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Between Two Lungs

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Two nights in a row, Father Christopher finds himself opening the doors to a man covered in blood. There's no mouthy girl with this man though; he's sporting considerably less horrifying injuries, too. Bruises, scrapes, a bang to the head that's dribbling blood down his face, and a split lip, and when Christopher glances him up and down he sees a finger that looks like it's twisted a way it shouldn't be. 

It's almost a welcome relief. The man grins, charming in a way that catches him off-guard and says, "Can I come in?"

Christopher stands his ground, swallowing, and glances indoors. The deacon has business elsewhere tonight, and the idea of being alone makes Christopher nervous, but he remembers that part of being a Christian is being a good samaritan. That churches, even cramped little missions like theirs, have their doors open to anyone. He nods and stands aside.

The guy steps past him with a grateful smile and clomps inside, treading mud, and Christopher purses his lips but says nothing, watching the slight bow-legged way that the stranger walks. "I just need to stay on hallowed - stay safe until my brother gets here. It might be a few hours." He makes himself comfortable on a seat as if it's no problem at all. Christopher's forehead creases.

"Can I help you?" He asks, and then adds, "We have a first aid kit, if you would like." He keeps a good five feet away from the stranger, finding random things at the side of the room to touch and focus on to look like he's busy. In this case, stacking three bibles on top of one another, then just sort of awkwardly standing there with his hand on them.

"Nah, I'm good. Unless you got something I can make a splint with."

Christopher stares down at the golden font on the cover of the books, wracking his brain, and then mumbles, "Just a moment." He leaves into the back room, searching for the first aid kit; there's bandages in there, for sure, but he opens it to check. There are popsicle sticks in there, too, and that makes Christopher frown. How often does this place get waywards and strays with broken fingers?

Nonetheless, it's convenient. 

He closes the kit and walks back out and pauses to watch the man frustratedly trying to text with his left hand. He says nothing, but clears his throat and lifts the first aid kit. The man glances up at him and seems to quietly give up, pocketing the phone. "There's the materials for a splint in there." Christopher gets closer, and offers out the box that the stranger accepts with his good hand.

He fumbles with it and opens it, and glances up at Christopher and says, "Got a name, Padre?"

"Father Christopher," he murmurs, eyeing the way that the stranger fumbles to do anything, trying not to knock his broken finger. "Let me," he says eventually, reluctantly, and he kneels beside the man, taking two popsicle sticks and gently placing them either side of the broken finger. "Hold them in place," he says.

"I'm Dean," he tells Christopher, holding the sticks in place and moving his hand away according as Christopher wraps the bandage first around just the broken finger and then binds it to his second finger. He reaches for a pin, and secures it all together, and then inspects his handiwork.

With the job over, Christopher drops Dean's hand and glances up at him. There's a peculiar expression on his face, and Christopher swallows, climbing off his knees and turning away, scratching a hand through his hair nervously and then rubbing his palms together.

"You look like someone I know," Dean tells him, reaching for wipes in the kit and cleaning off the blood from his face. Christopher forces himself to turn back, folding his arms. The gaze Dean is giving him - strong, intense, and in the dark light of the room his eyes look black. He feels like he should protect himself. "He was a good man." He chuckles, like he's making an inside joke with himself, "Hell, he was practically an angel."

"Was?" Christopher says. The word feels clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

"Had a bad religious experience," Dean explains, with a bitter smile, "He decided that God wasn't good enough. That we needed a better God."

"His faith can't have been very strong," Christopher answers, and everything seems to be coming out in a whisper. "Or his experience was particularly... traumatic."

"You could say that." Dean gets his phone out again and resumes attempting to text, jabbing with the useful fingers of his right hand. Christopher watches for a time, standing awkwardly as Dean apparently succeeds and cheers out loud to himself. "My brother'll know where I am now, I'll... be gone soon."

Christopher nods tightly. "Good." He pauses. "For you. To be going home. Or - "

Dean raises his hands, "Hey, if I'm really that much of a problem - "

He panics a little, flustered, and says, "No, I apologise - " Christopher stops, and purses his lips, noticing the way Dean's grinning, tongue peeking from between his teeth, eyes playful and eyebrows raised. "You're joking," he sighs.

