Thread by @Adoxography420

this is 100% @Tic_ally 's fault but the chatter in the hannor server turned into Exorcist AU shit and my last fandom grabbed me by the throat and slam dunked me in this idea but CONSIDER...

Hank, a lapsed Catholic, loses his son in his early 30s, then his wife leaves him, he loses his job at the DPD because of his day-drinking habit and he thinks he's got nothing left to lose so he may as well dedicate his life to something that can't abandon him

So he joins the priesthood, and almost right out of seminary he gets noticed by the Vatican because he used to be a damn good cop back in the day and a lot of those skills would make him a damn fine exorcist.

So he rolls with it, because why the fuck not, after all the horrible shit that's happened to him, Demon's being real doesn't even surprise him. And it turns out the Vatican was RIGHT he IS a DAMN GOOD Exorcist.

He's not a particularly good PRIEST i mean he never really gave up most of his vices (the drinking, the sex...) but he gets good enough results and doesn't rock too many boats so they let it slide, though doesn't get invited to a lot fancy fundraisers.

ENTER Connor. Orphaned at birth and raised by Nuns in a Catholic Orphanage. Mother Superior (a STERN woman *cough*) sees something special in him, a righteous power just waiting to be harnessed (likely due to the *secret* unfortunate circumstances around his birth).

So he's raised to be the ultimate weapon, the Perfect Exorcist. He's never questioned his destiny, he's blindly obeyed his entire life and devoted himself to God and the war against Evil. He finished Seminary School and the Vatican has an idea...

Give him to Father Hank. Hank is a mean drunk and half the time a Goddamn embarrassment, but he gets the job done and he's got 20 years of worldly experience backing him up that he can pass on to Sweet Sheltered Father Connor.

Connor, for his part, can probably reign in some of Hank's more.... base impulses, he can keep him in line and perhaps whip him into shape (or at least Shame him into it).

Except of course they meet and NOTHING goes according to Plan. Because Hank isn't blinded by devotion to the mortal institutions that employ them, he serves God and no one else. Connor hasn't learned how to separate the two in his head. Yet.

And at first they FUCKING HATE each other. Hank thinks Connor is a snotty, self righteous little brown-noser, and Connor thinks Hank is a washed up old drunk. And to be fair, neither of them would be wrong.

And then they do their first Exorcism together.

Hank is both terrified and in AWE of the holy POWER Connor seems to posses. It's inhuman.

And on Connor's side: he's not sure what he expected but the man standing in that room with a rosary and a vial of holy water isn't the man he's been fighting with for the last two months.

Hank is STRONG. He's filled with a righteous fury and determination like Connor has never seen. He's tireless, fierce... THIS is the man the Vatican sent him to work with.

They complete the exorcism and for a while things are almost good. They still argue and bicker, Hank still thinks Connor is a Brat and Connor still think's Hank is a Drunk but they make it work, and maybe, just maybe there's a grudging mutual respect forming between them.

Then things go horribly wrong.

Connor gets cocky, of course he gets cocky. And instead of sending the Demon back to hell it ends up inside Connor instead. Only Hank doesn't see it happen, fuck if ONLY he'd seen it happen.

It isn't until they're back at Hank's shitty apartment and Hank, freshly showered and dozing on the couch is rudely awakened by a very damp, VERY NAKED young man crawling into his lap.

He doesn't properly wake up until there's a hand down the front of his sweatpants, gripping his bare cock and squeezing.

He jerks upright, eyes snap open; Connor's face is inches from his, his deep brown eyes are almost black in the gloom.

Connor's breath is hot against Hank's lips as he pants against his mouth, grinding his erection into Hank's thigh.

Hank's never been so hard in his life and though he's never really been good at denying his baser impulses, this one makes shame curl hot in his gut.

Connor is stunning. He'd noticed it the first day they'd met, he'd have to have been be blind not to. And SURE maybe as Connor became less of a little prick he'd dwelt on that fact a little longer than he should have, maybe with a hand down the front of his pants.

But that was private, contained. And he was NEVER going to act on it. Just because he played fast and loose with his vows didn't mean he was going to drag Connor down to his level just because he couldn't keep his dick to himself.

But now Connor's here, and he's licking inside Hank's mouth like he's never been so hungry in his life and it's WRONG. It's so, so wrong, and he curses himself for not having seen it sooner.

He grabs the cross hanging around his neck and presses it against Connor's collarbone and Connor SCREECHES, tumbling back onto the floor.

Once the shock wears off Connor's face morphs into something more sinister, though his face is still flushed and his eyes are still dark with lust.

"Come on, Father," says the demon inside Connor, "Play along for a little longer."

Hank stands, towering over the lithe figure on the floor, fury making him tremble.

"He wants you do," the demon teases, "I know, I'm in his head. Do you have any idea what he thinks about when he's alone."

"Be quiet," Hank growls, tearing the cross from his neck and holding it outright. There is a little cross shaped burn on Connor's pale skin where he'd pressed it. If Connor survives, it will scar.

(oops post limit brb lmaoo)

"Don't you want to know what he thought about when he was all alone," the demon purrs, it's OBSCENE coming from Connor's pink lips, wet from their kiss, "Don't you want to know what he thought about, hot with shame while fucking his own hand?"

"Be QUIET!" Hank shouts, but the demon just laughs.

"The same thing you thought about, I imagine. Your hands on his hips, holding him hard enough to bruise, your mouth on his neck, marking him almost too high for his collar to hide while you fuck his tight little-"

The back of Hank's hand cracks across the creature's mouth, but it's Connor's lips that spit blood back at him as they sneer, "Hypocrite."

It takes two weeks for Hank to save Connor. Two weeks of sleepless nights, of fervent prayer, of lewd insinuations, and insults. And even after the demon is gone, and Connor is safely in the hospital under the watchful eyes who can save his body now his soul is free...

Even then, Hank is terrified at the thought that Connor might die anyways.

He joined the church so he could devote his life to a higher power, a being that would never die, never leave him, never abandon him.

He never expected to care so much about another person again, never thought he'd feel that soul crushing fear that comes with imminent loss.

He sleeps in a chair by Connor's side, clasping Connor's hand in his own. He doesn't think he stops praying even when he's asleep.

Connor wakes up. Of course he does. The kid's a fighter and he's got some kind of holy power inside him set to burst; Hank knows this.

Hank wakes to fingers running through his hair, though the hand jerks back upon realizing he's awake.

"I'm so sorry," says Connor.

They don't talk about it, hell, Hank's not even sure how much Connor remembers. But things aren't the same after that. Connor is quieter, more withdrawn, he flinches at the casual touches Hank used to give so freely.

It breaks his fucking heart.

And really, this is Hank's fault. he should have known, should have seen it sooner.

The worst part is now he can't touch him anymore it's all Hank wants to do.

He wants to put his hand on Connor's shoulder and squeeze. He wants to push Connor's cowlick out of his face. And when Connor wakes up on Hank's couch (because Connor can't sleep alone anymore) screaming from his nightmares, all Hank wants to do is wrap his arms around him.

But he can't.

There's something broken about Connor now, something not quite right. The demon is gone, the silver cross Connor wears against his skin is proof enough, but still, there is a darkness lingering in him.

Eventually Hank teases it out of him.

Connor doesn't remember everything that happened when he was possessed, but he does remember some of the things the demon said to him.

When Connor tells him Hank's blood runs cold but he can't react, he can't let Connor know he's scared.

So instead he crushes up a couple Vicodin in a cup of herbal tea and lets Connor sleep off his worry while he storms the offices of the Saint Agatha Orphanage.

He slams his palms down on Mother Superior's desk and demands answers that he's not sure he even wants.

"What the hell did you people do to him?"

She tells him.

She tells him about Connor's mother, a young convert seeking escape from a controlling husband, neé Chloe Kamski, who took the name Sister Mary. She tells him about the demon that took hold of this most devout young woman, and she tells him about the plan they hatched.

