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sacr1ficialang3l · 1 month ago

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Black No.1

WARNINGS: canon-typical violence. dean's hatred for the supernatural. a lot of vampire world-building because i'm a nerd. 7.5k

NOTES: first part of little miss scare-all. as always, english is not my first language. enjoy<3

“I went looking for trouble. And, boy, I found her.”

New Orleans is emptier this time of year.

Dean is kind of glad they got a case here in October instead of during Mardi Gras. As much as he would love the partying, the booze, and the girls in tiny dresses, it's hard to be discreet about their job when there are that many people around.

Sam and he walk into a small, rundown bar near the motel, deciding to stay away from the main streets of the French Quarter. The place is dark—way too dark, even for a bar. The floor is black wood, and the walls are covered in dark red velvet, which looks like hell to clean. Dean could call it goth, but the crowd’s surprisingly mixed.

As Sam and him take a seat at the bar, Dean thinks there are way too many people here for a Tuesday afternoon in a small bar tucked down a quiet alley. There are some college kids, a few young couples swaying on the dance floor to the rock music playing in the background. But there are also big groups of adults, old men drinking alone, and people who look like they’re in their thirties sitting around, glancing from their drinks to the empty stage in the back of the bar — like they're waiting for something.

Dean and his brother share a confused look but decide not to question it. They just started this case today, and it’s already causing trouble.

They both order some whiskey and sip from their glasses while going over the case details.

More people trickle into the bar—all ages, all styles. But most of them don’t even order a drink or head to the dance floor. They just stand around, waiting.

Okay, what the hell is happening?

Before he can ask anyone, the bartender snatches a microphone and bolts for the stage, where a drum kit, a guitar, a bass, and a mic stand have somehow been set up without Dean even noticing.

Sam and he turn to each other again, confused.

This tiny, murky bar has live music?

“Good night, everyone!” The guy greets the crowd, and it’s only then that Dean notices the people packed in around the stage. “Our girl is ready for you, so please, everyone, give it up for Lost Souls.”

Great. Probably some local band of teenagers with way-too-edgy lyrics and way too much eyeliner, Dean thinks. He turns back to the bar and takes a long swig of whiskey.

But then, the crowd erupts in cheering so loud that Dean almost jumps out of his skin. Everyone, both young and old, is losing their mind over this band.

There are two girls and a guy already standing in front of the instruments, but everyone’s eyes aren’t on them. Instead, they’re locked on the figure walking onto the stage.

That's when Dean sees you.

Your hair is long and pitch-black, reflecting the dark red lights of the bar. You’re dressed in a tiny leather mini-skirt, a lacy red tank top that hugs your waist perfectly, and a leather jacket that you slip off your shoulders as you make your way to the front of the stage. The crowd goes wild. You’re wearing knee-high boots, and multiple necklaces, bracelets, and earrings adorn you. You have an eyebrow piercing, and when you wrap your hand around the microphone, Dean notices the rings on your fingers—and how your long red nails are as sharp as fangs.

Holy shit.

Dean’s met plenty of beautiful women—both human and supernatural—but none of them compare to you. There you are on that stage, greeting the crowd like they’re old friends. The shifting red and white lights seem to wrap around you, making you glow like something otherworldly. Your eyes are mesmerizing, and your smile is sharp, almost predatory, as you scan the bar. You move with such smoothness that Dean almost wonders if you’re a siren.

And then you start singing, and he’s almost convinced you are one.

Your voice… it’s unlike anything Dean has ever heard before. Sultry, powerful, piercing—yet soft at the same time. The band plays behind you, but it’s clear that all eyes are on you. On the way you jump around stage, like you own it. Both Sam and Dean stare, eyes wide and jaws dropped. They watch as you sing song after song, people singing and cheering along.

What the hell are you doing in this run-down bar, and not Madison Square Garden? Dean can’t wrap his head around it. You sip from a huge bottle of wine throughout the show, twirling with it in hand during every guitar solo. You play some covers from big bands—classics that make Dean’s heart quicken, the deep rumble of the bass vibrating through his chest. And then you play some of your own songs, which you announce with a grin, and they might just be Dean’s favorites.

At some point, he thinks you two make eye contact. But Dean is still in the back of the bar, perched on his shaky stool, while you’re bathed in lights and surrounded by the hands of people jumping and dancing in the way. It’s probably his imagination, but he swears he sees you lick your lips.

The show ends with a roaring final song. You introduce each of the band members before saying your goodbyes to the crowd.

“As always, it’s a pleasure and an honor to sing for you.” The crowd erupts in cheers, totally enamored. “Y’all are the best. Stay safe, and long live rock ‘n’ roll!”

With one last bow and a few kisses blown to the audience, you disappear backstage.

Dean stares at the closed curtains of the small green room you’re probably in right now, mesmerized. He hears Sam paying for their drinks in the distance, but it’s all just background noise. He’s completely lost in thought as Sam pulls him out of the bar, unable to focus on anything except you.

He lies on the uncomfortable motel bed that night, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His mind is a tangle of red lips, long legs, and your songs—lyrics of shoving, ripping, sucking. Bloodied lips, sharp teeth, and bruised knees—all echoing in his head until he finally drifts off to sleep.

The next morning, a bloodless corpse awaits them a block away from the bar.

Sam and he continue to work on the case, but every night, Dean insists on returning to that bar.

Every night, he watches with hooded eyes as you walk onstage in some skimpy outfit, twirling, jumping, and kicking around the stage, flirting with a few lucky sons of bitches in the front row. You wink at them, sometimes even kneeling down to sing right in front of their faces. You also flirt with the members of your band, brushing your hand down their arms, leaning back-to-back with them, and sending seductive glances over your shoulder.