"Yeah, padre, I'm joking." Dean snorts, jerking a thumb at a chair, "Sit down, dude, you're making me nervous. You always this tightly wound?" 

Christopher pulls up a chair and swallows as he sits, and responds with a heavy sigh, and to his own surprise, something of a smile, "Not always. I've had a stressful few days."

"Now I'm seeing the difference between you and my friend. You smile and you don't look like a newborn taking a poop," Dean says, off-hand, and Christopher glances at him with a concerned frown. "I'm saying you have a nice smile, man."

"Thank you," Christopher tells him, "I think." So do you, but Christopher's not in the business of complimenting strange, bleeding men who come into the church late at night. He wipes his hands on his thighs pointlessly. He's relaxing - slowly - but there's still something about this Dean guy that sets him a little on edge.

"What happened to you?" He dares to ask. "Why did you come to a church instead of a hospital?"

Dean's face turns blank and he looks down at his feet and shrugs before glancing back up at him. "Churches are safe. Me and my brother got into some trouble tonight and what - who was after us literally can't step onto church ground. He'd rather gut himself than go into a church, y'know."

Christopher nods, not really getting it at all. "Where did your brother go?"

"We split up in the opposite direction." There's a shrill, sharp noise, and Dean pulls his phone from his pocket and mutters, "Speak of the devil." He presses a button, and Christopher frowns as Dean's face goes stony and then he swears harshly under his breath.

"Problems?" Christopher says, doing his best to be more friendly, more polite, and not show his nerves so much.

"The," he clears his throat, "dude who was after us slashed my car tires. It was the only way my brother could get to me. He's heading off to find somewhere safe; he'll have to find me in the morning." Christopher goes a little cold as Dean's eyes turn to him. "Don't suppose you got a bed to spare?"

He stands up sharply and then remembers himself and says, "There's a shallow bed in the back room - it's not very comfortable, but it's all we have. Usually it's just for resting when we're down here very late."

"Really?" Dean looks a little crestfallen. "I was kind of hoping I could take your bed. I could really use some decent rest..."

Christopher hesitates. "I - you're right, you're injured - "

Then Dean has that grin again. "Dude, you are so easy to guilt." He stands up, coming level with Christopher. He's got a good inch or so on him. "But if you're willing to share, I'm down with that."

Christopher swallows, wide-eyed. "I live above the church," he says, without thinking, and then averts his eyes downward. Dean lets out a surprised cough and splutter, and Christopher takes a step back from Dean and says, "I - I should go - " and he turns, to go and lock the front door of the church and shut off the neon sign, close their doors for the night.

He intends to relegate Dean to the shallow bed, intends for this to be forgotten and in the past and something that will be entirely insignificant, but Dean snags his wrist and pulls him back, and pulls him into a kiss. Christopher wants to kiss back, he realises, he so badly does, but he can't. He shouldn't. So he pulls away, even as Dean's hand with the splint is dragging him a little closer.

He doesn't push Dean away, but he moves his mouth as far away as possible. "I'm a priest, sir," Christopher makes clear, unable to say the man's name. "You do know that? You do know that you - you shouldn't do that?"

"I know," Dean says. Five long, long seconds pass, and Christopher tilts his chin up to look Dean in the eye. They're nose to nose, Dean's fingers pressing into his wrist, those hands between their chests and Dean's other hand in the curve of Christopher's waist.

They're close enough to kiss, so Christopher damns himself and kisses him.

Time passes in a blur from that moment. He locks up the church and then Christopher finds himself showing Dean the way upstairs, but then he can't bring himself to actually take the first step up. Dean goes ahead of him, and turns two steps up, and reaches out the unharmed hand in encouragement.

Christopher takes those fingers in his own and allows himself to be lead up. It's not a private space, the apartment above the church; both he and the deacon live there. It's bare with grey walls, and open plan save the bathroom and bedrooms.

"Cosy," Dean remarks, and stops in the hallway, dropping Christopher's hand but still brushing their fingers together.