Chloe was pious, pure, perfect, and inside her evil was destroying her, a perfect battleground. They found a priest to impregnate her and for nine months they kept the demon trapped inside her with prayer and ritual.

Chloe died, and when she died the demon was sent back to hell but not before they could rescue the child.

A boy born inside the eye of the storm, a child of both good and evil, a perfect weapon.

Hank has heard enough.

Connor is still asleep when he gets back to his apartment. He'd put Connor in his bed, the blankets tucked up to his chin.

Now Hank sits, running fingers through Connor's hair. Connor's brow his hot and furrowed, even in sleep, Hank's heart aches to see it.

They had no right to use him, no right at all. He makes a choice and he makes it fast.

By the time Connor wakes up, groggy and disoriented, they're already halfway out of the city in Hank's beat up old truck.

(TBC I just need to get some food)

It's not until Connor's eyes are snapping open and his head jerks around wildly that Hank realizes he's just drugged kidnapped a full grown man.

"H-hank?" Connor asks, still slow from the drugs. "What's going on?"

Hank's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw tight from biting his tongue. He thinks about lying, he wonders how long he could protect Connor from the truth. He swallows and says, "There's something you should know."

Connor is silent for a long time after Hank tells him. He doesn't ask to turn around though. 6 hours later when Hank pulls into a rest stop it takes prompting to get him out of the truck to use the bathroom. If Hank thought Connor was broken before, it had nothing on Connor now.

When they get to a cheap motel, Hank pays with cash and he guides Connor into the room with a hand on the small of his back. Connor doesn't flinch like he normally does now, it should scare Hank more than it reassures him.

(CW: suicidal ideation)

Connor sits down on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap. He's wearing an old hoodie from Hank's seminary days and the sleeves are too long on him. When he speaks it's so quiet Hank almost doesn't hear him say, "You should kill me."

"I think that might be the stupidest thing that's ever come out of your goddamn mouth," Hank snarls before he can stop himself.

Connor flinches but he looks up at Hank with steely determination. "I'll make it look like I went on a trip, burn my corpse afterwards."

"Okay first of all, you're not a fucking vampire, second of all, no."

"Hank, please."

Connor's hand shot out to grab Hank's wrist and tug him closer.

"Before I hurt someone," he said, then looked down at his lap, "Before I hurt you."

"You've been alive for twenty five years without hurting anyone, what makes you think this changes anything?"

Hank sits down next to Connor, his hand resting on his shoulder.

"You're a good man, a good Priest, and a damn good exorcist, that's still you."

Connor's hands twist in his lap, his brow furrowed. He shakes his head and shrugs off Hank's hand.

"You don't know," he says, his voice flat and hard, "about the things in my head, the things I think about, the things I dream about."

"What kind of things?"

Connor swallows hard.

"I used to get so angry, when I was a kid, I'd see something unfair and I'd just, I'd see red. I'd want to tear everything apart with my hands. It got better as I got older but... after the demon..."

Connor's fingers brush his collar, the place where Hank had scarred him with a cross.

"It got bad, worse. It wasn't just the anger anymore. I've always had... impure impulses," Connor's head snapped up, eyes wide, "Of course I'd never acted on them!"

"Most people do, it's called being human, God doesn't take your dick away just because you pray hard enough," Hank jokes, but it's weak and Connor shakes his head.

"Not like this, not like me. The demon just made them worse, until..."

"I remember," says Connor, "What the demon made me do to you."

The air is thick between them, and Hank's hand is frozen on Connor's shoulder. Desperate to pull away but just as desperate to stay. With his shit luck he should have seen this coming.

"It wasn't you," Hank assures him, his mouth dry.

Connor looks at him with watery brown eyes, wide and frightened and he's never seen the kid so scared in the entire time he's known him.

Hank's stomach drops and he does the only thing he can think to do.

He wraps his other arm tight around Connor and pulls him close to his chest. The collar around his neck is suddenly too tight, choking him. It hurts to swallow.

"Jesus kid, those Nuns really fucked you up, huh?"

(Cw: Internalized homophobia)

Connor tenses for a moment and then his shoulders sag and he collapses into Hank like a puppet with his strings cut.

"I'm not supposed to want anyone, but especially not-" Connor's voice cracks and Hank's chest is growing damp as Connor shakes.

"I'm so sorry," Connor whispers into his shirt.

"Ain't nothing to be sorry about."

Hank strokes his hair and tries to calm his thundering heart, now isn't the time, this isn't about him, this is SO much bigger than him.

"Nothin to be sorry about," he repeats.

He presses his lips to the top of Connor's head.

"There's something evil inside me," Connor says, "I always knew but-"

"No."

Hank clutches the back of Connor's neck, pulling him closer, as if he can shield him from himself with his body.

"There's a war inside you," Hank says, "That much is true."

Connor heaves a shaky breath, his cheeks wet on Hank's chest.

"But I'm telling you, right now, those things you want? That's not evil. What's evil is someone making you feel dirty for it."

"What if it's you?"

Hank frowns, "I mean I'm not exactly pure as driven snow, Connor, I've been around the block a few times, but I'm not evil for having sucking a dick."

That actually gets a laugh out of Connor until his shoulders hitch again and he says,

"What I want, what if it's..."

Hank's mouth is tacky and his tongue feels five times too big for it. There are things he should say, and things he wants to say, and some of those are contradicting themselves.

"It's okay," is what he says, "It's all okay."

They fall asleep like that but in the morning Hank's arms are empty and the shower is running. Connor comes out fully dressed. He seems to have found the bag Hank packed for him because he's wearing black and his collar is fastened tight around his neck.

He stands a little taller than he had yesterday, the clothes might be helping. The shower might also be part of it. He's pink cheeked and while there are dark circles under his eyes, his skin doesn't have the same bloodless pallor from the day before.

"I don't want to stop," says Connor, his hands tight fists at his side, ready for a fight that Hank almost wants to give him. "Being an exorcist is all I've ever wanted, it's everything to me, I won't give that up. I can't."

Hank wants to tell him no, wants to drag him kicking and screaming out of this life and somewhere where nothing evil will ever touch him again, where the church won't just keep using him until there's nothing left and leaving him to die like his mother when they're done.

But it's not his choice to make, and it's not like Hank has some other great purpose to put his own life to, so he figures if this is what Connor wants, then he'll follow him to hell and back to keep him safe.

(TBC btw I just need to get some more tea, because I KNOW this looks like an end point, but if y’all think I’m peacing out before I can write hot priestfuckin’ you’re dead wrong busters)

So they’re technically rogue priests. Which isn’t the weirdest thing Hank imagined he could end up as, so it’s probably fine. And at the very least he still has Connor. Connor, who is doing his damndest to hide how fucking scared he is.

It’s painful to watch Connor steel himself before they start an exorcism. It hurts to watch this beautiful, brave man leave the room gasping for breath as the demon reads his mind and tears him apart with vile words.

Connor’s smart and he’s learned his lesson. If he’s weakened by something the demon says he leaves until he’s strong enough to face it again. And he IS strong, Christ he’s so fucking strong. There’s something bright about him, despite everything Hank knows about him.

Despite his conception, despite the war raging inside him, Connor is a beacon of radiance. And despite his fear and doubt, Connor is still so kind.

There was a girl in Ohio, maybe sixteen years old, and after they got the demon out of her they had to get her to a hospital, so Hank drove and Connor sat on the floor behind the seats with the girl in his arms, just stroking her hair and telling her that she was Good and Loved,

And that none of this was her fault.

Hank saw his hands tremble with exhaustion as Connor pushed her limp, greasy hair from her brow so he could press his lips to her skin, still filthy from the weeks tied to her bed.

“God still loves you,” he said, “I love you.”

Still, Hank worries, and with every exorcism they do that worry grows.

Connor is losing weight, fast, and his body feels brittle on the few occasions Hank’s had to touch it.

They don’t talk about that first night in the motel, they don’t talk about what Connor has confessed.

Maybe that’s part of it, maybe it’s weighing on Connor just as heavily as it weighs on Hank, but it’s not the full story.