It’s always the same routine. You sing a few covers, a few original songs. Every night, the crowd goes feral for both. The bar is never empty—there’s always a huge crowd ready to watch you perform. You drink from your bottle of chartreuse, finishing it by the end of the gig. Dean wonders how you never seem to get drunk. You introduce the band members, give your thanks, and walk backstage.

And then Dean leaves.

For some reason that he—nor Sam, by the confused looks he sends him every night—can’t understand, he always leaves before you even have the chance to walk out into the bar. He doesn’t know why. He likes you, obviously. You might be the most gorgeous, sexiest woman he’s ever seen. And any other time, he wouldn’t hesitate to go up to you.

But you’re different, and he just doesn’t understand why.

But tonight is the night. It’s Friday, and he knows the bar will be fuller than any other day. The case, though, is turning out to be more difficult than they anticipated. They know it’s vamps—another corpse has shown up every night since they got here, all attacked past midnight, and all of them drained dry. The thing is, there’s no sign of a nest. No suspects, no connection between the victims, nothing.

So, Dean is stressed out and ready to unwind a little. And what better way to do that than flirting with (and hopefully having some good sex with) a hot rockstar chick?

Sam and he walk back into the bar around seven-thirty, half an hour before your gig, and sit down on the same bar stools as always. Dean tries to hide his anticipation behind a glass of whiskey. After all, he’s got a cool guy image to uphold.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You've noticed the guy coming in every night. Of course, you have.

Even though it's near the French Quarter, it’s still unusual for tourists to find this bar. And you definitely had to notice the two extremely hot newcomers, especially the one in the brown leather jacket with sharp eyes that seemed to follow you around like a hawk.

You're supposed to be focused on hunting down those pesky vampires that have been killing people in your audience. You know it’s just a small, cheap excuse for a nest that’s hiding somewhere secluded, using your shows to catch easy meals.

And if they get discovered, you'd be blamed, even though you stopped feeding directly from humans a long time ago. There are four of them—four different kinds of footprints at each crime scene. You’ve pieced together this information, but you still don’t know who they are or where their nest is. You've been following clues, waiting outside the bar to catch them, but they’re some slippery motherfuckers. They manage to escape every time. And, if you’re honest, you’re also a little distracted.

You’ve been in front of some pretty attractive men in your time—from Mick Jagger to Axl Rose in his prime, to the nights spent with Peter Steele in New York. And, okay, you’d admit, Lord Byron had been quite the cutie, too.

But this guy? With his piercing green eyes and that cocky smirk that vanishes, replaced by an almost hypnotized look whenever you sing a particularly filthy song? He’s got you infatuated like you haven’t been in literal ages. But for some reason, you can never seem to find him once the show ends. You’ve heard from a few people that the two new guys are FBI agents investigating the deaths in town, but you have a feeling they’re hunters.

You’ve dealt with hunters before, always trying to convince them to walk away, to avoid a fight they’re not going to win. Some listen, some attack. You never go for the kill—at least, not unless you have to. You prefer leaving them unconscious, just injured enough so they can’t track you down right away. By the time they’re back on their feet, you’ve already moved on to a new city, sometimes a new country. They never find you again.

You kind of hope Green Eyes isn’t a hunter, though. But he has that look. You just pray that he and his partner are after the real killers and not you.

Either way, it’s time to perform. Hopefully, he’ll be there again, and this time, you’ll catch him after the show.

All thoughts vanish the moment you step onto the stage. It’s like the music possesses you, and all that matters is that these people are here to see you. So, you give them the best performance you can, like you do every night.

You let the music guide you, letting the sound of the guitar flow through your veins as you feel free. There, with all the lights on you and the loud cheers of the crowd, with the microphone in your hand as you twirl, jump, and flirt, you feel alive. Or, at least, as alive as a vampire can be.

You decide to sing a Led Zeppelin cover tonight, sensing that Green Eyes is that kind of guy. And you’re clearly right, if the way your enhanced eyes catch his jaw dropping is anything to go by.

In the next song, you jump off stage.

If Green Eyes doesn’t want to be found after the show, you’ll catch him mid-performance instead.

You walk through the crowd, and they part like the Red Sea for you. All of them with wide eyes, trembling hands, but they don’t touch. You cup a girl’s face, singing to her and making her almost faint. You run a delicate hand down a guy’s chest while singing about a poorly hidden metaphor for a blowjob.

Slowly, like a snake, you make your way toward the supposed FBI agents.

You make a show of sitting on a stool, singing toward the bartender, who just chuckles and shakes his head, too used to your shamelessness. You get up and walk past the taller of the two new guys, sending him a glance over your shoulder, before you finally reach him.

Green Eyes is even hotter up close. You lick your lips and lean down, hovering over him as he sits on the bar stool. Your hand runs through his hair, and you catch the way his breath hitches. You whisper filthy lines into the microphone as your hand trails down his shoulder, and you just know your bandmates will tease you about it all night.

You grab his jacket and pull him forward as you walk backwards, not enough to make him stand but enough to leave him perched on the edge of his seat. Then you turn around, making sure your hips sway just right as you make your way back to the stage, a pleased smirk playing on your lips.

The rest of the show flies by, three more songs before you make a show of walking backstage, only to have the crowd scream and beg for one more.

You down the rest of tonight’s wine bottle before rocking out to the real last track. Now in an extremely good mood, you toss your leather jacket to a group of your regulars—the groupies who always crowd the front row. By now, you know them all by name. They fight over the jacket until Alice, you think her name is, snags it. The smile that splits her face is so big, it fills your soulless body with a warmth so real, you almost believe you have one.

You give your little goodbye speech and retreat to the green room.

You retouch your makeup, check that your fangs are still hidden, tug your mini-skirt just a tiny bit higher.

Once you’re ready, you walk out on a mission.

For your pleasant surprise, Green Eyes is right where you left him. He seems to be in some kind of argument with the other guy, both of them gesturing quickly with their hands.

