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Incinerate

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Incinerate

Dean kissed him lesiurely, as though they were the only two left in such a tragic world, as though Sam wouldn't walk into the hotel room at any moment, arms heavy with fast food or books. And Castiel didn't care, he didn't care if Sam walked in, didn't care about any new cases, demons, angels, God. Nothing except the hunter on top of him, nothing except the taste of Dean, the intoxicating scent of him, fully male, like leather and car and lust, and Castiel wanted more, more, more.

Dean held him gently, his body heavy on top of Castiel's and it was bliss. The hunter was solid, heavy and warm and male, and Castiel marveled, not for the first time, how small he felt in those moments. How safe and protected. As though Dean could keep away any horrors, any monsters. Castiel was an angel, his true appearance gargantuan. He was a warrior, capable of a power that was immense and yet it was a human that rendered him vulnerable.

Every time, Dean would lightly push Castiel onto the bed. Every time, he would crawl until he could lay flush on top of Castiel, cradled in between Castiel's thighs. He kissed him slowly, so languid and hot, and Castiel would whimper, thrilling in the hot thrust of Dean's tongue, groaning at the taste of him, and his hands could never be still, gripping onto the back of Dean's shirt, desperate to feel the smooth shift of the muscles hidden by the fabric. He wanted to memorize every kiss, adored how Dean worshipped his mouth, wanted more, always more. It was too much. It wasn't enough and when Dean would slowly begin to pull away, gently removing Castiel's arms from his body, Castiel would burn, aching with a longing that he had never known before, his body taut and hot and wanting.

It took a week of stolen moments in hidden seclusion before Dean finally touched his bare skin, Castiel panting, so wanton beneath him, his white button down a frustrating barrier between them. Slowly, Dean shifted, trailing hot kisses along Castiel's jaw line and he moaned softly, trailed down his neck, licking and sucking and Castiel could feel the strong burn of arousal, insistent against his slacks, and he wanted more. Dean captured his ear lobe gently between his teeth and God, that was lovely. Castiel's body, no longer under his rigid control, surged against Dean, his hips canting, seeking friction and he ached, wanting, needing so badly to be touched. Dimly he became aware of Dean's mouth trailing down, down, placing kisses on his exposed chest that smouldered and burned. Castiel wanted to tear his shirt off, not caring about the buttons, not caring about anything except the need to feel Dean's hands on him, but Dean was unrushed. Carefully, he unbuttoned Castiel's shirt, gently pushing it open until his chest and stomach were on clear display and Castiel shivered under the intense look in Dean's eyes, the pure green of them dark and sinful. Dean placed a large hand on his upper chest, a burning touch that ached deliciously. His hand skimmed down his ribcage, fingertips trailing down his taut stomach and Castiel could feel the muscles tighten and contract at the feather light touch. He stopped at the waistband of his slacks, fingertips grazing along the fabric, skimming firm, lean muscles, and Castiel was aching, needing more, trusting Dean to give it to him. Dean glanced at him then and Castiel stared back, knowing how completely wrecked he looked, his mouth falling open as he watched Dean lean forward, gaze never wavering , placing hot, open mouthed kisses along the rigid lines of his hip bones. He lavished attention of them, sucking and biting the skin, his thumbs running along the sharp lines that were exposed above his pants, and Castiel was falling apart, his fingers splayed in Dean's hair, holding his head to his hips. Dean took his time, as though committing every soft groan, every shudder to memory. Fingers splayed along Castiel's hot, smooth skin as Dean kissed him, and Castiel ached because this was worship, this was reverence and God help him but he loved it, loved how Dean couldn't get enough of him, loved how Dean ran his tongue along his ribcage, feeling every bump against his tongue before mouthing eagerly at the soft expanse of his taut stomach.

