Title: Ignite
Rating: M (for oral sex and Dean's dirty mouth)
Genre and/or Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: None (set at an unspecified time past or future)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,212
Summary: Castiel grieves not for the love lost between him and his kin, but instead for the love that they will never know.
Notes:First time writing in this fandom despite being a fan for several years! I think I like how this came out though :)


It feels a little (a lot) like falling; not from Heaven, simply from a height, spiralling down smooth and easy like a leaf in the breeze. He is lightheaded and dizzy with it, with the rush of relief and surprise and want, want, want thrumming through his veins. Once, before Dean Winchester, he had never wanted for anything and yet now it is all he can do, burning him up from the inside out.

He is not entirely sure how it came to this, Dean pressing him up against the warm metal of the Impala as the sky blossoms pink-red with the dip of the sun over the horizon. They had been deep in conversation and throwing words back and forth with an underlying smoulder of repressed sentiment when suddenly Dean was on him and against him, under his very skin, mouth damp and fervent against his own. They are surrounded by acres of empty, windblown grassland; they could be the only two beings in existence and would not know it. Perhaps it is this that has allowed Dean to forget himself; Castiel may never know, but it is the consequence not the causation that is of importance so he will not dwell on it.

Dean kisses him like his desire is thirst and Castiel is water, drinking him in and taking without thought. Castiel touches Dean because he can, at long last. He is not one to waste time and so cups the growing bulge in Dean's jeans with his hand; the reflexive jump of the other man's hips against his palm has heat pooling low in Castiel's belly.

That and the tight-bitten groan he feels shiver into the place where their lips touch.

"Fucking Hell, Cas," Dean says softly, turning his head for a moment and closing his eyes. Castiel sometimes wonders at his flippant use of the word 'Hell', for it seems like a word that Dean should much sooner rather forget. Words can be power, though, Castiel knows; maybe Dean's repeated use of the name has drawn all strength and trigger from it and rendered it meaningless.

"Shit, Cas, sometimes I want you so fucking bad it hurts," he spits out, and covers Castiel's hand with his own, curling their fingers to gently squeeze the hard length of him beneath the worn denim. Words are power, indeed. Castiel feels shocking pulses of lust spike through him when Dean speaks; it was an admission, something like shame buried deep in the rough gravel of his voice, but Castiel would not expect anything else of him. He knows that Dean is confused by this, whatever it may be categorised as in the realm of confusing human relationships. He also knows that Dean wants this, and he is determined to show him that it is the path they were always supposed to take.

He does not know what to say in this situation, and so says nothing at all. He presses a kiss to the corner of Dean's lips, and another to the curvature of his jaw. Hands gripping the worn cotton of Dean's t-shirt, he twists and reverses their position, Dean up against the car with a space between his legs that Castiel fills immediately, sinking down onto his knees and divesting himself of his trenchcoat and jacket for no particular reason other than it feels natural.

He wonders if his brothers and sisters can see him now, whether they are watching him lower himself on his knees before this human he has come to idolise and place above all others. It is a blasphemy above all else, and Castiel cannot bring himself to care. He hopes they are watching, imagines their violent fury at what he has become and it pleases him because he knows that he is right. They know nothing of true joy.

"Cas?" Dean murmurs, and his voice curls rich and deep like smoke, hanging in the silence. Castiel meets his gaze and slides his hands up Dean's thighs. He wants to tear down Dean's inhibitions with his fingers and his mouth, and indulge his own selfish desire to taste and to feel along with it. "Fuck, Cas, you don't have to…" Dean begins, but Castiel cuts him off.

"I want this," Castiel tells him, head tilted and jaw determined. "This is where I wish to be, Dean."

He lowers the zipper on Dean's jeans and works them down over his hips just enough to free his cock, pauses in consideration and then wraps the fingers of one hand around it experimentally, squeezing carefully and sliding his hand along the hard length of it.

"Damn, Cas," Dean groans, and his fingers clench in mid air before cautiously coming to rest in Castiel's hair. Castiel splays his other hand across Dean's stomach for balance as he strokes several times in succession, base to tip. When he accidentally slides his palm over the head on an upstroke, Dean actually whimpers above him and grips his hair tightly. He feels Dean's cock jump against his palm and feels an answering twitch between his own legs; he hopes Dean will touch him like this in return, and just the thought of it makes him feel shivery and hot all over.

Dean is making these little noises every time now, with every stroke as Castiel rubs the hollow of his palm across the head of his cock, and when Castiel moves close enough that his breath puffs hot and damp against his skin, Dean bites the side of his own fist with a choked-off groan.

"Don't," Castiel implores him. He watches Dean take a steadying breath and remove the hand from his mouth.

"Don't what?" Dean growls.

"Don't do that. I want to hear you." With that said, Castiel slides his hand to the base of Dean's cock and takes the rest into his mouth in one smooth slide. It is a strange feeling, but then again he has experienced many odd things in this body; this is simply one of many. Dean moans and throws his head back, and Castiel feels somewhat reassured that he is doing something right. His knowledge of how this works is limited, but he knows enough to tentatively start sucking, hollowing his cheeks and then sliding his lips back along the shaft to the head. The plump swell of them catches on the sensitive rim and he stays there for a while, licking around and over the head and carefully appraising Dean's reaction to each and every movement.