Christopher supposes from here it's his turn to lead the way. He opens the left-hand door to his room, and Dean follows, closing the door behind him. There's an awkward silence as Christopher lifts a hand up to stop Dean coming closer. He turns away to undo and remove his collar, storing it safely. He nibbles his bottom lip, undoing the first couple of buttons of his shirt preemptively and then turns, and finds himself suddenly backed against the wall by Dean.

They kiss again, Dean leading, Christopher content to follow. Content isn't really the right word considering the soul crushing terror of breaking every vow and promise (both the important ones and the ones to himself) he's ever made, but it's the only word that really fits. If the circumstances were different, perhaps he'd even be happy to have Dean take the lead.

Dean's mouth goes down Christopher's jaw, nipping and kissing, then down, hands bracing on the wall either side of Christopher as he kisses his adam's apple and then sucks at the hollow at the base of his throat.

Christopher flexes his hands uselessly at his sides and mouths wordlessly, staring at the ceiling. What kind of compulsion has overcome him to do this? Take in a stranger, a man, lead him to his bed above the church and - 

Dean pulls open his shirt and bites aggressively at a collarbone. Christopher's back arches sharply and he flails his hands, batting at Dean's shoulders before gripping tightly to his jacket. He hears the plastic drop of buttons to the floor - one, maybe two. Dean's mouth is on his left nipple then, only briefly, and then down again, and Christopher realises the man is sinking to his knees.

"Man, you're skinny," Dean comments, pressing his fingers against Christopher's hipbones.

He twitches, and gasps, "Sorry."

"Not a complaint," Dean says, words muffled against Christopher's stomach, mouthing frantically as he undoes the priest's belt and pulls his trousers down around his thighs. Christopher watches him, almost fascinated - it's not as if this is a position he's really been in before. It's literally the stuff of fantasies, and maybe that's why Dean has such an effect on him: he is everything that is right with a fantasy. Plump lips, freckles, big green eyes, the right growth of stubble that makes him look rough around the edges. 

Christopher is beginning to wonder if this itself is a fantasy; he did hit his head rather hard when he fell back that night, and maybe this is a vivid fantasy in his own mind as he sleeps off a concussion.

He has it confirmed that this is definitely no fantasy when Dean pulls down his boxers and takes his half-hard cock into his mouth. "O-oh," he whimpers, eyes fluttering between blown wide open - and trying to focus anywhere but the cross hung on his wall - and squeezed so tightly shut that they hurt.

Dean's mouth is wet, and hot, and his tongue is doing things, and Christopher's going to explode from the tension coiling inside him when Dean pulls off with a wet pop and says, "Man, you need to relax." 

Christopher blinks at him. Dean rubs his jaw thoughtfully and cocks an eyebrow. "Seriously. You're gonna kill yourself if you don't chill out." His hand rubs Christopher's hip, thumb rubbing in soothing circles. "Just... relax, padre."

Christopher nods and tilts his head back against the wall as Dean's mouth closes around him again, lips sinking down. He focuses on relaxing his limbs, and then on the feeling that Dean is giving him; wet, warm, good, oh god, the way that Dean's tongue presses up on the underside of his cock...

He rests one hand on Dean's shoulder, shifting it restlessly against the curve of his neck, and he surprises himself with a low moan when Dean goes a little further down on his dick than before, bringing his free hand to his stomach. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh of his belly, a different sensation against the heat curling deep in his stomach. "Dean," Christopher whispers.

After a minute or so more, Dean pulls off, and Christopher jumps at the sensation of the cool air hitting him. Dean chuckles, low and throaty, and climbs off his knees and shrugs his jacket to the floor. Christopher swallows hard and then cautiously takes off his shirt entirely, unable to dump it quite so unceremoniously, folding it fast and putting it on the chair in the corner. He contemplates for a moment before he strips off entirely - he's half naked anyway, right? he reasons. He turns back to see Dean just stepping out of his jeans, t-shirt already thrown aside.