There is something draining the life from him.

So when Connor collapses in a dead faint on their way to the truck, he knows they can’t keep doing this.

“You need to talk to me,” Hank says, laying a cool cloth across Connor’s brow.

Connor’s pale, cracked lips are a tight line, pressed together in adamant refusal.

“Connor, please,” Hank’s not above begging, he’s not above ANYTHING if it will help Connor.

(Lord knows that was a terrifying revelation to have. To lose him now would.... it would probably kill him).

So Connor tells him. He tells him about the nightmares, about how when he closes his eyes he sees the faces of Hell’s army sneering at him. He tells him about the voices in his head when they are near a demon, how it will feel like it’s wormed its way inside him, and he can never

Tell if he’s truly safe until they’ve exorcised it for good. He tells Hank that he’s tired, he’s never been so tired in his life and every time they face evil and come back from the brink he’s scared he’s left a little piece of himself behind.

He tells Hank he’s scared that there’s going to be nothing good left inside him and that all there will be is this dark, angry THING that’s trying to claw its way out of him to tear the world apart.

But he also tells Hank he’s just as scared to stop. Because he never lied when he said saving people was all he ever wanted to do, and he’s GOOD at this, better than anyone else and he knows it. He should be, after all he was born and bred for it.

Hank’s never been so angry in his life and it takes everything inside him not to take it out on Connor, who only ever wanted to serve.

Hank buys a pack of cigarettes and smokes half of them, makes himself sick doing it since he hasn’t smoked in years.

He wants to get drunk, he wants to get so blindingly drunk that he forgets what it’s like to be this scared for someone else. He wants to get drunk enough that he forgets how much his heart aches for Connor, how much he loves him.

He points a middle finger at the sky and grumbles, “You fucking fix this shit or I swear to you I will walk.” Hank rips off his collar and crushes it in his hand. “Find another whipping boy for humanity’s sins. Fuck’s sake, take me instead.”

“Take me instead,” he whispers again, stubbing out his last cigarette on the pavement below, crushing it with his heel.
~
Connor is still awake when Hank gets back, looking worse than when Hank left him. Hank sits on his bed and flips the washcloth on his brow to the cool side.

They’ve gotten into the habit of sleeping in the same bed. Mostly because when Connor wakes screaming in the night Hank usually ends up pressed against him, holding him until he closes his eyes again and it’s honestly just easier to already be at his side.

Connor just gives him a weak smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Don’t you dare,” Hank growls, pushing damp curls from Connor’s forehead. “This ain’t your fault and you know it. Gonna travel back in time and go to jail for punching a Nun.”

“That’s not very Priestly,” Connor teases, “Besides, I’ve already forgiven them.”

“‘Course you have, you always were a better Priest, a better man than me.”

Connor’s smile is the saddest fucking thing Hank’s ever seen when he says, “No, I’m really not.”

Connor’s hand is ice cold as it settle’s over Hank’s. Connor won’t look at him, his eyes glued to his lap. He’s seen that expression before, he’s worn that expression dozens of times himself; shame.

Hank hates himself in that moment. Because he thought he was doing the right thing, he really did, in leaving well enough alone. In ignoring the way Connor looked at him, and in denying the way he looked at Connor. He knows there’s something between them.

A bond yes, but something else too, something more earthly.

And he should have known better, he should have known that telling Connor it was okay was never going to be enough, that Connor would always find a way to hate himself because that’s what people raised like them did.

And Hank’s too much of a coward to admit to Connor just how much the he means to him, because it would hurt to much to give Connor that part of himself only to have it handed back when Connor realizes he can do so much better. Or he was too much of a coward.

Because he’s a real bastard to leave a guy hanging like that. Connor had sobbed his confession into his chest and Hank did was he always does and hoped it would disappear because he’s not good enough for Connor and he knows it.

But when Connor puts that cold hand over his Hanks knows he fucked up. Because Connor likes to tell himself stories just as much as Hank does. Because Connor will always assume the worst because it’s all he’s ever been given. Because Connor think’s he’s unworthy.

Connor is still as Hank rolls onto the bed, gathering him up in his arms and pulling him closer. It’s nothing they havne’t done before but usually they’re half asleep and Connor is trembling, drenched in cold sweat from another nightmare. This time, there’s no excuse.

He takes Connor’s face in his hands, moving the washcloth from his forehead so he can press his own against it.

He can feel Connor’s heartbeat, rabbit quick against his chest. His own threatens to break his ribs as it slams against his insides.

“I love you,” He tells Connor, because it’s the truth and becuase Connor deserves to know. And just so there’s no room for doubt, so that Connor can’t reason this away and keep hating himself, Hank kisses him.

It’s gentle, and it’s over almost as soon as it’s begun. It’s just a firm press of mouths together and the hot breath mingling between them as Hank pulls away.

Hank expects confusion, maybe even recrimination, not the hungry surge that is Connor’s mouth back on his.

Connor’s still so weak, half feverish and his skin feels paper thin, but he pushes against Hank like he’s got the strength of a man twice his size. It’s too much, Hank hasn’t been kissed like that for almost twenty years and he needs to step back, needs to breathe.

But he can’t do that to Connor, not now. So he rides the wave. He holds Connor close lets Connor keep kissing him until Connor is too tired to kiss him anymore and he collapses in Hank’s arms, mouth open and wet against his neck.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you,” Hank says, fingers in Connor’s sweat damp curls. Connor’s teeth are chattering from fever and exhaustion and kissing was probably the last thing he needed, physically at least. But sometimes you had to heal the soul first.

“You’re here now,” says Connor.

“I always was.”

“No, I mean...” Connor squeezes his middle in lieu of explanation.

They fall asleep like that, just like any other night, except not. Because Hank knows in the morning he’s going to kiss Connor again to remind him he’s loved.

~
Hank calls a halt on Exorcisms for two reasons. One, Connor can barely fucking walk; and two, the church is probably going to catch up to them sooner or later, and Hank would prefer it was later. He did, after all, kidnap one of their most valued assets.

Hank tries to be careful with Connor. Connor makes that difficult when he basically radiates need from the passenger seat beside him. Hank’s not going to lie and say he hasn’t though about it, having Connor, but Connor’s not well right now and Hank won’t take advantage of that.

He kisses him often though, because he won’t have Connor thinking for a second that this isn’t real. He kisses him and holds him close at night, slotting their bodies together under the sheets like two puzzle pieces finally slotting into place.

Something strange happens after that. That heavy dark in Connor, the THING in him that sometimes seems like it will claw it’s way out of him and leave an open bleeding cadaver in its wake seems to get smaller. It’s like with every kiss Connor gets lighter, brighter.

And with every kiss Connor is getting stronger too. Hank feels like a goddamn fool, because if doubt, and anger, and hate wanted to make it’s home in him, of course love would be the thing to drive it out.

“I want to do another exorcism,” says Connor over breakfast. He takes his coffee with cream but no sugar, while Hank takes his black but sweet. Hank’s not sure if Connor knows he couldn’t stop him if he tried.

He’s never seen Connor so powerful.

Hank’s never really seen God, never felt that divine calling that so many of his brothers felt when they decided to devote their lives to God. But here and now, he sees God in Connor, sees his divine love and his holy wrath inside one man.

When he’s over he’s afraid. Afraid of what Connor might feel, afraid that everything they’d done to put him back together would have been for nothing. It’s so hard to tell they’re so exhausted on the drive to their motel, but Connor doesn’t seem scared.

And when they’ve both had a go at the lukewarm shower that feels more like getting pissed on than getting clean, when they’re both warm and dry and Hank is pulling on his sleep shirt, Connor grabs him by the shoulders and crushes their mouths together.

“I want you,” he says, his eyes dark, and for a moment Hank is terrified that it’s happened again, that this isn’t Connor but instead the monster they were both afraid of. But when he pulls back it’s Connor’s smile, Connor’s soft face staring back at him.