"Fuck, look at you," Dean murmurs, reaching to cup Castiel's cheek with an unsteady hand. Castiel turns his eyes upwards, looking up through his eyelashes, and the tip of his tongue dips into the wet slit of Dean's cock for a brief moment. A burst of precome pulses out onto his tongue, and Castiel wants to watch how Dean's body reacts to his ministrations; needs to see him hard and leaking liquid want over the both of them. He pulls off and exchanges his mouth for his hand, settling into smooth, easy strokes over the spit-slick length of Dean's cock. It isn't long before Dean is dripping wet with precome, the translucent mess of it running in sleek rivulets down Castiel's wrists. He will never understand why so many humans and angels alike deem this act dirty and demeaning; it is exhilarating and Dean is beautiful.

Castiel is vaguely aware of the ache between his own legs, the damp fabric where his erection is pressed against his still-fastened dress pants and he shifts restlessly. It does nothing to ease the throbbing want of it.

"Shit, I'm so close, Cas," Dean rasps, voice gone wispy and thin with pleasure. His hands are in Castiel's hair again, smoothing through the mussed strands in a way that somehow manages to be both tender and demanding. "So damn close, let me come in that perfect fucking mouth Cas, please. Please. Wanna see my dick between those lips again; look so good, baby, so good."

He's begging, eyes wide and pleasure-glossed and Castiel has never felt more powerful; to tear a man apart with holy wrath takes a certain kind of strength, but to dismantle him piece by piece with pleasure until he can no longer focus on anything but the person in front of him is something new to Castiel.

This is a man who once rewrote fate with his voice and with his virtue, and Castiel would deny him nothing.

He mouths over the sweat-shined hollow of Dean's hipbone and then parts his lips once again. He lets the slick inside of his mouth move as far as possible over Dean's cock until he's sheathed in the tight, wet back of his throat and Castiel feels him fly apart beneath his fingertips at that moment with a gasp of relief that is almost a sob. Dean holds him there, kneeling on the ground with his mouth full of human and soft grass beneath his knees whilst he ejaculates in twitching spurts down Castiel's willing throat. Arousal hits Castiel in rolling waves as he is overwhelmed by the feel and the odd, bitter taste and the sound of Dean's voice. He cannot believe how desperately he wants to be touched by Dean, what he would be willing to do to get the relief he craves.

His hands and mouth feel strangely empty when Dean pulls out, and he busies his hands with fastening Dean's jeans back up for him. It takes a few seconds to realise his own hands are shaking as much as Dean's are. Adrenaline, he thinks absently.

"Fuck, get up here," Dean growls and hauls Castiel to his feet. He is pulled close to his side so their bodies are pressed close, and Dean wraps an arm around the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel buries his face into Dean's shoulder with a groan as the other man unfastens his pants and slides his hand inside. It's incendiary, the heat of Dean's palm against his erection and the dry, friction-filled slide of it.

"G'on, I gotcha," Dean pants hotly against his ear, still breathless from his own orgasm; Castiel twists his fingers into Dean's t-shirt and presses himself even closer to him as though he could melt right into him if he tried. Dean tightens his arm around him, protective in a very human way that warms Castiel; he moves his hips restlessly against Dean's hand, no kind of rhythm at all but just a desperate grind that brings him closer and closer to something Earth-shattering and all-consuming.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean breathes quiet and scared against the tender skin behind the lobe of Castiel's ear. Confessional. "You have no idea how much I wanna fuck you." Castiel gasps; the pleasure is consuming him and he will go mad with it. He is losing his mind and Dean Winchester is the cause. He trembles and bites at Dean's neck, sucks a mark there to occupy his mouth as he is stroked harder and faster. Dean exhales shakily.

"You're killin' me, Cas, you stupid sonofabitch. I want it all and I don't even know why. Wanna lay you out underneath me, fuck you so damn hard you can't even remember your own name. Can't stop thinking about it, Cas, try not to but can't fucking help it."

He's tipped over the edge then, Dean's desire-laced voice and the clumsy pull of his fist dragging his orgasm out of him. It feels as though he is everything and he is nothing all at once, like the world has narrowed into a fine point where all he can feel and experience is blinding pulses of white hot gratification rushing through his bloodstream, spilling himself over Dean's hand and his own stomach in bursts of beautiful, mind blowing pleasure. As he pants into Dean's shoulder, coming down from the high, he feels a sense of immense sorrow and anger that his brothers and sisters should never experience this true and absolute happiness, that they judge it and pity those who engage in these acts. There are many who would rather see him dead, wings charred onto the sun-baked ground, than see him find pleasure with a human however righteous; but they are no longer his chosen family and Heaven is no longer his true home.

It takes him a while to come back to his senses, his surroundings slowly coming back into focus. Dean isn't really looking at him, just staring into the horizon but making no attempt to move. They shall be quiet for a while, then, side by side and sharing heat in the silence. Castiel would die for this, he thinks. He would give up everything to be right here with this man for just a moment longer. He intends to stay with Dean through life and through death until the Earth has long since crumbled into dust and they exist on whatever plane can allow them to remain together.

When he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, the waning light of the sun filtered through his eyelids makes it look as though all of Heaven is ablaze, rendered vermillion and bright with glorious destruction.

For just a moment, he basks in the illusion.

He lets it burn.