You walk closer slowly, smiling at the people who offer compliments and gently brushing off anyone who tries to make conversation.

You are focused on something else.

Casually, like you don’t even notice they’re there, you lean against the bartop right next to them.

“You’ve got quite a line waiting for you today.” The barman, Troy, informs you with a grin. You can feel the two agents stop their conversation and focus on you instead.

“Well then, I better get started.” You thank him when he hands you your first drink, a spicy mango margarita.

Fans always try to buy you drinks. You never have the heart to tell them you don’t need it, you have more money than necessary even with your eternal existence. But it’s very inconvenient when they all try to buy them at the same time, and you end up with five to ten quickly melting drinks around you.

That’s why Troy and you came up with a system. Fans could go to him and buy you a drink, and he would just add it to a list. At the end of every show, he would start preparing the first drink. By the time you’re done with that one, he has the next one ready. And the next one, and the next one.

Thank the gods for your supernatural alcohol tolerance.

“One day I’m gonna have to drag your cold body off that stage after the cirrhosis takes over.”

“Something’s gotta kill me, right?” you wink at Troy, and he laughs—even if he could never really grasp the irony in your words.

Only after you’ve taken a long sip of your fruity drink do you turn to the two agents. Their eyes dart away, caught staring, and a sharp, Cheshire-cat smirk curls your lips.

“You two are new.” It isn’t a question.

Green Eyes licks his lips but hesitates for a moment. The other one—so tall, even with you in platform heels—takes over.

“Yeah, we’re just passing through.” He extends his hand for a shake, and you meet it, watching him twitch at your icy touch. “I’m Sam. That’s Dean, my brother.”

Brothers. That made sense, the hotness is genetic.

Green Eyes—Dean—nods and extends his hand as well. You grab it, letting your touch linger this time.

“That was quite the show you put on tonight.” His voice is deeper than you imagined, and you take a sip of your drink to hide the grin tugging at your lips.

Oh, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

Only if you’re wrong, and he’s not a hunter... but you try not to think about that just yet.

“Well, thank you.” You smile, stepping away from the bartop and stopping right in front of the brothers. “First time seeing our gig?”

You know it’s not, but you ask anyway.

Sam shakes his head, earning a glare from his brother.

“Nah. We’ve been coming here after work every night.” He says, unbothered by the daggers being thrown his way. “Every show has been amazing.”

“Yeah.” Dean adds, leaning forward, his elbow resting on the bar and a smirk on his face. He seems to have regained his composure. “I can’t believe you haven’t made it out of this hellhole.”

You chuckle and shake your head.

“I’m kinda fond of this hellhole.” You shrug, earning a smile from both brothers. “The booze’s good, the crowd’s electric, so I’d say I’m doing pretty damn well.”

The real reason you could never go further than some goth bar in New Orleans is simple: you couldn’t risk getting famous. Back when the only way to capture a moment was through an oil painting, it hadn’t been a problem. By the 50s, you’d started hiding a bit more. But now, with the rise of the internet, getting too popular could be disastrous.

Someone, thirty years from now, might see you on the street and wonder why you look exactly the same as you did back then. It’s too risky.

You continue to make small talk with the brothers, trading jokes and witty comments. You finish your margarita and continue with a rum and coke. The brothers look at you with wide eyes but Troy reassures them.

“I’ve seen her mix every single liquor we have in this place and she still won’t get more than a little clumsy. I don’t know how she does it, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

It stops any questioning, but you could see the wheels turning in Sam’s head. He might be trouble.

“So, a Zeppelin fan?” You look up at Dean with hooded eyes over the rim of your glass, subtly changing the topic. He seems taken aback that you noticed his reaction to your cover choice, choking on his last sip of whiskey while Sam tries to suppress a laugh.

“Oh, you know it.” Dean grins, setting his empty glass back on the bartop. “Classic rock never disappoints.”

You nod, humming lowly. Led Zeppelin had, admittedly, been one of your favorite bands to hang around back then. You remember being at one of their concerts—VIP, then backstage. You can almost see Dean’s reaction if you told him you were actually there for most of the writing sessions for Physical Graffiti. “Oh, for sure. The seventies were wild, the golden age of rock ‘n’ roll.”

You eye both brothers’ empty glasses and meet Troy’s gaze.

“How many whiskeys today?”

Troy glances at his list, then grimaces. “Like fifteen? I don’t get why most of them order you whiskey.”

You laugh, shrugging. You could down any drink without flinching, but you had to admit whiskey wasn’t your favorite. (Too many nights throwing up on a pirate’s deck might have given you some serious PTSD.)

“Care to help me scratch a few more drinks off that list?” you ask the brothers, already signaling Troy to start serving the glasses.

“Am I not supposed to be the one buying you a drink?” Dean’s grin widens, his voice lowering an octave.

You laugh, low and sultry. “Oh, believe me, darling, I don’t need you to.” You wink at him, pointing at the already served whiskeys. “Help yourselves. Tonight’s on me.” You smirk. “Or, well, on my fans, anyway.”

You end up getting pretty hammered that night. The brothers are way worse than you, with Dean stumbling around the emptying bar. His hands start to wander, and his touch lingers longer each time. He leans in closer every time he speaks to you, his eyes half-lidded and his words a little slurred.

At some point, someone gets a hold of the jukebox and plays The Cure. Dean whines about it being too “emo and sappy,” rolling his eyes as the first chords play.

You drag him onto the dance floor, both of you swaying to the beat of Lovesong. You grab his hand, making him spin a few times, the two of you laughing as you end up draped all over each other. His face presses against your neck, and his large hands wrap around your waist.

You are enveloped by his scent, the sweet smell of his humanity (his blood calling to you like honey) mixing with something strong, like motor oil and wood. It is a scent you won’t forget.