He swallows, licking dry lips and he says “Okay... alright.”

Connor is more aggressive than Hank would have given him credit for, especially considering what an uptight little choir boy he was when they first met. But maybe that’s why; all that fucked up repressed shit has to go somewhere, and right now it’s going straight to Hank’s dick.

He groans and Connor pushes him down on the bed, holding him down as he grinds against him. Hank’s only wearing a pair of briefs and Connor’s not doing much better in a tee shirt and sweatpants, but it’s still too many layers between them.

He reaches for the hem of Connor’s shirt but before he tugs it up he stops, putting his hand between their mouths despite Connor’s frustrated moan so that he can talk.

“You don’t have to-“ Hank clears his throat, “I never gave a shit about my vows, figured God didn’t care

As long as I got the job done. But if you want, we can just stay like this, that’s okay.”

Connor lets out a frustrated groan into Hank’s neck, “You need to stop talking and touch me.”

And suddenly Hank is painfully aware this is Connor’s first time.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles into Connor’s skin, “Come here.”

He tugs Connor’s shirt up over his head and while Connor’s distracted throwing it on the floor he grabs him by the hips and tosses him down onto the bed. The air escapes Connor’s lungs in a delighted gasp, and he laughs.

Hank crawls on top of him, kissing every inch of exposed skin. He feels that familiar prickle of self consciousness, he’s not young anymore, hasn’t looked like Connor, well, ever. But Connor looks at him with desire he’s never felt directed at him and suddenly that feels distant.

His lips find the little cross shaped scar on Connor’s collarbone, he kisses it again, and again, an apology; and Connor, ever gracious, forgives him with fingers in his hair tugging him up for another kiss.

“Do you think you’d be able to fuck me tonight?”

Hank jerks back so quickly it’s almost cartoonish. Immediately Connor looks away, his face so red you could cook an egg on it. Hank’s dick throbs at the thought (and maybe also at the sound of those filthy words coming out of sweet naive Father Connor’s mouth).

“It’s amateur hour tonight, baby boy,” Hank chuckles nervously, “Pretty sure we should take things slower.”

Connor is still a pretty shade of pink when he says, “I just want you as close to me as possible.”

“I’m right here,” Hank replies.

Connor’s erection presses hard against his stomach. Hank is sure that if he really wanted, Connor would let him do anything. But Hank’s not the type of guy to take advantage like that, so instead he slides down Connor’s body until he’s kneeling between his spread thighs.

He tugs Connor’s sweatpants off and the heat coming off his body is almost too much to bear. He rubs his hands up Connor’s smooth thighs, fingers catching on light, wispy hairs. Connor moans and spreads his thighs wider and Hank’s not going to say no to that.

He buries his face in Connor’s groin, at the base of his gorgeous cock, mouthing his way up to the tip so he can swallow it down. Connor sits upright and tugs Hank’s shoulder, his eyes wide. Hank slides off him with a wet pop.

“You okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Connor says, his brows drawn together in a tight frown.

“You don’t want me to?” Hank asks.

“I don’t... you don’t need to degrade yourself,” Connor mumbles.

Hank laughs, patting Connor on the thigh, then he smiles and shakes his head.

“Those Nuns really did screw you up.”

Connor looks away but Hank reaches for his chin to turn him back so he can meet his eyes.

“There’s nothing dirty about you, about this.”

Connor is silent, his body tight as a bowstring, ready to snap.

“I love you, I want to make you feel good, is that okay?”

Hank rubs Connor’s thighs with dry palms, feeling a little like he’s soothing a skittish horse. Then Connor nods, once, and relaxes into the pillows.

Hank reaches for Connor’s hand.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice low and rough with his own arousal, “If you don’t like this I’ll stop, but don’t you dare let someone else shame out of of it, okay?”

Connor nods again but he squeezes Hank’s hand.

Hank locks eyes with Connor before taking him into his mouth again, swallowing him down. It’s been a while since he’s done this but it’s easy to find a rhythm with Connor, who watches him with wide eyes, like he can’t believe this is real.

The hand in his hair is gentle, it strokes stray strands from his face and then runs down his cheek. It’s ripped away when Connor jerks backwards, falling back onto the bed, a low moan ripped from his throat.

“Hank!”

It’s all the warning Hank has before Connor is spilling down his throat, cock pulsing on his tongue.

He keeps sucking until Connor starts to squirm and only then does he come back up to press his nose to Connor’s neck, to feel the sticky sweat on his lips.

Connor turns and kisses him, hard, reaching between them for Hank’s leaking cock. He jerks him to completion and Hank cleans himself up with his underwear before tossing them across the room. That’s a problem for tomorrow.

“I love you,” Connor says, lips moving on his cheek.

Hank pushes hair from Connor’s face kissing his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, and finally his mouth again.

“I love you too.”

“What’s going to happen to us?”

It’s a question that could mean a lot of things. Connor could be asking what happens tomorrow, whether Hank will still love him (the answer is always, of course, always). Or he could be asking what will happen when the past catches up to them.

What will happen when (and it is only a matter of time) the Church finds them. And what will happen if they find out what they’ve done tonight, about the love they’ve shared in this shithole motel 50 miles from nowhere.

“We’ll figure it out,” Hank promises, “I won’t leave you.”

The last part is a promise he doesn’t know he can keep but it feels right to say it so he does anyways.

“Thank you,” Connor whispers into his neck before his head lolls sideways and he drifts into sleep.

(TBC)

Hank hasn’t woken up like this in almost 20 years. Connor is tucked up against his body, safe under his arm, his breaths come slow and steady and Hank can feel Connor’s heartbeat against his chest.

They’re warm, naked, and the early morning sun streams in through the windows.

He sighs with contentment and presses a kiss to the top of Connor’s head. His normally carefully arranged hair is a curly mess. He smells like sex and motel sheets but to Hank, it’s the best damn thing he’s ever smelled in his life.

Connor lets out a sleepy grunt before rolling onto his side pushing his face into Hank’s neck.

“Good morning,” Connor mumbles against his skin.

“Mornin’”

Hank’s lips find Connor’s sleep damp forehead.

They stay like that for a long time, longer than they should. They need to get back on the road, especially since news of their last exorcism will probably spread fairly fast they can’t afford to get caught.

But of course, because Hank has the worst fucking luck and it seems like God is out to punish Connor for being born, they do get caught.

Maybe they’d let themselves relax too much, three more exorcisms out to the way, and no sign that they were being followed. They let themselves stay in one town too long, let the family put them up for a few days while they recuperated.

Hank should have known it was a trap.

There are police cars outside when they wake up (in separate beds thank Christ). Standing in front of those flashing red and blue lights are Fathers Jeffery and Gavin. Father Gavin is scowling but Father Jeffery just looks tired.

There’s nowhere to run and neither of them struggle until they’re shoved into the back of separate police cruisers. Only then does Hank protest. Protest might be too light a word; he curses a blue streak at the officers who ignore his demands to be with Connor.

They aren’t taken to a police station, instead it’s a convent, built in the early 50s with crumbling brick walls and a bronze plaque calling it Saint Margret’s.

They take Hank to one of the cells, normally used by nuns for quiet thought and contemplation, and they lock the door behind him. No amount of yelling or swearing, no shoulder heaved at the door will free him, no matter how hard he tries (and he does get a bruised shoulder).

They feed him four times, and the sun sets once, before anyone speaks to him. It’s Father Jeffery who they let into the cell, though they lock the door behind him.

They’d been close in seminary but Hank hadn’t seen much of him in the years since. They’d both gotten older.

“Mr. Anderson,” says Jeff.

The penny drops and Hank’s stomach sinks, though it shouldn’t come as much of a suprise that he’s been excommunicated. It’s a gentle way of letting him down and he wonders why he’s being allowed such kindness.

“Where’s Connor?” Hank demands, not bothering with niceties.

“With Mother Rita,” Jeff tells him, his voice is patronizing, like he’s talking to a particularly stupid child, “My God, Hank, what were you thinking?”

