Chapter Text
Dean Winchester woke to the sound of howling. Low and mournful, it cut through the early morning stillness, pulling him from restless dreams. The old wood cabin groaned softly in the wind, its sturdy walls holding back the Arctic chill. A faint glow from the embers in the stone fireplace cast flickering shadows across the room, wrapping the space in a quiet warmth despite the darkness outside.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment, the weight of the past few weeks pressing heavy on his chest. December was their busiest month—a nonstop blur of tourists, invoices, and frozen trails. Another howl joined the first, rising and falling like a familiar melody. It was enough to stir him into motion.
With a groan, Dean swung his legs out of bed, his feet finding the edge of a thick woolen rug. He reached for his thermal pants and pulled them on over his boxers, followed by a pair of thick wool socks. His Metallica t-shirt, soft and worn with age, clung to him as he stretched, popping his back with a satisfied grunt. The chill still bit at his arms as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
The small mirror above the sink reflected back a face he barely recognized some mornings. His green eyes were bloodshot, his scruff longer than he liked, and the lines around his mouth seemed deeper in the dim light. Dean ran both hands over his face, dragging them down before muttering, “You’re a mess, Winchester.”
Three years. That’s how long it had been since he’d traded firehouse drills for frostbitten mornings, the heat of the city for the icy expanse of the Arctic. His father’s death hadn’t left him time to think—he’d packed his life into the trunk of his car and driven north before the shock had even begun to settle.
Back then, it felt like survival. Now, the husky farm was his life. It wasn’t just a job; it was where he belonged. Every howl outside, every crunch of snow beneath his boots reminded him why he’d stayed. This rugged solitude had a way of grounding him, of giving him purpose he hadn’t realized he was missing.
But outside the farm? Dean exhaled sharply, grabbing a flannel shirt from the hook by the door, shrugging it on before heading toward the kitchen. The floor creaked beneath his steps as he moved through the cabin, flipping on the coffee maker with a practiced motion.
The Arctic was vast and quiet, and that suited him most of the time, but there were nights—especially after the tours were over and the dogs had settled—when the silence felt too heavy. When the only sound was the wind rattling the eaves, and the cabin felt bigger than it should.
He poured himself a mug, cradling it in his hands as the warmth spread through his fingers. He stared out the window, where the first faint glimmers of twilight touched the horizon. He didn’t mind being alone—not really—but sometimes it felt like the world beyond the snow had left him behind.
Another howl rang out, insistent and familiar, pulling him from his thoughts. The dogs wouldn’t wait much longer, and neither would the day ahead. With a stretch that popped his back, Dean straightened and set the mug in the sink. It was time to get to work.
—
Dean arrived at the cabin that served as their primary office a little later than usual, pleasantly surprised to see the warm glow of lights spilling through the windows. After brushing the snow off his boots on the bristles installed by the door, he stepped inside. The office was already set up, the magazines in the waiting area stacked tidily and the blankets on the chairs in front of the fireplace folded neatly, only the faint hum of the computer breaking the quiet.
He stepped around the counter and pulled up the day’s registration sheet. His brow furrowed as he scanned it. “Garth, why are there five names on the list?” he called out, irritation creeping into his voice.
Garth poked his head in from the kitchen, chewing on what looked like some beef jerky. “Oh, after I confirmed the Gundersons, some guy called last minute and insisted on joining the tour. Said he is here for business.”
Dean let out an exasperated sigh. “And it had to be today? What, does he have an urgent meeting with a moose or something?”
Garth shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess so,” he said before retreating back into the kitchen, leaving Dean standing there, shaking his head.
Fantastic. Another last-minute guest, probably someone who thought “rustic” meant a cozy lodge and hot cocoa on tap. Dean snorted. What kind of business took someone all the way out to the middle of nowhere, north of the Arctic Circle? The guy was probably on a fancy corporate retreat. Dean could already picture the tailored coat and loafers sinking into the snow. The name on the list didn’t help matters either: Castiel Novak . It practically reeked of pretension.
Dean exhaled sharply, printing out the waivers and the updated roster. The tour was already pushing his comfort zone. With the Gundersons bringing their two young kids along, five participants stretched the group size to its limit.
Since taking over, Dean had insisted on keeping group sizes small, even though it cut into his profit margins. On their website, they proudly advertised bespoke experiences—a unique approach that set them apart from the competition and kept the business fully booked throughout the winter season. However, sometimes it also meant that they were faced with disgruntled customers not able to book their preferred date.
For Garth to accept another booking along with the Gundersons, Castiel must have been exceptionally disgruntled.
Feeling warm under his thick coat, Dean decided to get a head start on preparing the dogs for the day’s tour. He trusted Garth to handle the guests once they arrived.
—
At the creak of the heavy wooden doors, ears perked up, and heads lifted from straw beds. Tails began wagging, thumping against kennel walls as Dean stepped inside. “Morning, crew,” he greeted warmly, his voice cutting through the chill.