“Haven’t felt this alive in ages.” Your words are more literal than Dean realizes, but he nods anyway. His gaze lingers on you, eyes shining with an almost hypnotic intensity, as though he’s as mesmerized as some of your fans. It makes your heart ache in a way you didn’t realize it still could.

At least four more rounds of tequila shots later, Dean is all goofy grins and slurred whispers, insisting more than once that you come back to his motel room.

“Sammy’ll find somewhere to crash,” he mumbles, his words slipping together.

But he’s clearly too far gone, so you gently steer him back toward the bar, ordering a glass of water. Sam is a little more sober—at least enough to shoot you a few teasing glances—and you trust him to keep an eye on his brother. Still, you walk with them to the bar’s front door, making sure they’re both upright and heading in the right direction, not stumbling toward a car.

Dean tries to convince you to let him walk you home, but you just shake your head, laughing. Not only do you not need protection, but you're also sure he'd end up passing out halfway there.

"Go with your brother, darling. I’ll see you at my next gig."

You wait for a few minutes, then follow the brothers from the shadows to make sure they get to their motel without any issues before you retreat. You continue your nightly rounds, still on the lookout for those dumb vamps.

With your mind just the tiniest bit clouded after finishing every drink on tonight's list for the first time in a while, you end up heading home earlier than usual. Maybe the vamps took a break on Friday night.

The next day, you walk outside just to find another body, this time abandoned in the bar’s dumpster. A young girl, black leather jacket clutched in her hand.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

After Alice’s death, you decide it is finally time to get rid of the plague.

But this also serves as a reminder of why you don’t get attached to mortals. Their bodies are so fragile, their existence so fleeting. You can’t afford to bond with them; you’ve learned your lesson.

So, erasing any trace of Dean from your mind, you double down on hunting the vamps.

You sneak into the morgue first, hoping to find any clues in the body. Just like the others, there’s nothing but fang marks on her smooth skin. If your eyes gloss over at the sight of your autograph scrawled on her arm in black Sharpie, well, that’s between you and the corpses around you.

From there you visit all the previous murder scenes, trying to find any detail you may have missed. You look closely, try to catch any strange scent or trail they may have left while retreating, but find nothing.

You leave Alice’s for last. She was the only victim you knew by name, and it tore you apart knowing that they all probably knew your name. Or the name the town gave you, at least.

You're just going over the footprints that seem to vanish into thin air when you hear two voices approaching. The sun is already setting, but it is still strange for clients to be here this early, especially roaming around the dumpster.

You quickly retreat to hide behind a nearby tree, the trunk thick enough to conceal your figure.

You listen closely, trying to figure out who it might be.

“We already investigated this place in the morning.” An exasperated voice reaches you. “You sure we’re not here just so you can try and catch a glimpse of her?”

“C’mon Sammy, I’m a professional.” So you were right about the hunter thing, damn it. “I’m just saying this is the freshest lead we have. We might as well start here."

“Yeah, right. So the way your eyes keep drifting to that window means nothing, hm?”

Dean scoffs, and his footsteps get closer.

“I am just… making sure we’re not missing anything.”

A brief silence follows, as though the brothers are sharing an unspoken moment.

“You’re so fucked.” Sam snorts. “The only person you’re gonna catch behind that window is Troy. I don’t think she’s the type to go out in the sun.”

Oh. He is indeed trouble.

You stay as still as non-humanly possible, trying to gather how much intel the brothers have. They know what you know—that the killers are vamps and part of a nest—but they’re missing some pieces.

And they also know a few things you didn’t know.

“The guy you saw last night, you said he drove a black van?”

Sam saw one of the vamps? Damn it, if you’d been a little more careful, maybe you would’ve caught them too.

“No, he wasn’t driving. Someone else was inside, waiting for him. Took off as soon as he jumped in.”

“And you couldn’t follow them because you were drunk out of your mind.”

“Should I remind you, you were the one passed out in bed.”

“Details. But the tracks are gone now, right?”

“Yeah, somehow they managed to get rid of the tire tracks before sunrise.” Sam pauses, and there are some more shuffling noises.

“What I can’t seem to understand is why they are targeting the bar’s clientele.”

"I think I know.” Sam sounds reluctant, like he’s not sure whether he wants to say it. “And I think it might have to do with your Lily Munster.”

“It does.” You step out from behind the tree, making both brothers jump and pull out their guns. You catch sight of the machetes hanging from their belts, and you sigh. “But not in the way you’re imagining.”

You meet Dean’s eyes, and his jaw twitches. He looks disappointed, almost betrayed. You keep your chin up, but something bitter washes down your throat.

Whatever

“So that’s why you don’t get drunk, or even break a sweat while performing.” Sam’s tone is all-knowing, and you fight the urge to smirk. “And you’re freezing cold.”

“So, what? You use your charm to lure in fresh blood?” Dean sneers, his voice dripping with disdain.

You shake your head, leaning back against the tree and watching him unsheathe his machete.

“You’ve got the wrong vamp, guys.” You try to explain, reluctantly spilling everything you know about the nest and why they’re targeting you.

“And you expect us to believe that?” Dean scoffs. But Sam’s mind is clearly racing now, the wheels turning again.

“You saw the van and the vamp last night. I was circling the bar at that time, trying to catch these assholes.” You shrug, flipping your hair back with casual defiance. “I can tell you more about them if you need.”

“Like what?”

“They’re young vamps, the way they bite their victims…” Something cold flashes in your eyes as Alice’s body comes to mind. “It’s feral. They’re new to feeding, probably abandoned by their Sire, left to fend for themselves.”

“Also,” you add, shaking your head and stepping closer to the brothers. They immediately tense, preparing for a fight. “Their nest is somewhere with a strong odor. I can pick up their scent at the crime scenes, but the trail’s impossible to follow. They’ve covered their tracks, wherever they’re hiding.”

The brothers exchange a look, both mumbling. “The old factory.”