Mother Rita, the woman who’d raised Connor, the woman who had allowed Connor to be born a weapon rather than a boy. The woman who had betrayed Connor’s mother and killed her for the sake of some noble cause, making her a martyr without her consent.

(Considering this is a modern!au and considering the time Amanda would have become a nun, she likely would have taken on a new name to signify the change that had her dedicating her life to God. Check out nun naming conventions and also St. Rit/a of Ca/scia 😘)

Hank draws in a steadying breath, he can’t let his temper get the best of him now.

“You have to let me see him,” Hank pleads. “I need to know he’s alright.”

“I think you’ve done enough damage, Hank.”

(TBC later tonight, dinner w/ me da)

Hank is left alone again after he tries to punch Father Jeffery. For three more days he’s left alone to pace. His cell is narrow but from the door to the slit of a window it is ten short steps or seven strides, a little over the length of his bed.

There is a toilet and sink but no shower and his hair grows lank and greasy. The floor is white Lino and there is a dusty stain on the wall in the shape of the crucifix they removed in case he tried to use it as a weapon.

He damn well would have too. Now all he can do is pray, and the only time he’s ever had God answer his prayers is when he’s bent over the body of a writhing demon, and sometimes not even then. He’s glad Connor’s never lost one, he’s so kind it might just kill him.

Still with nothing else to do and no escape, Hank kneels on the ground until his knees ache so bad he can barely stand back up. His hands are clasped tight and his knuckles press into his forehead as he silently begs for a miracle.

He hasn’t asked for one since Cole died, and even then, his prayers weren’t answered, but as 3 days turn into 7 he grows more desperate.

At first he prays for escape, for Connor’s safety, for freedom for both of them. As time wears on all he asks for is the chance to see Connor one last time, to see Connor safe even if it means he never gets out of this cell.

On the eighth day his prayers are answered. The door to his cell swings open and Fathers Jeffery and Gavin are there to escort him. He allows himself to be led into a cramped office with cheap white bookshelves and a pressboard desk with a peeling wood veneer.

“Sit,” says Mother Rita.

Hank stays standing, arms folded across his chest. She sighs and waves her hand, dismissing Jeff and Gavin.

“Father Jeffery could have been a Bishop, you know,” she says with a small smile.

“And?”

“And he was a little too much like you.”

Hank snorts, glaring down at the small woman behind the desk. Her habit covers her hair but her face is much as Hank remembers from their first confrontation, though she looks exhausted, more than she ever did in Detroit.

“Where’s Connor.”

“We had to sedate him, that’s why you’re here.”

Hank pauses, his lips peel back from his teeth and he growls, “You did what?”

“When we refused to let him see you, he threatened to harm himself, when we removed everything from his cell, he stopped eating.”

Hank feels sick. That Connor would hurt himself, starve himself, for his sake? He’d rather die.

“All that, just to deny him a minute alone with me? I must REALLY scare you.”

“We know you care about him, you tried to assault Father Jeffery over him.”

“Bring me to him,” Hank demands, glaring down at the nun.

“I don’t think so,” she replies, fingers steepled. “A deal, instead.”

“What have you got to bargain with, I don’t care what happens to me and you won’t let anything happen to him, you need him.”

“Adam!” She calls to the door behind him. It swings open and a tall man breezes to her side, hands clasped behind his back.

He wears a cassock, a silver cross dangling around his neck, and he’s the spitting image of Connor, only instead of warm brown, his eyes are a cold grey.

“This is Connor’s twin brother, Adam,” she says, smiling up at him. Adam does not smile back, he stares straight at Hank with sharp eyes, scanning him and seeming to find him wanting.

“Does Connor know?” Hank demands. Mother Rita shakes her head.

“We don’t want to lose him, but he’s not irreplaceable,” she says with cool detachment that is unbefitting of a bride of Christ, not when it comes to a human life.

“Let me talk to him,” says Hank, he hangs his head, heavy with defeat. “Please.”

Hank is given his orders and he is escorted to Connor’s room. He’s been allowed to stay until Connor wakes, the only mercy either of them are to be granted.

He keeps Connor’s hand clasped in his and waits for hours at his side.

He needs Connor to wake up but he dreads it, because once he does, Hank will never see him again.

But time does not still no matter how much Hank wants it to, and eventually Connor’s eyelids start to flutter, his hand squeezing Hank’s own.

He lets out a low moan and Hank smooths Connor’s lank hair back form his forehead.

“Shh, you’re not alone, it’s alright.”

He wants so badly to kiss him but he doesn’t know who might be watching he doens’t know what will get Connor killed.

When Connor finally opens his eyes and fixes their bleary gaze on him, the first word out of his mouth is, “Hank?”

“Yeah, it’s me, I’m here.”

“You’re alive... they said... Mother said...”

“I don’t have much time,” Hank says, though the words stick in his throat.

This is the part that’s going to hurt, this is the part that might kill him.

“I’m leaving,” he tells him, his throat so dry that the words ache, “I can’t do this with you anymore, it’s too much, too dangerous. I’m going back to Detroit to retire.”

“What do you mean?” Connor slurs. His grip is so weak in Hank’s hand so it’s easy to slip out of his grip.

“I don’t want to be your partner, I don’t want to run anymore.” Hank needs to hurry up before the tears sting his eyes and he gives himself away.

“The Church will look after you. They’ll forgive you your indiscretions as long as you obey.”

Connor shakes his head and his bleary eyes brim with tears, “Don’t do this,” he whispers.

“Goodbye, Father Connor.”

Hank stands and leaves before Connor can see the tears streaming down his own cheeks, before he can notice the trembling of his hands as he reaches for the doorknob.

There are some things you never move on from, Hank knows this moment will be one of them.

(TBC)

At first Connor thought that Hank had been a dream, or a nightmare, because Hank wouldn’t leave him, he’d promised not to leave him the first night they’d made love.

But now Mother Superior is standing at his side and telling him that Hank is gone.

“You don’t need to make awful threats anymore, Mr. Anderson is perfectly well and on a bus back to Detroit.”

Connor doesn’t want to cry in front of her. When he was a child she used to berate him for crying too often, she would tell him he needed to be strong.

Connor is not strong, not now.

He turns his face into the pillow but he’s sure she still knows he’s weeping. She always seems to know everything.

“I wouldn’t waste tears over him,” she says, “He did abandon you, after all.”

Connor can’t reconcile the harsh words spoken by Hank with the man he’d grown to... The man he’d grown to love. The man who loved him in return. And he KNOWS Hank loved him, he could feel it in every touch, every kiss, there was so much there and for it just to be gone...

For Hank to get up and walk away because he’s tired of him? Tired of their mission?

Perhaps he’s too arrogant, perhaps he didn’t mean as much as he thought he did.

There’s a Hank shaped hole in his chest and every breath feels like he’s being torn open again.

~
They want him to continue the work, so that’s something. They haven’t given up on him yet, it seems, and Mother Superior is all forgiveness. She blames Hank, and Connor supposes she isn’t wrong, but it’s not the whole story, not by a long shot.

She refuses to comment on Connor’s mother, past a few vague words about “necessity” and “the greater good”. And it’s hard to argue with her when he knows how much better he is than any other priest when it comes to the number of people he saves.

He hasn’t lost a single one yet, not when he was with Hank.

Still, they won’t let him work without a partner, too dangerous, they say. So he’s given to Father Gavin, a man maybe only five or so years older than himself.

Connor dislikes him on sight.

There’s something off about him, an arrogance that is unbecoming. He hides it behind a placid smile, and a smooth “Peace be with you.” But Connor can see a cruel smirk behind the smile and it makes his blood run cold.

Father Gavin apparently has an excellent track record when it comes to banishment, but when Connor is finally allowed to access the internet again, he sees the state Gavin leaves his charges in, permanently scarred and maimed, traumatized. He’s careless and cruel.

Connor has to wonder how such a man became a Priest, or if perhaps this life changed him.

