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Burning Blue	By : Peleia Category: Supernatural > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3387 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Supernatural. I am not making any money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Burning Blue
- 1
I’m fairly new to the Supernatural fandom; this idea has probably been done before, but I felt inspired and wanted to give it a shot. Set pre-season 6. Spoilers from season 4 on.
Reviews totally make my day, or just a rating... let me know what you think!

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Burning Blue
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Sometimes, he can almost remember it. The moment.
He remembers everything else. He remembers the bitter smell. The sound of tearing flesh. Pain, and dull red light, and endless noise. He remembers the exact feel of the knife, the shape and weight of it when he slipped it into his hand for the first time. He remembers too damn much.
But that last thing, he still can’t quite reach it in his head, no matter how hard he tries. The last moment, when the red sky must have broken open, and suddenly he was lifted up, delivered. The moment when the fire of heaven scorched a path through the fire of hell.
A burning path of light, straight from Castiel, to him.
He’s never told anyone, but he always knows when Castiel is going to show up in a room, the instant before it actually happens. A split second before the angel appears, scaring the shit out of everyone. He knows because he sees it, inside his head, behind his eyes, just before... a bright, dazzling burst of blue.
It’s four a.m., and Dean Winchester has a huge fucking hard on.
He cursed under his breath, shifting a little under the blankets. A few feet away, his brother was a vague lump in the next bed. They had come in late from a bitch of a job; slogging in the dark through a swamp, of all places, after a nasty little water kappa. When they got back to the motel both of them had only taken the time to chug back a beer, ball up their ruined clothes, and do a cursory wipe-off of mud and blood-spattered skin before collapsing into their identical, narrow beds.
That had been hours ago. It was very late now, quiet in that too-loud way that only cheap interstate motels can have. Dean wanted nothing more then to roll over, bury his head into the pillow, and pass out for an hour or two, at least. But there was no way that was going to happen, not when his skin was practically on fire, and he could feel the distinct sensation of his rapid pulse, throbbing through the big, thick vein in the side of his cock.
For the last ten minutes, he had been trying to ignore the hard on. He was starting to suspect that it wasn’t going to work.
To be honest, he hadn’t really been sleeping, anyway. More like drifting; staring up at the patterns made by passing headlights moving across the stained motel ceiling, listening to the sound of Sammy’s breathing. A lifetime of hunting fucked with a man’s sleeping patterns, and by now it almost seemed unnatural to be in a bed after dark. So he often found himself lying there, sleeping and not-sleeping, thinking and not-thinking. And that’s when it happened. Out of nowhere, he was getting... hot. And it always started with the mark.
Every time, it would start with that damned mark. Not erections in general, necessarily— but this hard on, this particular woody that tended to ambush him when he was least expecting it, in the still, hazy hours before dawn. It always began with the slow, insidious warming of branded skin.
Most of the time, the mark didn’t bother him. The wound itself had healed a long time ago, the blisters finally fading and the skin knitting over until it had the smooth, dull-pink finish of an old scar. It didn’t even itch anymore, though there was still something there... a weird, nagging sensation, just enough to be annoying at first, before he learned to ignore it. The sensation of pressure, maybe. Like a hand was still there, barely resting against his arm. A touch that wouldn’t go away.
Usually he just pretended it wasn’t there. Hell, it’s not like he didn’t have enough other things to keep him distracted. It kind of faded into the background, until he was almost used to the feel of it there.
But sometimes, like tonight, he would feel something else.
It would start with a tingling sensation, like he had been out in the sun too long. The skin of his shoulder would go warm to the touch. Then the tingle would turn into a burning, and the burn into a fire. The heat spread slowly, low and insistently pleasurable under his skin, moving out from the print of Castiel’s hand and stealing across his bare chest, down over his ribs and belly. Heading south, like it did every damn time. Sinking down inside. Before he knew it, his whole body was flushed and warm, and his cock was swelling up so hard and fast it was almost painful.