“What?”

“There’s an old factory near our motel. The smell’s unbearable.”

“It’s also close to where Sam saw the vamp yesterday.”

You nod, taking in the information. You wonder how you missed the factory—it had been so easy to get distracted by a cute guy, and now a young girl, along with many others, are dead.

“The sun’s still up, which means the vamps are probably still holed up in there.” You speak up. “If we go now, we can take them out while they’re still vulnerable.”

“We?” Dean scoffs. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You lock eyes with him, his green gaze still piercing under the warm sun, and you notice his grip on the machete waver.

“I’m not who you think I am, Dean.” You take a slow step forward. “I don’t feed on humans, I don’t harm people. I’m not like the other vamps you’ve hunted.”

His tongue presses against his cheek, his breath catching as you close the distance between you.

“That would explain how she can walk in the sunlight.” Both of you ignore Sam’s voice, still focused on each other. “She could be useful.”

“I’ve given you everything I know about the nest. Believe me, I want them dead just as much as you do.” You glance at Sam briefly, then back to Dean. “Let me help.”

Dean hesitates, his expression softening for the briefest second before hardening again.

“No. We’re not working with a bloodsucker.” You swallow the lump in your throat. He tightens his grip on the machete, preparing to strike.

“Dean, the sun’s setting. We don’t have much time before it’s dark.” Sam grabs his shoulder, pulling him back. “The nest first. This can wait.”

With that, Dean secures his weapon back in place and walks off. You watch as the brothers climb into their car and drive toward the factory. You try to shake off the tightness in your throat, but it lingers.

Licking your teeth, you turn around and start walking.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Dean can’t believe what he’s about to say, but he kind of wishes he had accepted your offer.

He shuffles again where he’s tied to a column, trying to find a way to break the ropes. But the vampires—just some fledglings, as feral and lost as you predicted—knew how to tie someone up. Neither he nor Sam can find a way out, the ropes pulled tight and deliberately placed away from any sharp surface.

The bloodsuckers pace in circles around them, speaking in hushed, frantic voices.

“I thought you said the plan was infallible!”

“Well, I thought it was! They should have gone for her, not us.”

“I told you this would happen! You never listen to me.”

“It’s not my fault, okay? We’ve all heard about the Dark Heiress. I was sure she’d tear any hunter to shreds before they even got close to us.”

The Dark Heiress?

Oh, what has Dean gotten himself into?

Sam and Dean share a look, both trying to piece together who you really are.

Dean has to admit, he’s a little bitter.

You’re genuinely one of the most beautiful girls he’s ever met. Even through the haze of alcohol, he remembers everything from last night—the shared laughs, the slow dancing, the looks that meant a lot more than either of you could handle.

His heart tugs at the idea that you might just be another monster he’ll have to gank.

"Whatever. We have the hunters now. We just gotta get rid of them, and we’re clean."

"I still insist it’s not a good idea to keep bothering the Heiress."

"Yeah, guys. She might find us out, and I don’t want her as an enemy."

"What would she even do to us? We outnumber her."

"She’s invincible! She'll wipe us out before we even get a chance to pull out our fangs. Haven’t you heard the stories?"

"The stories may be a bit exaggerated," comes that smooth, sultry voice.

Dean turns to look at the front door of the old factory, just in time to see you walking in. As disgusted as he is about your nature, he has to admit you look like a goddess.

"But blondie’s right," you continue with a smirk. "You shouldn’t mess around with me."

All the fledglings freeze on the spot, turning to look at you like they’re seeing the boogeyman.

Your eyes drift to Sam and Dean, like you’re making sure they’re okay. Dean tries not to think about the fact that you might actually care.

The sound of your boots against the floor echoes like a marching band as you make your way toward the vampire gang. In your hand, you hold Dean’s machete, the same one that had been ripped from his grasp when he got knocked out.

Dean has trouble breathing at the sight. You move like smoke, slow and confident, your eyes dark and flashing almost red. You’re still wearing your typical get-up: leather mini-skirt and flimsy top. But now, you look dangerous, like sin personified.

The swing of your hips matches the lazy sway of your blade, and when you smirk, Dean catches a glimpse of your fangs. Two of them—long, shiny, and sharp—placed where your lateral incisors should be, instead of covering every tooth like the other vampires.

You slash through the first vamp’s neck like it’s nothing, sending the other three flying. But you’re quicker, just as precise and skilled in combat as you are playing the guitar. Your long hair whips around you as you spin and jump across the factory, and the contrast to the girl he saw on stage leaves Dean dizzy for a second.

He hates to admit it, but he can’t tell which version of you is hotter.

In a matter of seconds, there’s only one vamp left—the one who seemed to be their leader. He puts up a bit more of a fight, and you end up straddling him right in front of Dean and Sam. The machete had been knocked from your grasp, and now you’re pinning the fledgling down, struggling to figure out a way to reach the weapon.

“Should’ve known killing the little bitch was a bad idea.”

Your eyes immediately snap to the guy beneath you, your expression twisting into something almost bestial.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“I told him not to go for the groupies, but the dumbass had to kill the pretty girl.” The vamp spits out, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you really cared, though.”

The grip you have on the guy’s wrists tightens, the veins in your neck standing out as your voice sharpens to a deadly hiss.

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

“I don’t regret it, though.” The vamp smirks, blood and vampire goo dribbling from his mouth. “She was a good little snack, barely screamed—”

He doesn’t have time to finish the sentence. You rip his head off with a swift, vicious motion, the sound of bones snapping filling the air.

Bare hands, no weapon. You simply wrap your hands around his jaw and yank. You toss the head aside like it’s nothing, then slowly rise off the corpse’s lap, casually adjusting your jewelry.

Your face is splashed with goo, your white tank top—no bra, Dean’s brain notes unhelpfully—now dripping with black vampire blood.

