Forgive me for asking for a moment of your time,

Some may remember the fic I posted a while ago now, 'Me and Mine' the story of a priest falling for a seventeen year old parishioner and the struggle the two had to go through to finally be together. Well, the original was a little over 50,000 words long, rough, scattered with typos, pacing issues and an awful lot of bad writing.

No longer mired in its humble fan fiction beginnings, the initial tale has grown to a fair bit over 100,000 words, has been proofread, re-written and added to, until only around 40% of the original is left. It is now, if I do say so myself, a finer, more polished work, with original characters, setting and a far more balanced plot.

Plans are to make the eBook available for a tiny price, under a pound, if that, and the money will go towards funding my Masters in Creative Writing - hopefully enabling me to become a better writer and to produce more fiction.

More details will be posted in around a week when the book goes live, however, You can follow me at JollySnidge on twitter for more updates on the novel.

Now, on with what you came for -

Dean hates wearing a tie. It's not the most important fact about him, but it's the only concern he has as he steps foot outside of his car and goes around to open the door for Lisa. She looks comfortable as always in her best clothes, white linen pants and matching jacket making her skin glow warm and brown. Her hair's long and dark, shiny and soft. Dean can't help but feel fraudulent beside her in his black funeral suit, uncomfortably stiff white shirt and the green silk tie that's trying to push his Adams apple into his throat.

"It'll be fine." Lisa assures him. "God, if you're this nervy now, how are you going to be at the actual wedding?"

Dean smiles, quick and reassuring, swallowing the riotous nerves down and pouring the cement of denial over them.

They walk up the steps to the church and go inside.

It's cool and dark, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor, the walls studded with pictures of saints, looking down on him with judgemental, smudgy eyes. There's a sound like whispering, perhaps the shifting of doves in the tower overhead, but Dean could swear the saints are murmuring as he and Lisa pass by, muttering about the pretender wearing Sunday best rather than his usual ratty plaid and jeans, the man who has never been in a church before in his life, the man with a woman at his side, when just last night...

Dean locks the thought down. That's just his guilt talking, and he's not going to fall victim to it, not now. It's done, and as they say, it cannot be undone.

Lisa takes his hand and leads him in the direction of the priest's office. Dean stiffens his spine and prepares to meet Father Novak, his fiancés priest and the man who will be (hopefully) officiating their wedding.

Somehow Dean had thought that a civil service would have made him less of a liar, less of a fraud. But here they were, this was the church they would marry in. Where Dean would stand in front of five hundred people, a priest and all the saints, and promise to love Lisa and only her as long as he lived. Technically, he supposed that wouldn't be a lie. That didn't make him feel any better.

"Father Novak!" Lisa enters the office ahead of him, Dean following reluctantly behind. She enfolds the dark haired man in an embrace, and though he's not as tall as Dean, he is a few inches taller than Lisa. Dean puts his hands in his pockets awkwardly and looks at the lovingly rendered expression of torment on the face of the cross bound Christ on the wall. Wonderful.

Still, as long as no one asked him to swear, up and down and on a freaking Bible, that he was not a faggot – Dean could get through this with the minimum of deceit. Then he could get married, have a few kids, a picket fence and his entire family could come over for thanksgiving. You know, because they'd still be talking to him.

Lisa releases the priest and he turns to shake Dean's hand.

He has no idea how he got so lucky, but the guy is out of his corner of the bar and sliding onto the stool next to Dean's within five minutes of his arrival. Dean looks sideways at him. Orders him a beer which comes in a bottle on a paper napkin. The guy, soft dark hair and soft pale skin, drinks the bottle dry, back straight even as Dean lolls on the bar. He's already pretty drunk, laces spilling out of his work boots, jeans riding low on the hips that are starting to show the padding of a comfortable life with a woman in the house. Dean wipes the bottle sweat from his palm onto his green plaid shirt. He reaches over and touches his fingers to the other guys wrist, a low heat already burning in his belly. The guy twists his hand against Dean's light touch, rubbing his own fingers across Dean's palm. Their eyes meet and Dean takes a second to admire the combination of soot black hair and sky blue eyes.

Then, out to the alley. Dean's done this before. There's the exchange of 'do you have anywhere we can go?' and of course Dean has Lisa at home, has a car that he can't leave smelling of come and sweat. So he says no. The other guy shrugs, takes them aside into the alley, beneath a fire escape for the abandoned building beside the bar, between two dumpsters, one reeking of beer, the other of rotting grease.