If it happened on a bad night, one of those nights when he just knew the dreams were waiting for him, then the creeping heat might make him think of other things burning. Might make him think of searing flesh, and screams. When that happened, there would be nothing for it but to roll over and rummage down under the side of the bed, passing over the concealed sawed-off with only a brief, unacknowledged pause, before moving on to the fifth of rotgut he kept stashed there.
But most of the time, when it happened, he wasn’t really thinking about Hell.
He was thinking about blue.
He shifted again in the bed, hissing a little when the sensitive skin of his cock rubbed against the tight, confining fabric of his boxers. His balls felt like hard little stones. He tried to pretend that he wasn’t thinking it, that it wasn’t all there inside his head, but it was mostly a lie. Sometimes, when he and Sam and Cas were out on a job, he would catch himself noticing a motion out of the corner of his eye; an unconsciously graceful gesture, or the turn of a head. The sight of it would send a totally inappropriate flush running through him, a warm wash of sensation over his skin, distracting him at the most inconvenient moments. Shit like that could get a man killed, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. Somewhere along the way, things had gotten completely out of hand.
That fucking blue. Deep, more like the color of a stone than of the sky. It seemed to hang over him, more ominous than a color had any right to be. More enticing than was natural for something that scared him so damn badly.
He snuck a sideways glance at his brother. Sammy looked like he was asleep, probably. But the kid was a good faker.
Dean debated for about ten more seconds, before finally giving in and burrowing his hand down under the blankets. Even if Sam wasn’t really asleep, that was just too damn bad. He would deal. It was just one of those things; two dudes, living in such close quarters for so long... a man had needs. You learned to tune it out, pretend you didn’t hear. There was a whole etiquette around this shit. Sammy would understand.
Now, if only it would make some kind of fucking sense to Dean, everything would be peachy.
He groaned and finally pushed his fingers in under the waistband of his boxers, pressing his palm against his damp cock, his skin tight and swollen and so fucking ready under his hand. He rubbed absently at his balls for a minute, easing the ache, before rolling a little to one side, trying to make it sound ‘casual’. He shifted until he had the covers just right, tented up a bit over his legs, masking the tell-tale motions of his hand as he got a firm hold on himself, and without any preamble, started to stroke, hard and fast.
He was rougher than he needed to be, and he gritted his teeth against the feel of it, but damn it, he just wanted to get it over with. Wanted to pull his orgasm out quick and dirty, calling up visions of big, generic tits before his mind had a chance to catch up. To sneak in and betray him.
But it was a losing battle. It was too warm under the blankets, and the mark on his shoulder throbbed, distracting him. His cock was slick in his hand, almost slippery with precome and sweat. The restless tingle was still humming through his skin, and it made each touch feel magnified, made everything seem so much better, so much more.
Almost against his will, he found himself slowing, drawing it out. It was just too sweet to stop. With each stroke, he rolled his palm up to rub maddeningly over the sensitive head of his cock, his grip going painfully tight one moment, and teasingly light the next. His free hand roamed over his body, skimming over his belly, tugging gently at his nipples. Dean growled, feeling the whole thing spinning out of his control, like it did every damn time. He pressed the very tips of his strong fingers in against his cock, hard under the swollen ridge of his crown, seeing stars behind his eyelids as his thoughts started to unravel, and come loose.
It wasn’t the vessel. It couldn’t be the fucking vessel. He told himself that, repeated it like a mantra a hundred times a day. It wasn’t that guy’s body, that flat-chested, packing-in-the-pants, dude’s body that was making him feel like this. Making him notice the low curve of a shoulder, the strong angle of a masculine jaw; making him think about skin and rough hands and yeah, for fuck’s sake, making him think about cocks. Making him wonder at sudden, inappropriate moments just what Cas was really rocking under that trench coat.
It wasn’t the vessel. It was that thing inside, damn it! That thing that he could feel, like.... like something hot, pushing out from the inside. That thing that pulsated, and radiated, and glowed.