“Damn it, always so messy.” You roll your eyes and casually walk over to pick up the machete.

You head back to the brothers, who are staring at you in stunned silence.

You just beheaded someone with your bare hands.

A sick part of Dean’s brain sends a shiver down his spine at the sight, but he shakes it off.

Bloodsucker. Remember?

First, you free Sam, and then you make your way to Dean. He turns to look at you as you kneel next to him, but your eyes remain cast down. You make quick work of cutting through the ropes with the machete, never once meeting his gaze. There’s something creeping behind your eyes, something dark and morose.

You leave the machete next to Dean, like you’re daring him to use it. He grabs it but doesn’t lunge for you. Instead, he gets up and rubs his wrists where the rope irritated the skin.

“Thank you for that, I suppose,” Sam says after an awkward moment of silence. You let out a bitter laugh and nod.

“No problem. I just thought I should come and check if the job was done.”

Dean nods, studying you slowly with his eyes.

“You’re different,” he affirms, and it finally makes you meet his gaze. Something heavy passes between you, something that leaves him breathless and scared.

“Could’ve told you that,” you huff, leaning down to pick up one of your necklaces that fell off mid-fight.

“Who are you, Dark Heiress?”

The nickname makes you laugh, this time genuinely. You throw your head back and all, eyes closed, the moonlight catching on your flawless, fangless smile.

“I told you, I am not like other vamps you know.” You place the necklace back around your neck, a black leather thread with some kind of symbol as a charm. “I am… older. Another breed, if you will.”

Dean turns to Sam, but his eyes are locked on the necklace. It’s a seven-pointed star inside a circle, every space outside the star engraved with a different symbol, and a tiny triangle in the middle of it. On the outside, a wolf-headed snake is eating itself. It’s like nothing Dean has ever seen before, but Sam seems to recognize it.

“No way.” Sam takes a step closer to you, and you simply smile smugly. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Do you mind catching me up?” Dean asks sarcastically, but his brother ignores him, staring way too close at your necklace — and your chest.

Dean’s jaw tightens. “Okay, dude.”

He grabs Sam’s shoulder and yanks him back a step, a little rougher than necessary. Sam just stumbles, still wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

You only laugh, and even then, your voice sounds melodic. You look at both of them with a cocky grin, and Dean can’t tell if he wants to punch you or kiss you.

“You’re Count Orlok’s… daughter?” Sam asks in fascination.

Dean thinks he should probably know who that is, but he’s still completely lost.

“Count Orlok?” He frowns, trying to place the name. Maybe it’s the Vampire Alpha? Or was it in a movie?

“I think you mortals know him more as Nosferatu.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to drop his jaw. “You’re telling me you’re the daughter of… that creepy gray dude from that silent film?”

You laugh again, still covered in vamp goo — and still beautiful.

“Pretty accurate representation, not gonna lie,” you drag out, walking toward a broken mirror to fix your lipstick.

“So, there’s an entire other breed of vamps? Orlok descendants?” Sam’s eyes are huge and shiny, and Dean can practically see his brain overheating from the nerdy overload.

"It’s just me," you respond after a beat, your voice low. "Father was the last of his kind. He needed a male heir to continue the line... but he only had me."

You turn to face them, shrugging casually, as though you're not shattering everything they thought they knew about vampires.

"So you’re the heiress."

"That’s what the other vamps started calling me." You smirk. "They know better than to disturb me." You glance down at the corpses with a sigh. "Or at least, I thought they did."

"So what’s Nosferatu’s daughter doing in New Orleans?" Dean huffs, finally letting go of the machete. You can't help but smile at his frustration.

All three of you begin to slowly make your way out of the factory. Sam and Dean walk with a slight limp, still feeling the aftereffects of being attacked and tied up, but you glide next to them effortlessly.

Strong. Determined. Graceful. Hypnotic.

“I’ve lived all over the world, met all kinds of people.” You walk closer to him, confident and radiant under the dim lights of the twilight. “When I decided I wanted to perform, I couldn’t help but come here. All the legends and literature weren’t lying, it really has been the best place I’ve lived in a long time.”

A blanket of sadness drapes over your eyes, and for a moment, it looks like you’re not really seeing him—like you’re lost in your own thoughts. You bite your lip, and Dean can’t help but notice the shift.

“That’s why I try to stay away from trouble, keep a low profile. I wanna enjoy this for as long as I can.”

It makes sense. You couldn’t stay in the same place long enough for people to notice you don’t age, and you clearly loved performing. Dean could tell music gave you life, and he doubts you’d jeopardize that. But still…

“How do you feed, then?” Dean’s voice softens slightly, the edge of hostility melting away quickly as he meets your gaze.

You all stop in front of the Impala, you leaning casually against it.

That’s an image Dean won’t forget—you, in your tiny clothes, looking like the cover of a heavy metal album, sprawled across Baby’s hood.

He can easily picture you there in another world, mini-skirt pulled up higher, blood-red lips parted—

“Blood bags.”

It takes Dean a moment to catch up. Right, feeding.

“I haven’t fed on humans in a long time,” you continue, shrugging nonchalantly. “I mostly steal blood bags. It’s enough to keep me going.”

Both brothers nod at the information, but Sam’s eyes flick back and forth between you two.

“I’ll—uh, go put the machetes in the trunk.” He practically scurries away, making you giggle.

Cute.

No, Dean, stop. Bloodsucker.

You straighten up and walk towards him, tilting your head slightly so you're looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“So, should I get ready to fight you?” Your tongue runs over your teeth, and Dean resists the urge to pull you closer.

“Don’t think it’s necessary.” He gives you a half-smirk. “Just don’t give us a reason to come back and find you, sweetheart. Next time, I won’t be so nice.”

Your grin turns smug, and you lean just a little bit closer.

“I won’t.” You wink at him. “And it was a fight you were gonna lose, anyway.”

