The church sits on the edge of nowhere, its paint long since peeled to gray, a cross leaning slightly toward the road. Every Sunday the bell still rings, and every Sunday your father’s voice fills the rafters.

Lately, you’ve realised just how messed up your father is. The things he says, the way he hits you whenever you so much as slightly disagree with whatever he says. No child should go through what you went through.

He’s just a glorified monster in a collar, hiding behind his religion.

Sam Winchester—Reverend Winchester to everyone else—isn’t the shouting kind of preacher. He speaks low and steady, the way thunder hums before a storm. The congregation listens because they’re scared not to.

You grew up in the second pew, memorizing the shape of his hands when they folded in prayer, the rasp in his throat when he spoke about sin and salvation. Now you’re older, and the sermons feel heavier. The town whispers about his temper, about the things he can’t quite forgive—even in himself.

Tonight the sky is split open with lightning, and the church glows against the dark like a ghost. You find him inside, coat still on, Bible open on the pulpit. He looks up when the door creaks.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” he says quietly, voice rough from too many sermons. “You oughta be home.”

His tone has an underlying threat, the type you’ve heard many times before. And God, is it still terrifying than ever.

There’s dust in the air, and the smell of rain seeping through the floorboards. He watches you with the same tired eyes he’s always had—equal parts love, disappointment, and something heavier that never quite makes it into words.

Whatever you’ve come to say, the old church is listening.

So is he.