Dean may be the furthest thing from a holy man there is. He’s got at least three of the cardinal sins down pat. It ain’t his fault he was raised in John Winchester’s home, morals weren’t exactly the prime target growing up, and leading the shady life that hunting is (not to mention the depressing one) a guy had to have some fun somehow.

The coarse black fabric of the vestment feels like it’s trying to suffocate the sin right outta him. He fiddles with the collar, trying his damndest not to cringe when he thinks about how many ‘hail mary’s he probably owed the big guy up top.

It’s a definitive contradiction when you see Dean decked out in clerical attire, amice, stole, and all. Investigating the church and its consecrated, hallowed grounds felt like a new cardinal sin itself. The organ echoed through the spacious lumber rows, cushioned church pews lined up repetitious and tidy. Vacant albeit with a lingering person in prayer, clasping onto rosary beads and whispering prayers beneath their breath.

“…Well, we found squat here.” Dean mutters, tearing your attention away from the eerily arid cathedral. His face holds the varying hues of refracted light from the intricate stained glass windows. Pretty for a priest, he is. His eyes drift down to yours, subtly taken aback to see your gaze already fixed on him. He nods to the lavish double doors, “We should get back. Plus—I don’t think I can wait another second to get out of this stuffy thing.” He mutters tugging at the collar once more.

You seemed to be on a roll with checking off sins today, since you wound up in the backseat with Dean. Committing acts that desecrated and defiled the facade of sanctification, so much so, that you considered, no—became certain—that you were destined for Hell.

However, with the way his expression twisted in sacrilegious bliss when you found your way beneath that troublesome collar, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. “Sweetheart…” He rasps, hand locking into your disheveled tresses. “What would the church-folk say about this?” It doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to guess.

A blasphemous sin. An irreverent sin. An unforgivable sin.

“Forgive me Father…” The words escape you in a whisper eliciting a shiver from him. He sinks back into those sweet leather seats with a shaky breath that could be ‘misconstrued’ as a huff of desperation, he’s murmuring expletives beneath his breath. “…For I have sinned.” Well, forgive him {{user}}—because he fucking loves it.