Dean moved then, kissing his way up Castiel's chest, insistent and hard, surging forward to claim his mouth again, and Castiel fell apart. He was ablaze and he wanted to burn, burn, burn, igniting under Dean's touch, his kiss. Their bodies fell against one another and Dean shifted, his hips rolling against Castiel's and Castiel cried out at the remarkable pleasure. He could feel Dean, large and hot inside his sweatpants, pressing against him, insistent as Dean rolled his hips again and again and again. He felt Dean reach down, unsnapping the buttons on his slacks, tugging them down just enough for Castiel to feel relief from the tight pressure, his own cock heavy and bulging behind the black boxer briefs, and when Dean pushed his hips into him again, Castiel was sure that there was nothing, nothing more amazing than this. His body felt tight, the want and need building to a crescendo that was catastrophic and beautiful. Dean thrust again, again, again, and Castiel could feel everything, feel the large, thick cock rubbing against his own (and God, what would that feel like inside of him?) and then Castiel was falling, falling, and it was pure and wonderful and exhilarating. One more thrust and Castiel was finished, his body becoming rigid before he fell apart, thrusting against Dean's hips as he came and came, a release so pure and intense. Dean grabbed his hands, fingers interlocking, and Castiel wanted to feel Dean fall apart, wanted to reach down, pull that gorgeous cock from its confinement and feel him come all over his stomach, wanted to feel that warm liquid marking him as Dean's. He felt Dean shudder, his hips driving against Castiel's in a powerful surge before he was coming, his mouth open, those gorgeous, full lips swollen and red, his eyes impossibly green, and Castiel couldn't look away, wanted to see that look again and again and again.

Afterward, there was peace, a moment of brief calm in the chaos. Dean lay next to him, languid, his warm body a comforting weight as he settled next to Castiel and those were the moments that Castiel yearned for the most. Moments of intimacy, of seclusion, a time when they could pretend that everything in their lives was normal, when Castiel could pretend that he was Dean’s something, anything, and that Dean belonged to him, too. Dean skimmed his hands along Castiel’s shoulders, soft, reverent and Castiel sighed. Fingers brushed the hard lines of his face and something inside Castiel shattered. He was an angel and he wasn’t suppose to want, wasn’t suppose to crave, wasn’t suppose to adore, to worship anyone except his Father, but nestled against Dean, Castiel was helpless. He was damned in the eyes of Heaven, he was sure, but in Dean's arms, there was salvation.

But soon the familiar rumble of the Impala would break through the silence, signaling Sam’s return. It always did. Dean would move, righting himself, and the euphoria would be broken because Castiel knew what that meant. No more touches, though always, Castiel’s hands ached to touch Dean’s body again and again. No more kisses, though Castiel burned to feel Dean’s plush lips under his own for a moment, an hour, eternity. But not even an angel could fight against decades of toxic masculine ideals, the bone deep desire to bury every emotion, every desire. When Sam stepped into the room, Dean was a soldier once again and Castiel’s heart would break a little more.

Eventually, Sam would leave again, preferring to run errands alone, the door slamming behind him. In that moment, Dean would turn to Castiel once again, green eyes blazing with desire, with want, and Castiel would submit to the intoxicating Hell that was Dean’s touch, Dean’s kiss. He was addicted to it and it was so easy to forget how his heart broke every time Dean shut him out, to dismiss the agony of knowing that he couldn’t touch Dean whenever he wanted to, couldn’t offer comfort when Dean was angry, though God knew that a simple caress from Castiel was more than enough to calm him.

A delicate graze of Dean’s hands on his skin and Castiel would succumb. He would always succumb because Dean was everything. Dean would always be everything. And then Dean would kiss him and Castiel would be able to feel the urgency, the longing behind his kiss, and his heart would race, his mind capable of no other thought than ‘Dean, Dean, Dean.' And despite the agony, Castiel felt hope. With every kiss, Dean tore down a little more of the wall that he had surrounded himself with, slowly opening himself to Castiel, allowing himself to feel, to want, to desire. With every touch, Dean became more comfortable, fingers tracing Castiel's skin with familiarity and adoration. Castiel would be patient. He would ache now, knowing that one day his suffering would be rewarded and Dean would be his, completely, wondrously his.

But for now, a simple kiss, a gentle sigh, a loving stroke of long fingers across his skin and Castiel would fall into the flames again.

It was such a pleasurable way to burn.