That makes him snort, eyes narrowing. He wants to call you out for being cocky, wipe that smirk off your face with his own mouth, but he can’t. He saves people. He hunts things. Things like you.

“I don’t know about that.” He lowers his eyes, pulling away. You catch the shift, taking a step back and clearing your throat.

“Right.” You seem to collect yourself, and Dean can almost picture the armor materializing around you. “I guess I… won’t see you again.”

He chuckles lowly, a little bitter. “I hope so.” He nods, and your eyes linger for one, two, three seconds before you pull away.

You wave goodbye to Sam, and then, with a fluid movement, you disappear into the shadows, as if the night itself is swallowing you whole.

Dean sighs, sliding into the driver’s seat, trying to shake off the bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat.

“Thought I was the one with a history with violent women?”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Come on, you practically got a boner when she decapitated that guy with her hands.”

“Are you feeling okay? You might have a fever. Hallucinating things.”

A beat passes, and then—

“She looks like a good person.”

“She’s not a person. She’s a creature.”

“But—”

“I think you should get some sleep, Sam.”

Hours later, as the empty road stretches on, Dean finally lets himself wonder if he’ll ever see you again.

NOTES: Nyx is here!!! I hope y'all liked it. I am obsessed with her and I've been planning her whole story for quite a while. I wanted this to be a little shorter but there's just so much lore to explore! anyways, part 2. coming soon.

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

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tequilai · 1 month ago

Text

TELEVANGELISM

DEAN WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

CHAPTER 1

PRÉCIS: There’s a new pastor in town. He’s young and handsome, but you can’t deny his faith—especially not after he helps your father get sober, right? But there's just something off about him

WARNINGS: dark fic, vamp!dean, father(pastor)!dean, religion, age gap, coercion, blasphemy, corruption, manipulation, dean is not really in his right body/mind as he’s a vamp, also not even a real priest.

A/N: I listened to Televangelism by ethel cain on repeat every time i wrote more for this and i urge you to do the same. It fits so well and it's so good and it really put me in the setting just from the music. This also took sooo goddamn long because i was debating on turning it into chapters or just a one parter... that being said CHAPTER 1!! PLS LMK IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES

That rabid dog. That rabid dog woke you up every morning at the ripe time of seven o’clock. Howling, barking, and foaming at the mouth for nothing. That rabid dog who growled as you passed by. The only thing keeping him from pouncing on you and mauling you to death was the tight chain secured around his neck, the same chain that was so snug against the weeping willow tree in the yard. You’re sure that if that rabid dog were smart enough, he would run around that tree fast enough to cut it down with just his chain.

Six years, that rabid dog has woken you up every morning faithfully at seven, but not on Sunday, no. On Sunday, he woke you up at nine, two hours before service would start, two hours before you would sit in those hard wooden pews, two hours before your daddy would swear on God's name at the confessional he would stop drinking, only to never stay faithful to his words. The same daddy who would kiss your head with his whiskey breath and make you swear to always be the good girl you are. You loved your daddy, but you couldn’t lie, especially when you would pray, pray for forgiveness on his behalf, pray for the lord to forgive him for that night with your mother.

When the news broke out that the church’s father had disappeared into the night, the only trace left was his blood splattered across the rotting wood of the church. You were devastated. He was as old as your daddy. He had sunken eyes and a yellowed, wooden-looking smile. His wife and three children attended the funeral, of course. Their shared tears and pleas for God to bring him back from the grave rang in your ears for the entire service.

You could almost smell the chemicals flowing through his body from the formaldehyde, almost like he was dipped in it instead of filled with it, but you couldn’t pay attention to that anymore. Not when the new priest, Father Winchester, walked in. He was to take the place of Father Murphy and have the honor of speaking at his funeral and introducing himself. You had heard whispers and gossip around town about him, how he was handsome, how young he was- how they’d never heard of him before in their lives. He was a mystery, but he would be the new priest until the church decided otherwise; considering how Mrs. Murphy was staring at him from her seat, you don’t think he’ll be going soon.

The old church was dimly lit, with one old and ugly stained glass window front and center behind the altar and choir, illuminating patterns all across the room. There was always a smell of dust, no matter how clean the church was- it smelled old, it looked old, and it creaked as if it was built two thousand years ago with the same wood they nailed Jesus to the cross with. The man's heavy footsteps let out a whine and creak on the cold wooden floor as he approached the altar. He didn’t look like a priest. He didn’t move like one either. There was no gentleness in him, no warm smile or soft voice to lean on. He looked like someone who’d been in a fight right before walking in. And won. The soft murmurs of the congregation filled the space, accompanied by occasional coughs and that wretched creak of the pews. Mrs. Murphy's children sat painfully still in their seats, their heads hung low as they refused to meet the eyes of the man who would soon replace their father. Father Winchester took this silence to look at his audience, his eye contact almost painful as he met eyes with almost everyone in the church. He grunted as he cleared his throat; you swear you could've heard an ant run by with how eerily quiet the church became.

“I regret that I would have to meet all of you under these circumstances, but I am extremely grateful that I get to be here today.” He pauses, meeting eyes with the church again, but this time his eyes flicker toward the back where you sat, and they keep coming back to you during his entire speech.

“Not only am I here to introduce myself with hopes that you all welcome me into your sacred church with open arms, I am here to remember the late Father Murphy” The sniffling starts- the sniffling from Mrs. Murphy that you think is simply just for petty brownie points that she would even care enough to shed a tear at her husband's funeral.

Every time his eyes meet yours, you fight not to call your daddy to sit with you. Usually, you beg him not to come in, as you’re sure that the gossip will only get louder and stronger about him being a raging drunk. He only agrees with a deep sadness in his eyes, promising you once again that he’ll get better- a lie. This time, though, you long for him and want him to give the meanest look he can to Father Winchester for ogling you.