Whatever Connor might feel for Gavin, Gavin feels it back tenfold. Gavin is condescending in front of their superiors and downright cruel when they are alone.

Connor nearly walks from their first exorcism and if not for the child they were trying to save he very well might have done it. In the end he bars Gavin from the room, locking himself in while he finishes the exorcism on his own.

For his disobedience he is returned to a Convent in Detroit and locked in a cell for a week to pray and reflect.

Mother Rita is there when he is released and she gives him a second chance. Connor wonders what she could possibly do to him should he squander it. They need him.

He misses Hank, misses him desperately. But all attempts to contact him have failed. His phone number has changed, he no longer lives at his old apartment (and he was threatened with seclusion should he attempt that again).

He’s been told, time and time again, Hank does not want to see him, Hank wants out of this life.

Connor wonders if he clings to false hope because it’s easier than believing that Hank would hurt him like this.

He knew upon meeting him, after all, that Hank was a drunk, a philander, an embarrassment to the church. He’d KNOWN and yet... that wasn’t the man he’d fallen in love with, not even close.

He IS put in a cell again, even after two successful exorcisms where he reluctantly allowed Gavin to take the lead, when he is caught searching the local dive bars and asking questions about a tall man with grey hair and bright blue eyes.

This time he is required to fast for part of his cloistering. His gut aches with hunger that he does his best to sleep through.

His heart aches with loneliness he’d almost forgotten since knowing Hank. Got how quickly he’d forgotten.

Then, they make a mistake. They let him meet his brother.

Adam is colder than Connor. Raised in almost complete isolation by Carthusian Monks he’d grown up as cold and distant as the cells underneath Saint Agatha’s.

That’s when Connor understands.

He is not as irreplaceable as he’d thought. Hank must have known that, they must have shown him. That’s why he’d left, to give Connor a chance to redeem himself and fulfill his purpose. He can’t believe that Mother Rita would allow him to be killed but Hank might believe it.

He’s terrified he’s wrong but no other explanation feels as right. They meant to show him Adam as a way to frighten him, to show him that he’s not untouchable. They only fueled his determination.

He would escape and he would search every dive bar in Detroit if that’s what it took. He is going to find Hank or die trying, because he can’t live like this any longer.

(TBC)

Hank is drunk. He’s been drunk for a solid two months and when he’s not drunk he’s hungover. He’s burning through his ‘severance pay’ pretty fast but he’s relatively sure the booze will kill him faster so it does’t much matter. It’s worth it, to keep Connor safe.

He’s sure Connor wouldn’t approve of this slow suicide but it’s not like he’s there to stop him. Hell this might actually be the best thing for him, a clean break from a washed up has been like him. He wishes he could convince himself that any of that was true.

If it was it might alleviate some of the guilt he tries to chase away with bottles of Black Lamb and the pleasant numbness of unconsciousness. But Hank left Connor in the hands of the people who killed his mother, who made him what he is.

And if Connor can’t find something to hold onto, if he can’t find the love he needs to fight back the darkness inside him, then everything Hank’s done to both of them will be for nothing. That hurts the most, the idea that he’s still signed Connor’s death warrant,

But instead of something quick and clean, he’s given him a death by inches, a slow erosion of his self until there’s nothing left but that hollow rage that threatened to tear him to pieces. That has Hank reaching for the bottle faster than anything.

It’s not like he can change his mind. He has no idea where they’ve taken Connor, and if he’s preforming exorcisms again he’ll be all across the country anyways. It’s what Hank tells himself as his whisky soaked mind drifts to sleep.

He hasn’t drunk this much since he lost Cole, and fuck doesn’t that feel fresh now, that sting and then the ache of loneliness that eats away at him like the alcohol eats away at his brain.

Worse than waking up hungover is waking up alone, but he can’t make himself betray Connor like that, even though he’ll never see him again. The one time he tried he was so sick he passed out before he could even do the deed and woke up on his bed with vomit stuck to his chin.

Months pass, he loses track of days. He stopped praying to God the day he walked out of that Convent. Maybe he was always a shitty priest if he finds it so easy to let go of his faith, but it’s not like he’s stopped believing, he’s just so damn tired.

Besides, God’s still out there whether or not Hank talks to him. He knows because no one else could fuck him like this, to take his years of devotion, to give him a single moment of happiness, and then rip it all away. That was someone’s sick sense of humour.

He only second guesses his dismissal of the Almighty when a rail thin man in a hoodie wanders into Jimmy’s, where Hank is getting pleasantly hammered, and promptly faints. He should leave it, let the bartender call an ambulance and be done but...

At heart Hank is still the same man who joined the police force because he wanted to help people, who became a Priest because he thought he might be able to do the same.

He wanders over, only a little buzzed, and has to question his sobriety when he see’s the man’s face.

“Connor,” Hank breathes, his hand trembling as he reaches for his sallow cheek.

Connor is rail thin, his under eyes bruised dark purple and his skin so bloodless Hank would think he’d been dead for days.

But he still has a heart beat, thin and weak though it is.

“He’s my nephew,” Hank lies to the bartender, scooping Connor up in his arms. “Heroin,” he tells him, in lieu of the truth, because Connor looks like the junkies he used to pick up for screaming on street corners at three in the morning. He weighs almost nothing.

He’s too fragile in Hank’s arms. He can’t let his terror show, he can’t let them call an ambulance, call the cops, if Connor found him again that means he god away from the church, wherever they were keeping him, and Hank aims to keep it that way.

(Tbc tomorrow because I am BIG TIRED)

He takes Connor to a motel that takes cash and lays him out on the bed so he can get a proper look at him and he doesn’t like what he sees. Sliding off Connor’s filthy hoodie he finds his black clerical shirt underneath, collar fastened around his neck.

Connor’s pants are soaked at the hem and filthy and damp at the knees. He smells like mildew and sweat and his wax white face is smeared with dirt. His hair is stringy and the curl has gone limp with grease. Hank runs his fingers through it anyways.

“What did they do to you?” He asks, knowing that whatever it was, it was his fault.

Connor’s forehead is ice cold like the rest of him and if Hank couldn’t see him breathing, he’d be sure he was dead.

He begins to peel off Connor’s layers, one by one, tossing his filthy, ruined clothes on the floor.

It’s much worse when Connor is naked. Hank remembers strong, lean muscle under pale flesh, now Connor is half that, and painfully thin, each rib protruding from under taut skin.

Hank’s hands run along his sides feeling for the extent of the damage. Nothing seems to be swollen or broken but his whole body is freezing.

Connor’s eyes remain closed but his lips part and a small noise escapes his throat when Hank lets go of him to go run a bath.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises, though he has no idea if Connor can even hear him.

When the water is run Hank picks up Connor (who is too light, even boneless as he is) and deposited him in the cracked yellowing bathtub.

It’s too short for Connor’s long legs but Hank arranges him as best he can, placing a folded towel under the back of his head to keep him from cracking his skull on grimy tile.

Connor’s eyelids flutter but they do not open. Under his palm, Hank feels Connor’s heart beat faster.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Hank murmurs, as if that makes up for anything.

He takes a dripping washcloth and a bar of pre-wrapped soap and runs it up and down the length of Connor’s body, from his brow to his feet, stripping grease and grime from his skin.

The shower head is removable and Hank manages to soak himself completely while washing Connor’s hair, slowly massaging his fingers through tangled curls until they come away clean and smelling of cheap motel shampoo.

Connor mumbles something unintelligible when Hank empties the grey water from the tub and fills it again. Despite the heat, Connor’s skin (where it is not submerged) still feels too cold to belong to a living man.

Hank runs it hot and takes a spare hand towel, soaking it in the steamy water, before laying it over Connor’s chest and shoulders, the parts that wouldn’t fit in the short tub.

With nothing else to do but let Connor soak, he leaves the hot water running at a slow drip to keep the bath warm.

He bundles up Connor’s shirt and pants (the hoodie is a bust), and washes them as best he can in the sink with a rapidly shrinking bar of handsoap.