Dean has something of a dreadful appearance, in a sense. He's got a gorgeous face, yes, and tan, but below the line of a t-shirt he's pale as anything, and his left arm is much darker than the right, and he's got a soft stomach that was obviously defined muscle at one point. He has a strange pentacle tattoo on his chest, and a raised red scar that looks like a handprint on one shoulder, and various scratches, bruises, scars and patches of discoloured skin.

He's the most beautiful thing that Christopher has ever laid eyes on.

Dean comes close and kisses him again, and Christopher leans into it much more willingly, with much more interest of a sudden. He's not quite brave enough to touch, not properly, but he rests his fingers on Dean's sides, and Dean's uninjured left hand presses into the curve of his neck, thumb rubbing his jaw. 

Before Christopher even realises it, he's being nudged down onto the bed, and nerves set in again as he shuffles up the bed, resting up on his elbows to get comfy, watching as Dean peels off his boxers then climbs onto the bed with him.

It's a single, so the fit is tight, and Dean rests with one knee on the edge of the bed and the other between Christopher's thighs. He suddenly wonders how far this is going and begins to panic, creasing his forehead and opening his mouth uselessly. Is it a little late to tell this stranger who's broken almost all of his honour that he's a virgin?

"It's okay," Dean says, seeming to get it, and he leans down, lips pressing to Christopher's tenderly. "No big things tonight." He grins at his own pun, then bites his lip and reaches down. Christopher follows the direction of his hand and watches in something like awe as Dean touches himself, tugging his dick twice before he says, "Got anything like lotion?"

Christopher stammers, "The bathroom. Hand lotion."

Dean nods and vanishes. Christopher hears a door open and Dean curse before it closes again and then another door opening and a small victory cry before Dean returns, triumphant, lotion in hand. He stands in the doorway, naked and hard, and wiggles the bottle with a smirk before he returns to the bed.

"Now," he says, "You really gotta relax." Christopher's eyes widen, and before he can really think about the implications, Dean has popped open the lotion. Dean lifts to turn the bottle upside down, presumably to empty some out, but he doesn't do anything, instead pausing and bracing a hand on Christopher's knee. "You alright?"

Christopher takes the words to have a double meaning: a question of permission, as well as a question of well being. He shifts, opening his thighs, and nods, unable to choke any words out. His mouth feels incredibly dry. His blood is pumping hard and fast through his veins. 

Dean grins. "Awesome. Would've been extremely awkward if you changed your mind now." He shifts so that he's sat entirely between Christopher's legs, then squirts the lotion onto his fingers, coating the first two, and then he lowers them down, down. He rubs them gently over Christopher's hole, and that action alone causes him to intake a sharp breath. He can't tell if it's good nerves or bad. There are many things wrong with the situation as a whole - that it's happening, for one.

He does his best to relax, as Dean said. He thinks of good, relaxing things; a hot bath after a cold day, the warm sun, and then Dean, with his strange tan lines and his charming smile, and the attractive crow's feet around his eyes. Perhaps, then, he's no longer thinking of relaxing things, but enticing things.

A finger presses into him, and Christopher tenses before he relaxes again, bunching his hands in the bedsheets nervously. It doesn't really hurt, but it feels odd. It's foreign. It's new. The wealth of Christopher's sexual experiences before tonight laid with guilty jerk-offs, and never pornography but the simply best that Christopher could manage with his imagination.

It takes a few slides of Dean's finger for Christopher to understand the attraction, to find pleasure in it. He stops thinking of it as a foreign object, and then Dean crooks his finger and electric pleasure shoots through Christopher, making him arch his back. He moans Dean's name, and Dean draws it out and then adds another finger.

It's a lot tighter, and hurts, but Christopher just cries out loud enough that his hand flies to his mouth out of instinct. His other hand still grips the bedsheets, but in a very different manner than before; not nerves, not at all. He's sure without looking that his knuckles are bone-white.

Dean twists his fingers, bends them just slightly and Christopher moans and chants, "Dean, Dean!" He can't very well say anything else, can't say jesus or god not because it's blasphemy or taking names in vain but because it feels tantamount to directly calling out another's name. And the only name he ever wants to say again, he realises, is Dean, to whisper it in the dark and scream it down a street and groan it in pleasure.