Eventually, you stop listening to his praises, not that it made sense anyway, and start eyeing him too, not for the same reasons he was eyeing you, but to look at him with a fresh eye. He was handsome- you couldn’t deny that if you tried. He had short brown hair with beautiful but striking green eyes, and a short and scruffy beard, accompanied by his strong jawline. Tall- about as tall as your daddy, but Father Winchester had muscles that could probably kill a man. He stood tall and confident, almost cocky, but he was still young. Younger than your daddy, but older than you- maybe by twelve years or so.

As church ended, people lined up to meet the new priest. You couldn’t even be bothered, it was ungodly for you to do so, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with Father Winchester, something that made your bones clack in your body. You’re sure your Irish goodbye goes unnoticed as you sit in the back of the church, but the moment you opened those damned wooden doors, your daddy stood on the grass field outside of the church, smoking his cigarette before he looks up at you- the only one, coming out of the church doors. He hacks up something in his lungs before looking up at you with a look of confusion. This was out of the ordinary for you. He was used to the previous routine. He would hear the chatter inside the church and know that service was finally over. That gave you seven minutes to say goodbye and hug everyone while they wished you and your father well.

“What you doin’ baby?” Your dad's voice shows nothing but concern as he looks you up and down. Maybe you started your monthly in church? Wanting to get out as soon as anyone saw the red staining the back of your beautiful peachy dress. Hell- he didn’t know, but he knew something was wrong. He knew because never in the twenty-three years you’ve been at church, even as an infant cradled in your momma's arms, you always stayed for a little while longer.

“Nothing, Daddy- jus’ wanna go home, I'm not feeling well.” You felt horrible lying to him. You can’t believe you mustered up the pathetic courage to lie to him on church grounds. Your dad looked at you for a beat- and then two before he lifted the almost orange butt of his cigarette to his lips, sucking in the last bit of tobacco before he flicked the cigarette into the grass. He looked down at his button-up shirt, dusting off the bits of ash that had fallen on his shirt earlier, and he looked up at you again.

“You can go sit in the truck, 'm gonna say somethin’ to the new priest.” You felt your whole body shiver, and you looked up from staring at your feet, a subtle pout on your lips as you spoke.”

"But, Daddy, I-"

“Quit it. Go sit in the truck, I’ll only be a minute.” Your face frowns into an angry expression before you stomp past him to the truck, listening to the hinges and springs scream at you as you open the door. As soon as you place your bible in the middle of the bench seat, you reach over to the door handle, pulling it as hard as you can and slamming the truck door- something your daddy was sure to chew you out about later.

Your father continues to look at you for a beat before he faces forward, shaking his head and grumbling something under his breath as he heads inside the church. The old beat-up truck reeks of cigarettes, and the stench sticks to your clothes like syrup. He always made sure not to smoke on the way to church, trying to maintain the sickly sweet perfume he spent so much on at the department store.

You tried to be mad. Mad at your daddy, mad at the church, mad at whatever that thing was staring at you from the pulpit. But you were tired. And scared. And maybe a little curious. With a sigh and a childish thrash, you grip the crank on the side of your door and, frustratedly, turn the handle to roll the window down with a huff. You rested your cheek against the warm metal of the door and looked out the window, watching the church doors, waiting for your father to return. He was a smart man, surely; he felt the destructive energy from Father Winchester just as you did. Unfortunately, your own body betrays you, and you start to feel sleepy, the pleasant breeze from the window not helping to aid your urgency to stay awake.

A thud on your side of the door jolts you awake, your heart leaping into your throat. Your eyes snap open, blurry with sleep, only to find Father Winchester's face inches from yours through the open window. His green eyes are fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"Sorry I scared you, sweetheart," he says, his voice smooth as the skin on his face, a smirk finding its way to his lips. "Your father wants to tell you something." He nods his head to the other side of the truck, where your dad opens his door. His hat was long gone from his head as his arm bent to hold it to his chest; he looked softer somehow, more kind.

“I’m quittin' for good, baby. This time I mean it.” You looked at your daddy’s face—really looked. And something about the way his hands shook, the way his voice caught—it made you believe him. Almost. Then you looked back at Father Winchester. He held your daddy’s cigarette pack in his hand like a trophy. “He’s done with these, too,” Father Winchester said. He smiles when he says it, but it’s not a normal smile. Not the kind that lifts your heart. It’s too slow. Too wide. And when the sunlight hits him just right, you could swear his teeth look too sharp. “I believe he’s ready. God’s got him now.” He looked at you when he said it. And you nod, because what else are you supposed to do? Because you want to believe your daddy. You need to.

Father Winchester doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I see something in you, too. Something sinful. An addiction of sorts.”

Your heart knocks once—hard. “I want you to come by the church tomorrow,” he says. “Just you. If your father’s busy, I’ll make sure you get home safe.” You open your mouth to lie—to tell him you’ve got class, or errands, or anything to keep from being alone in that church with him. But before a single word makes it out, your daddy cuts in.

“I’ll bring her,” he says, nodding like it’s already been decided. “Long as you make sure she gets back safe. I gotta head to work.” Your eyes dart to your daddy like he just handed you off. But he’s not even looking at you. He’s looking at Father Winchester’s car—a sleek, black Impala parked on the grass.

“Nice car,” he mutters.

“Thank you,” Father Winchester says, and he looks so damn proud you want to knock his jaw loose. “See you tomorrow, sweetheart.” He taps the side of the truck twice, fingers lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. Then he turns and walks away, slow and easy, like he’s got all the time in the world. He doesn’t look back. But you do. And you get this awful, sinking feeling—like tomorrow’s already swallowed you whole.

#supernatural x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #supernatural x you #dean x you #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x younger!reader #priest dean #vamp!dean #vamp!preist dean #dean winchester x female!reader

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