Connor winces and mumbles as Hank runs the hair dryer to dry off the dripping clothes. He gets a good enough start on them when he hears Connor mumble his name.

He turns and there he is, his Connor, staring up at him with bleary eyes, a frown creasing his brow.

Hank drops to his knees so fast it hurts, even through the bathmat. He takes Connor’s face in his hands, his thumbs caressing his cheeks (now sporting rosy spots of colour). Hank peels back the damp towel and pulls Connor into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, like that changes anything. Though maybe it does because Connor’s arms slide around his middle until they grasp the back of his shirt, tugging him closer. Hank is so damp already he doesn’t even realize Connor is crying until his back starts to tremble.

Hank’s hand cradles the back of Connor’s head, holding him against his chest as Connor leans half out of the tub, shaking like an autumn leaf about to be blown off its branch.

“I’ve got you,” he says, over and over, “I’ve got you.”

~
Connor is still kitten weak and Hank has to help him from the tub. Connor eventually stops trying to help with the towel when he realizes his limp limbs are only getting in the way.

He allows Hank to help him into bed and wrap him in cheap motel sheets.

“I didn’t think I’d find you,” Connor confesses, his voice stronger than Hank would have expected.

“I should have been looking for you,” Hank replies, fingers clutching the blankets as he pulls them up, “Never should have left you in the first place.”

“You thought they were going to kill me, didn’t you?”

Hank swallows and he can’t find the words without his voice breaking so he just nods.

“Can you come to bed?” Connor asks, his hand reaching for Hank’s.

“I should-“

“I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Hank can’t say no to that. He strips off his damp clothes and hangs them over the shower rod to dry overnight with Connor’s things, then slides under the covers next to him.

Connor is so much smaller than he remembers, it’s a painful reminder of everything he doesn’t know.

“What happened to you?” He asks with lips pressed to Connor’s temple.

“Nothing that matters anymore,” Connor replies. “He led me to you.”

“He?”

“God,” says Connor, “You still believe in God, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

He’d been foolish to think that devoting his life to God would mean he’d never see loss again, that he’d never feel pain. What an infantile way to look at it. Perhaps he is selfish and childish, but still he is blind with rage when he feels Connor’s hollow ribs.

“It’s not your fault, Hank.”

Hank hates that he’s so easily read, that Connor, half dead and half asleep, can know every doubt and fear that runs through his mind.

How can Connor know him and still love him? (and Connor does still love him, he can feel that without words)

“I though I was saving you but—“ Hank looks down at Connor’s hollow cheeks, his wax white skin, and he can’t form the words.

“It’s okay, I know.” Connor’s hand comes up to cup Hank’s cheek, warmer than it had been but still cooler than it should be.

Hank takes those hands in his own and presses them to his lips. They fall asleep like that, hands clasped between them, foreheads pressed together, as if in prayer.

(TBC)

Hank wakes to find the bed empty and the sheets are all tangled around his legs.

He’s halfway to convincing himself that Connor was product of his drunk imagination, when he realizes the rushing sound is the shower running in the next room.

He lets out a low sigh of relief.

Connor emerges from the bathroom in his blacks, fumbling to fasten his collar.

Without being asked, Hank rolls out of bed to stand behind Connor, snapping the stiff fabric shut around his neck.

“Thank you,” says Connor, turning to bury his face in Hank’s shoulder.

Hank wraps his arms around bony shoulders, burring his nose in damp hair. The motel shampoo is supposed to smell like strawberry & kiwi but instead it’s just an overpoweringly sickly sweet candy scent.

“I missed you,” says Hank, lips pressed to Connor’s brow.

“Don’t leave again,” says Connor, his voice almost entirely muffled by Hank’s chest.

“Never,” Hank promises, and this time he knows he’ll die before he makes a liar out of himself. “I’m so sorry.”

Hank steps back to him in now he’s had some rest.

He is still too pale, his skin still chilly, but his eyes are sharper, more focused, and some of the warmth has returned to the golden brown of his irises. He’s skeletal and his skin seems to be clinging to bone more than flesh, but the bruises under his eyes are lighter.

Still, there is a sickness that seems to radiate off of him, Hank recognizes it from when they first started working together. So Hank is not surprised when Connor says, “We have to go back.”

“Why?” Hank asks, wary.

“Because they hurt us,” says Connor. There is no warmth in his deep brown eyes now, just anger.

Hank won’t fight with him, but he knows that this isn’t what Connor wants, not really.

“We’ll talk when you’re healed,” Hank says instead.

He picks up his car and they get the hell out of Detroit. Connor gets a little brighter every day, the darkness gets less heavy, the anger starts to cool. His body is still brittle but his soul is slowly starting to heal.

Hank holds Connor close at night, and Connor clings back just as tightly. It’s as if they’re afraid if they let go, they will wake up alone. God only knows Hank can’t go through that again, not now he has him back.

The sex is desperate at first, hands grabbing and squeezing too tight, pressing closer and closer, like they can crawl inside one another, inseparable.

It eases into something more gentle, something that leaves less bruises, though it is no less passionate.

And finally, one morning, Hank wakes up and it’s Connor smiling back at him. Just Connor. There is nothing hard hidden behind his eyes, there is no anger simmering just under his skin. He smiles bright and clear and kisses Hank on the mouth and says, “I love you.”

~
Now that he can trust him again, Hank asks Connor what he wants to do. He’d go on the run with him forever if that’s what he wants, but he has a feeling Connor wants to do something incredibly stupid instead. Hank will still follow him, he’ll follow him anywhere.

“Adam,” Connor says, “I can’t leave him with them, the things they’ve done to him.”

Connor shudders, “If you think I was bad when you found me again, imagine what he’s like. He deserves a chance to be happy.”

“Will he want to come?” Hank asks.

Connor shakes his head, “No, but we have to take him anyways. I can’t leave him, he’s my brother.”

Hank nods like he understands.

“Thank you,” says Connor.

“Whatever you want, whatever you need,” Hank promises, because Connor’s saved his life twice now, just by being there.

“No, I mean, for not letting me do what I wanted, when I first came back.”

“You were going to kill him,” says Hank.

“And Mother Rita, and Father Reed,” Connor admits. “I would have ripped them apart with my bare hands for what they did, to me, to him, to you.”

“That’s not who you really are,” says Hank, “I knew it wasn’t what you really wanted.”

Connor swallows, “That evil is still a part of me.”

Hank shrugs. “Some people have herpes, you get a flare up, you deal with it.”

Connor laughs, and it’s the brightest thing Hank’s heard.

“You certainly have a way with words.”

~

The plan is incredibly stupid, but it’s the only one they’ve got. Connor is putting a lot of faith in Hank, and Hank hopes to Christ he deserves it.

They drive back to Detroit, where Connor and Adam had been staying at St. Agatha’s

Hank waits in his car while Connor calls the Convent from a pay phone.

There is a car picking Connor up in less than twenty minutes and Hank follows it as closely as he can. When he sees it pull up in front of St. Agatha’s and Connor disappears inside, he parks around the

Corner and waits until dark.

There are children playing at the orphanage next door, the one Connor grew up in. He wonders what Connor was like as a child, likely quiet and severe, like when they first met. It seems unfair to Hank that Connor never got a proper childhood.

Darkness falls. At midnight Hank finds an open window and climbs inside, though it’s a bit of a wiggle, he’s not a svelte as he used to be.

Maybe God is watching over them because he manages to get to the cells and find Connor without raising the alarm.

He pulls Connor into his arms and holds him for a moment, letting his thundering heart settle, before they’re off again, this time to find Adam.

Mother Superior finds them first.

She stands at the end of the hallway, dressed in her habit still, like she’d never gone to sleep.

“I thought you’d try something foolish,” she says, “I’m disappointed, Connor.”

Connor turns on her, hands clenched at his sides. “Where’s Adam?”

“Exactly where he should be,” She replies. “Unlike you, he’s loyal to the Church.”