He didn’t think anyone else could really feel Castiel, not Bobby or Sam, not the way that he could. But then, neither of them had the mark.
Dean could sure as hell feel it. Whenever the angel was nearby, Castiel’s heat drew him in, practically licked at his skin. And eyes... eyes that were too blue to be fucking real, every time he turned around. He had this idea that an angel should feel different somehow, more like fresh air, or sky— some fucking thing like that. But he didn’t. To Dean, Castiel felt like... well, like the fire of heaven.
The angel burned, bright and white-hot blue.
And maybe, just maybe, something more. Because when Dean was like this, his cock hard and so damn good in his hand, nearly out of his mind with the heat, he could almost let himself admit that it was something else he was thinking, too. It was teaching an idiot how to have a good time, and making fun of him when he didn’t get it. It was shared battles and shared pain and a laugh that seemed like a gift when it happened for the first time.
Damn it, he was so fucking hot. He was drenched in sweat, and the blankets hung on him, heavy and damp. He shot another glance at Sammy in the next bed. The kid was flopped out on his back, his mouth hanging open, drooling a little against his pillow. He had to be asleep. Probably.
Fuck it. Dean suddenly flung the covers off, grabbing his boxers and dragging them down past his knees, kicking them impatiently in the general direction of the floor. The air hit his exposed, overheated skin, and he groaned out loud at how good it felt to be naked.
He planted his heels into the mattress and spread his legs wide apart, giving himself better leverage as he got a firm grip on his cock. Sammy didn’t even twitch, so Dean just went for it, and started rubbing himself again in long, steady strokes. He worked his foreskin forcefully over his shaft, letting his hips lead him as he started to thrust freely up into the empty air, into the tight ring of his hand. His whole body was burning. He felt like he would catch fire.
His breath was gasping out, too loud in the tiny room, so he threw his forearm across his face, shoving his own skin between his teeth, trying to keep it all tamped down tight. He gnawed at the bones of his wrist like a fucking flesh eater, but he couldn’t seem to keep quiet. Each slide of his fingers sent bright bolts of pleasure up into his spine, and fuck if he wasn’t thinking it, thinking about all of it. Imagining what it would feel like. Warm lips, and bright eyes. A heavy, angular body. Pressing down above him, on top of him, sliding tight around him, hotter than any fire of Hell.
In the end, he couldn’t blot it out, couldn’t bury it or gag it back. The pleasure that he couldn’t fight and the thoughts that he couldn’t will away, they were all rising up in him, like something hot, pushing out from the inside.
"Cas....."
It came out of his mouth low and hungry and so fucking needy, everything he wanted just spilling out with the name. It came out almost like begging.
Almost like a prayer.
..... And then, the beating passage of wings. The bright burst of blue behind his closed eyelids, the flash of color that he always saw in his mind, just before.
Suddenly he knew what had happened. Knew his mistake. In a flash of panic Dean gripped tight at his dick, but it was too late to stop, because he was coming. His whole body jerked and shuddered against the sheets, snapping up tight with the force of the pleasure that suddenly swamped through him, jizz shooting out between his fingers before he could hold it back.
The room was very still after that. For a minute Dean just panted against the arm thrown across his face, still trembling a little with the force of his orgasm. He decided it was a good plan not to open his eyes. Ever. But it didn’t really matter. He could practically feel those blue eyes, standing there looking at him, moving over his skin. And he already knew what he would find if he looked, anyway.
Messy hair and that stupid outfit that it never occurred to the idiot to change. Head cocked inquisitively to one side. Fierce focus and scary, clueless intelligence and an uncomprehending, furrowed brow. Uncomfortably direct questions, most certainly.
And blue. Eyes that Dean knew—knew!—were burning, right at that very moment, as they stared down at his softening cock, his sweat-flushed skin; at his dirty, naked, come-spattered body... looking at him, at Dean Winchester, and burning bright with the light of heaven.
And maybe, just maybe, with something else.
****
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Burning Blue