yeah. that’s him.” your words tasted bitter on your tongue. mass would be ending soon. he would know.

a preacher's daughter. that's who you are. that's all you know.

something flickers in sam’s expression. recognition maybe. but he doesn’t ask more. after a few moments, you sigh. “he’s good at what he does.”

“preaching?”

“convincing people they need saving.” you breathe.

sam turns to you, brows lifted slightly. “do they?”

you pause. that question shouldn’t be hard. you’ve been answering it your whole life. you've been living by His word since the day you were born.

“i don’t know,” you say again. “maybe-” you stutter, trying to find the right words. but nothing about this conversation felt right. you felt a pit in your stomach that threatened to deepen. "maybe they do."

he watches you intently. his eyes are soft though, not piercing. “and you?”

“what?”

“do you need saving?”

you almost laugh, but it catches in your throat. “i think... that i don't know anything." what did it even mean to be saved? if you had needed it, wouldn't it have been done already? would you even realized?

sam’s gaze drops to your hands that fidgeted in your lap, picking at your cuticles. his voice is quiet. “they talk about people like me in churches like that.”

you tilt your head. “and what kind of person is that?” this was the question you'd been wanting to ask.

but he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks out toward the edge of the field. his voice comes slower this time, and he chooses his words carefully. “someone who knows too much- whose been to hell." sinner. an abomination. sam wants to say, but he doesn't.

you study him. “you believe in god?”

his lips twitch, almost into a smile. “yeah. not the way your father wants me to.” i've met the guy. he's a dick.

that makes something inside you ache. a strange kind of recognition. you sit with it. the wind whistles and there's a rumble of thunder in distance. mocking.

finally, you say, “he knows who you are... my father.”

sam nods. “not a fan?” he jokes. you give a small chuckle.

“he doesn’t… he wants what's best for me."

the conversation wasn't directly about you, but you both knew where it was going. a mutual understanding. unspoken.

"what is best for you, or what he thinks is best for you."

your breath hitches. but you know he's right. you get the sense that sam knows what it's like to live by a set of rules that you have no control over. to feel like you're drowning under the weight of expectation.

there’s a long beat of silence. you look at him with sad eyes. your fingers are cradling your necklace. then sam says, “you don’t seem like someone who follows blindly.” his eyes flicker to the silver cross around your neck.

the quiet stretches again. you want to say "i don't" or "i try not to" or "i'm scared".  but nothing comes out. you sit in silence. you’re both thinking too loud. maybe you do need saving.

just when the stillness starts to settle, sam turns his head.

his posture changes, and you follow his gaze instinctively.

a man is walking toward you, slow but with purpose. the outline of his broad shoulders is all too familiar and you notice the roman collar around his neck. it's tight enough to choke him you think.

your heart drops. “shit,” you whisper, standing too quickly, smoothing your dress.

sam stays seated, but his jaw tightens.

your father is closer now. he’s not yelling. not running. just walking in long, measured strides, like he’s giving you a chance to explain yourself before you even get the words out.

“say something,” you murmur to sam, panic rising. you don't know what to do. you've always been good. in the face of trouble, you're frozen.

but he just says, “it’s okay.”

you send him a quick look. you're stunned, but you can't think about it too hard. there's not enough time.

he stops a few feet away. doesn't even look at sam. his eyes are fixed on you. the storm clouds block any sunlight, so his irises are darker than ever.

“in the car,” he says. too calmly.

your voice catches. “father—”

“now.”

your chest feels tight. humiliated. exposed.

sam finally stands, slow. his hands stay at his sides, non-threatening. he says nothing.

your father turns his gaze to sam, and the tension grows thick. “i don’t know who you are. but i know what boys like you want.”

sam still says nothing.

you want to yell. he hasn’t done anything. he hasn’t even touched you. you're not even friends.

but your father's voice is low and final. “stay away from my daughter. may you have the sense to make yourself right with god.” he spits. like a serpent.

he turns, not giving you another word, and starts walking back toward his truck. in the passenger seat, you can see your mom. though, you can't see her face, you can imagine the disappointment.

guilt. shame. it swells in your throat.

sam’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“you don’t have to go.”

you look at him. he’s steady.

you nod. “i do.”

this should be goodbye, but strangely, you don't feel like it. you barely catch it, but he whispers again, "i'm sorry."

you force your legs to follow your dad. the sky doesn’t break open, the world doesn’t catch fire, but it feels like maybe it could.

─ ˙༺ ♱ ༻

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