“I serve a higher power,” Connor growls. Hank can feel the anger radiating off him, a dark miasma.

“Connor...” Hank warns, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“It was a mistake to give you to him,” Mother Rita says, gesturing to Hank, “He’s ruined you and now you’ll go to waste.”

Connor lets out a furious shout, shrugging off Hank’s hand as he lunges forward.

Without Connor laying a hand on her, Mother Rita flys backwards, skidding across the linoleum.

The anger around Connor is growing hot, the air around him feels thick.

“Connor wait!”

“I’m going to end this,” Connor spits, stalking towards the prone nun.

Hank reaches for Connor, grabbing him from behind and holding him against his chest. Hank’s skin feels like it’s blistering where they’re touching but he holds fast and doesn’t let go.

Hank feels it all. Connor’s anger, his fear, his resentment. This woman killed his mother, stole his brother, denied him his childhood.

Hank had spent weeks putting Connor back together after his last encounter with her and it was all going to hell in an instant.

And maybe she deserves everything that Connor wants to do to her in this moment.

Connor struggles against Hank’s arms as Mother Rita rises to her feet. Connor’s arm lashes out and she slams against the wall, the crack of her skull against concrete echoing in the empty hall.

Maybe she deserves it but Connor doesn’t, and Connor will never forgive himself if he goes through with this.

Hank holds Connor tighter, crushing him against his body. It’s pure agony, the hate seeps from Connor’s pores and burns his skin, but Hank doesn’t let go.

“I love you,” he tells him, lips pressed behind his ear. He pours everything he has into those words. He lets go of his fear, his doubt; he gives everything he has to Connor with no guarantees. He loves him more than he’s loved anyone in over twenty years, since he lost Cole.

He loves him and he can’t take it back, even if he wanted to.

“Let’s go find Adam,” Hank says, his voice low but firm. Connor still struggles but it’s growing weaker.

Hank can’t say how long they stand there, but Mother Rita is sitting up against the wall, watching them.

Hank glares at her, daring her to speak. He’s not a Priest anymore and he’ll end her himself if she forces him to. He’ll bloody his own hands to stop Connor if that’s what it takes. But he pushes all that aside in an instant; he can’t let anything distract him.

Slowly, Connor relaxes in his arm. The pain fades and before Hank can prepare himself Connor is slumping against him, nearly falling to the floor.

Hank catches him, barely.

“Let’s go,” says Connor. He doesn’t look at Mother Rita as they walk past.

The find Adam bound to his bed. Connor rushes to his side, and Hank’s heart is in his throat as he follows.

There are scabs around his mouth, his skin is paper thin and cracking. His eyes are dark and sunken into his skull.

Hank can feel the demonic energy from the doorway.

Connor lays a hand on his brow and Adam’s eyes snap open.

“Get away from me, traitor,” Adam growls, snapping at Connor’s fingers.

“He’s not possessed,” Connor says, eyes wide with worry.

So this was the fate that awaited Connor if he couldn’t keep himself in check.

Hank’s heart pounds in his throat. He pulls the syringe out of his pocket and uncaps it, handing it to Connor.

Adam spits and curses and Hank is afraid he’ll wake up the whole goddamn building but Connor gets him sedated and no one comes to stop them.

Hank throws Adam over his shoulder and they run.

Someone must have called the police because as Hank starts the car he hears sirens growing closer by the second. He forces himself to drive carefully, despite his rising panic. Connor’s hand on his shoulder helps.

~
In a crappy motel on the side of the freeway, they book a couple of adjoining rooms and Hank handcuffs Adam to the bed frame.

He leaves Connor with him and does a drugstore run, they’re all in pretty rough shape but Adam is a goddamn mess.

He comes back to find Adam still unconscious, but Connor is on the bed beside him, curled up with a hand on his chest. He’s fast asleep and Hank lets him rest until Adam wakes up, the metal handcuffs clanking against the bedframe.

He aims most of his cursing at Connor, though at one point he turns on Hank and damn near throws him across the room with just a jerk of his head. After that, Hank stays the hell out of Connor’s way, coming in when Adam is asleep to bring food and supplies.

Connor is undaunted by the anger, the vitriol. Maybe he recognizes some of it in himself.

When Hank’s alone in the other room he finds himself praying again. He doesn’t know Adam, not really, but he prays for him anyways because Connor loves him.

He prays for him anyways because no one deserves what had been done to him. He prays for him anyways because everyone deserved a shot at redemption.

~

Connor saves him. Of course he does. He loves his brother until the darkness they share recedes.

Adam blinks at him with wide, owlish eyes and cringes with embarrassment as Hank uncuffs him, rubbing the rawness of his wrists.

Hank tends to those while Connor holds his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead and telling him that he’s going to be alright now.

Adam cries.

Hank gives them their privacy but Hank can hear the sobs from the next room. It breaks his heart to think how easily that could have been Connor, raised in complete isolation, honed into a cold, calculating weapon of holy injustice.

It breaks his heart knowing that it happened to Adam.

~

They move on after that, and Adam comes with them. He’s glued to Connor’s side like a puppy.

Now that the cold rage, the hatred, is gone, Adam is like a child. There’s so much he’s never seen, never felt.

Connor helps him through it all.

It’s hard for Hank not to feel a bit jealous of Connor’s divided attention, but when Connor has control of his demons there is enough love in him that he’d be fit to burst if he didn’t have anywhere to put it, so Hank can’t really resent it.

They make an odd trio.

Hank’s not sure when, or even if they’ll ever do exorcisms again. He knows Connor misses it but right now his focus is Adam. It’s fair, even if Hank does feel a bit useless.

They make it work.

Hank has savings they work odd jobs for cash when they can. Hank upgrades his car to a van so they can sleep in it when they’re too broke for a motel. They throw a mattress in the back and he and Connor share a blanket on one side and Adam takes the other.

They’re a family. Of a sort. It’s something Hank never expected to have again.

If the Church is still after the they haven’t been caught yet, and Adam is terrifyingly powerful and intensely protective of Connor. Hank pities the poor bastards they send if they ever catch up.

So for the time being it’s the three of them, a busted up old Van, and an entire country. Hank figures there are worse ways to end up. Connor’s lips on his cheek as he leans over from the passenger seat are just a bonus.

EPILOGUE

It’s risky, attending a Sunday service, but they’re on the other side of the country from Detroit and they’d seen the priest in the 7-11 the day before and hadn’t been recognized so it’s probably as safe as it’ll ever be.

They sit in the pews at the back as they let the familiar sounds wash over them. The rituals are comforting, Hank is surprised to find.

Adam looks close to tears by the end. He misses it most out of all of them.

Hank declines to take communion, he sneaks out the doors while everyone lines up, Adam included, but Connor follows him outside, sliding an arm through his.

“This is good,” he says, smiling up at Hank.

“Yeah...”

Hank leans in to kiss him but pauses when he hears something.

It’s an animal cry, a heartbreaking whimpering noise that Hank follows to the cardboard box tucked beside the church steps.

FREE is scrawled across the side in permanent marker and inside is a single white and brown puppy, sitting on soiled newspaper.

Connor gasps, reaching down to gather it into his arms. The sad creature reeks, its downy fur is filthy, though it can’t be more than a few weeks old. It has adorable floppy ears and big sad eyes. Of course Connor can’t resist it, Hank can’t really either, if he’s being honest.

Connor doesn’t even haven to say anything, he just looks at Hank with eyes as wide as the sad little puppy and Hank relents.

“If it pisses on the mattress, you can clean it up,” he grumbles, though he can’t help but smile. The puppy licks Connor’s fingers and Connor giggles.

Adam is just as enamoured with it and soon enough they’re on their way to the nearest pet store, arguing about names.

Hank overrules both of them with ‘Sumo’ when he’s sure it’s about to come to blows, and considering Hank is pretty sure this dog is going to be huge, it fits.

So maybe their weird little family is expanding. They’ll make room.

For now the sun is out and Hank’s world just got a little bit bigger and a little bit brighter.

[END]