A/N: This was actually written for kaleidomusings over on tumblr. I was asking for some prompts and she wanted something based off of the quote "I'm burning up a sun just to say goodbye." from Doctor Who. This is the best that I could do. :P It's far too much of a happy ending to fit, but I just couldn't leave it sad, I'm too much of a hopeless romantic.

In any case! Please enjoy, and lemme know what you think!

There is this boy named Dean Winchester. His soul is like summer, like late evening sun and cool breezes and warm lakes and soft earth between your toes. He stopped believing in prayer and fairytales and wishing on stars a long time ago- back when his mother was still alive and his father didn't drink and his brother was more a friend and less a responsibility. Once, what seems like forever ago, he'd given his heart to it all- talked of heroes and angels and fate.

You suppose that's why he still makes the trek, every Sunday, up the highest hill on the horizon, to park beneath the willow tree and be reverent the only way he knows how. Sitting on the hood of his dad's "borrowed" muscle car, a cheap beer in one hand and a lit menthol in the other, he looks up at the sky and fixes his gaze on you. It's just a stroke of pure irony that he picked out one of the only stars in the sky that's the light of an angel instead of a burning sun.

It was an unconscious choice the first time he came up here, you know, and yet you still like to believe that he looks at you for a reason. You believe, with the whole of your being, that he was drawn to you- because you listen like no one else would, because your devotion is true. He shares his secrets with you, his fears, his joys, his dreams that he dare not invest in. He tells you things that no one else knows.

He tells you that he wants to be a school teacher because he gets along with kids better than adults, that he secretly loves romantic comedies and likes to shout at the movie screen, and that he's afraid of flying even though he's never been on a plane. He's not like everyone else, who only come to you with a list of expectations, a set of rules they made for you to follow. They all want something from you, things you can't provide, and they curse and leave when you don't produce. Dean- Dean just talks and revels in your silent company. He gives you so much more than you could have ever asked form and looks for nothing in return.

It's love, you're sure of it.

You can feel it in your essence, a knowing that's as strong as your father's love. It fills you up and makes you glow brighter every single day. Sometimes it feels like it's going to consume you, like you're going to drown in it. You think about the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, how his laugh can light up a whole room, the gruff cadence of his voice when he rumbles out a melody. It sets about an ache inside you that you've never felt before, that your brothers and sisters don't know and can't explain.

Some days it's so acute, so sharp and raw that you think it means you're dying. You cry out and stretch towards the earth, clawing at the distance between you and him. Surely, you think, if you could just be with him, be in his arms as well as his mind, then this agony would abate.

But you don't know how.

You don't know how to get to him or if he'd even reciprocate. You'd never had a fear of the unknown before, but now there's so much more in that great abyss, so much more to it. The only thing that keeps you from spiraling, that keeps you afloat, are those weekly visits, when he picks at leaves and practices blowing smoke rings and confesses he's got a thing for blue-eyed boys.

You think that you'll be stuck like this forever, that you're doomed to this purgatory, this eternal waiting and wanting and never having. But then, one day, one ordinary sort of day, it all changes. He comes to you on a Thursday, breaks the routine, the ceremony, the religion of it. For the first time he gives you a name, calls out to you directly, and wishes. For the first time, he asks something of you.

You start to burn from the inside out, churning, roiling, igniting so bright that the flare bursts out across the cosmos in a manner of seconds. You shine. For those few seconds you burst brighter, bigger, more splendorous than anything in the universe.

You blink, peter, and go out. You don't even have the chance to say goodbye.

Dean takes it as a sign when his favorite star goes out. He's trained himself, learned from years of experience, not to give simple things any kind of special meaning. The freckles on his face are just blemishes- not angel's kisses like he was once told, fate and destiny are just ideas people made up to make themselves feel better, stars are just stars.

Aren't they?

When a star, his star, goes out on that Thursday night, something inside him just flips. Maybe it's time to stop wishing that his life will be different, especially since he doesn't believe in it. With this, he leaves behind the willow tree, the Impala, the city full of his responsibilities.

Even if it's just for a year, a month, a week, a night, it's something he needs. He follows the highway, thumb hitched, hoping he can be seen in the twilight. He takes a ride from the first person that offers, gets dropped off at a pie diner along the road. IF he believed in luck, he'd say it was his lucky day. Not many places round here that are open 24 hours.

When he steps inside, he pulls off his jacket, shakes the chill of the late night air, looks through the decadent display case, before ringing the bell for service. "I'll be with you in a moment!" He's not sure why he didn't expect a man to run this place, but the gravelly voice that rings out surprises him, and Dean is too dumbstruck to answer to answer.

There's a clang and a clatter in the kitchen- the sound of an oven opening, and then the smell of fresh-baked, tart apple hits his nose- a little slice of heaven. Moments later, the kitchen door swings wide, and with it comes a blue-eyed angel. His hair is darks and his smile is sweet and Dean feels like he has to pinch himself to believe that he's real.

The boy stops in front of him, and for a few moments the both of them just stare, before Dean asks, a little breathy, "Do I know you?"

The boy pauses, brow knitting, head tilting, as he thinks. "I don't…. know." There's a bit of a staring competition that goes on, both of them feeling something strange stirring deep, before the silence is broken again.

"I'm Dean."

"Castiel."