Or maybe that's the dizzying pleasure talking, the way that Christopher knows he won't last long and it's possibly embarrassing but he has nothing to compare it to. His own hand is nothing, nothing, next to the overwhelming feel of Dean and everything he does.

He can hear Dean's smile, somehow, but he looks to see it anyway, reaches desperately for the man who then leans down to kiss him. It leaves his wrist at an awkward angle, but it's beyond satisfactory. Christopher twitches and jerks with every thrust of fingers, whines and digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders, turns his mouth away from kisses to groan helplessly.

Christopher comes with a low, primal moan, Dean's fingers pressed hard into him and the palm of his injured hand rubbing along his cock. Every part of him goes entirely tense, his spine curving, his toes curling, pressing hard into the mattress, his head tossed back, and then when he comes down from the high it's like his body turns to warm liquid, relaxed and spread out across the sheets.

He comes to within a minute or so, aware - if not particularly alert - that reciprocation is not only likely to be expected but something he wants to do. He wants to reward Dean, thank him, even if he's not very good at it. He drinks in long, lazy kisses from the man above him, and reaches down to touch him, wrapping a hand around him. He thinks of the things he likes, and of the grip that Dean used - tight but not iron, with breathing room so to speak.

It's hard to do it from this angle, but he strokes Dean's cock leisurely, long touches up and down, slipping his thumb over the head. Dean grunts and groans, not quite with the fever that Christopher had, but enough for him to know that he's doing it right. Dean's hips jerk into his hand, eager, willing, and Dean drops his head down by Christopher's neck.

He comes with the name on his lips, not padre or father or dude and it sends a shock of emotion through Christopher that he wasn't expecting. He ignores it, as best he can even as it twists around his heart, and strokes Dean through his orgasm.

They kiss, soft and gentle, bodies pressed together, slotted together awkwardly like puzzle pieces that only just fit. They're not supposed to, and sooner or later the player will realise this and separate them. It's true of them. Christopher will take the role of the player, he thinks, and falls asleep with Dean wrapped around him, and he wakes first in the morning.

He takes a long cold shower to wash away anything left of the previous night, and when he returns to his room, Dean is sat upright in the bed, only one eye open and his fingers tousling through his hair. "Hey," Dean says, voice gruff from sleep.

Christopher sucks in a long, deep breath through his nose, and doesn't respond, instead dressing and buttoning up a different shirt and fixing up his collar. He has no mirror in this room, and he's glad. He doesn't want a reflection of he, the priest, and his wonderful mistake.

There's a long silence where Christopher can feel Dean's eyes on him, and then Dean huffs out air and there's the rustling of him dressing. Christopher turns when he hears the shuck of Dean's jacket being pulled on, hoping to simply walk by, but Dean grasps him by the wrist, in a mockery of how last night began. "Hey," he repeats, insistent, a deep frown gracing his forehead.

Christopher refuses to meet Dean's eyes, and pulls his wrist free and heads downstairs at a jog. He opens the doors of the church, letting sunshine stream into the dusty room, and places the abandoned first aid kit back where it belongs.

Dean appears, eventually, still frowning, and he pulls Christopher towards him, even more insistent than before. "Don't do that," he chastises, not sounding angry but disappointed that Christopher has resorted to the silent treatment. He gives up, allows himself to be pulled in close, allows Dean to hold him by the hips and tip their foreheads together.

Christopher dares to look up only once, sees the way the sunlight turns Dean's hair gold and his eyes luminescent, highlights the freckles across his nose. Dean takes the lapse as a chance to kiss him. Christopher curls his fingers into Dean's shirt, pulling the soft fabric, and then pulls away, looking down at his fists. He yanks the fabric, and says, "Please go. And don't come back."

"You have to let me go for that to happen," Dean points out.

Christopher almost doesn't, but he has to, so he lets go and steps away. "Goodbye, Dean." He stresses, "Don't come back."

Dean seems perplexed, but he nods in understanding anyway, and just like that, he leaves, gone in an instant, the only remaining thing being billows of fine dust through the light where he'd disturbed the air.

Christopher finds that all he wants to do is chase Dean and scream his name in the street.