The memories are like a sheaf of Polaroid's; The guy on his knees, gasping greedily around Dean's cock as he presses his fingers into the softened swell of the taller man's hips – Dean kissing the smear of come from the dark haired man's reddened mouth – The way his hips had battered the swell of the smaller man's ass as he'd thrust into him, hard and fast, bending him over the dumpster, beer bottles chinking inside – the way the guy hand reached back, squeezing Dean's hip as he moaned hoarsely, gratefully, into the night – the only words they'd exchanged then, 'Harder...oh fuck, just please...please...give it to me..." the words bitten off and desperate in the other man's mouth, and Dean's own inarticulate grunts as he'd complied, fucking hard until the guy went loose and compliant against the cold metal underneath him, spreading his legs and mewling appreciatively – The soft, breathy 'oh yes's' that had dropped from the other man's mouth as Dean pummelled his insides, the guys own hand stroking pulses of thick release as he quivered, the sticky fluid so plentiful it flowed over his fist, hot and slick. – Dean had come inside of him, filling him up and pulling out even as the guy shuddered and moaned in pleasure at the sensation. – Dean had licked the release from inside of him, tongue slipping up inside of the other man, feeling the guys damp thighs shudder in his grip...

Dean had licked the guys hand clean.

"...Father." Dean just about manages to produce the word from his dry throat. The dark haired man, smooth body now clad in dark robes, dips his head, ostensibly in greeting, but Dean can see the deep flush spreading like fire over the man's face, the way his hand shakes with panic as it touches the beads that hang from his waist.

"Lisa, Mr Winchester." He breathes, circling back around the desk and sitting down with pronounced relief at having something solid under him.

Dean sat down beside Lisa.

How could this be happening? He'd always been so careful, and he'd been cutting back, steadily, ever since he and Lisa had gotten serious. This was the first time in...Jesus, almost two years...but he'd just felt...like he needed it. He'd been struggling for a week, the dreams had started, the aching morning wood and the dissatisfaction that swamped him even after he'd slept with Lisa, who'd noticed an increase in his frowning, agitated behaviour. He'd needed last night, and it had been like...he'd left the alley, driven home swaddled in the cotton wool of a really good orgasm, warm all over and satisfied in a way his random fucks had never left him before. The guy had been wild, and Dean had actually pulled over on the way home to relive the urgency, the begging, pleading, rough as sandpaper voice.

And now he was really paying for it.

The priest seems unable to look him anywhere near the eye and Dean snaps out of his dark cloud to hear Lisa saying,

"Well, I'll leave you guys to it then." She gets up and pats Dean's shoulder. "I'll be walking in the grounds."

And then she's gone.

"It's customary for me to interview both parties separately before the wedding, to see if they are..." his voice trails off and quivers as he says, "Please don't tell anyone."

Dean's kind of having trouble listening to him speak without hearing him beg for him to fuck him harder. He has trouble compartmentalising with stuff like that.

"I'm not going to." He says.

The priest sags in relief, but there's still guilt still etched on his face. "I'm sorry...I..." He bites the edge of his lip and Dean remembers the salt tang of his own come on that lip as he'd drawn it into his mouth. "You have to understand that last night..." he looks positively broken now, "I hardly ever...give in to...that. But once or twice I have...I've fallen...or allowed myself..."

"I was there too, remember?" Dean folds his arms over his slightly curved stomach protectively. "I'm the one getting married...but...I sometimes, need it, I guess."

The priest sighs, crumpling in on himself.

"So we don't tell anyone...we just, get through this." Dean says decisively.

The priest looks at him, and Dean sees the memory of all the acts they'd performed writ large on his face.

Dean feels suddenly that he should apologise for fucking him, for enjoying the priest's lips on his cock, for licking him out, emptying him of his own release.

The priest flushes like he knows what Dean's thinking, and at the sight of his blushing face, Dean's guilt curdles into a desire so sudden it shames him. His next breath is unsteady and the priest's eyes drop down to his mouth, hunger growing in their stunningly bright depths.

The desire which Dean knows should be sated for at least another year, rears up, and he feels a distinct graze of heat against his skin, like a living thing is nuzzling him.

And right then, is when he knows he's in trouble.