The pack stirred. Odin stretched and shook off straw, while Loki pawed impatiently at his gate. “Yeah, yeah, I see you,” Dean said, scratching Loki’s head. Freya let out a regal howl, her icy blue eyes fixed on Dean. “Hold your horses, princess,” he teased, setting her harness aside. Skadi and Thor bounced with excitement, earning a muttered, “Every morning’s Christmas for you two.”
Dean slipped into his routine, checking paws, brushing fur, and fastening harnesses with practiced ease. The dogs shifted eagerly once Dean had them outside their kennels, breath fogging in the crisp air, ready for the day’s run. Each had their quirks—Loki’s impatience, Freya’s talkativeness—but they weren’t just a team; they were family.
With sleds prepped, their bright runners cutting against the snow, Dean secured the leads and gave each dog a quick pat. “Alright, gang, let’s make it a good one,” he said, brushing stray fur from his jacket. As his breath misted in the air, distant voices carried across the yard. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. “Showtime,” he murmured, scratching Freya’s ears before rounding the corner of the kennels to the yard.
His eyes scanned the yard, noting only one car in the guest parking area. Maybe Castiel wasn’t joining the tour today after all.
Dean rolled his eyes at himself as he turned back toward the cabin. He didn’t have time to process his thoughts before he collided with something—or rather, someone—solid.
Blinking, he looked up and was instantly captured by the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—bright and unyielding, like the Arctic sky after a storm. For a moment, Dean felt the air shift, cold and sharp but alive, as though those eyes had carved right through the early morning frost. The tiny ice crystals clinging to the dark lashes caught the light, making them almost otherworldly. Dean faltered, his usual steady composure slipping ever so slightly.
❄❄❄
Castiel wasn’t used to the cold—not this kind of cold. He had barely stepped outside his cottage, and already, his decision to walk to the husky farm felt ill-advised. His fingers tightened around the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and he let out a low chuckle at the absurdity of his predicament.
Not so long ago, he’d been battling an entirely different kind of discomfort—cursing the relentless heat clawing at his skin and shaking gritty sand from his boots at every opportunity. Castiel was no stranger to extreme environments; his career had taken him to the world’s least forgiving corners. Dense, humid jungles, frozen mountain ranges, and sun-scorched deserts had all passed beneath the lens of his camera.
After his most recent assignment with National Geographic had taken him from the chaos of Cairo to the searing expanse of the Sahara, the Arctic tundra had seemed like a welcome reprieve. The stillness here had called to him, promising clarity and quiet—a space to recalibrate.
Now, with snow crunching beneath his boots and frosty air biting at his cheeks, Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if he’d underestimated just how unforgiving the Arctic could be. The road ahead stretched empty and silent, flanked by towering evergreens whose branches sagged under the weight of heavy snow.
He’d rented a cottage in what he believed to be a reasonably-sized town, but it felt more like he was stranded on the outskirts of nowhere. His temporary home perched halfway between the town’s modest center and his destination for the day—Winchester Sledding Co.
Having arrived less than two weeks ago, he hadn’t yet sorted out transportation. Though the small tourist hub bustled with activity over the holidays, catering to skiers and adventure-seekers, the local auto shop cum car rental agency, Singer Auto, had inconveniently remained closed. As a result, Castiel found himself braving the cold on foot most days.
The Arctic’s silence pressed in on him now—not the heavy, baking stillness of the desert, but something colder, sharper, more unforgiving. It was a stillness that seemed to cut away distractions and leave nothing but the unrelenting vastness of snow and sky.
This was what he’d wanted—a reprieve from the endless motion, from the clutter of his own thoughts. Yet now, faced with the Arctic’s unyielding solitude, he wondered if he’d simply traded one kind of vastness for another.
With a resigned sigh, he tugged his wool hat lower over his ears, wrapped his scarf tighter, and set off toward the husky farm.
—
His messenger bag weighed heavily on his shoulder as he approached the farm. The sky was awash with soft hues of lavender and deep blue, the faint glow of twilight casting an otherworldly light over the snow-covered landscape. The sun never truly rose this time of year, but its presence lingered just below the horizon, painting the icy crystals in the air with a muted, ethereal shimmer.
Castiel squinted against the dim brilliance as he scanned the area, searching for the cabin marked as the meeting point on the sledding company’s website.
A sharp bark rang out suddenly, drawing his attention toward a shed at the edge of the property. The sound was distinct and irresistible. Glancing at his watch, he calculated he still had a few moments before he needed to report to the cabin. His instincts kicked in, and he headed toward the source of the sound, already digging into his bag for his camera.
Distracted by the anticipation of capturing his first photo of the day, Castiel failed to notice the approaching figure until it was too late. His shoulder collided hard with something—or someone—solid, halting him in his tracks.
He blinked, his breath catching as he tilted his head upward, meeting the greenest eyes he had ever seen. They gleamed with an intensity that seemed almost out of place in the stark morning cold, warm enough to melt the frost in the air. Castiel’s gaze faltered, caught for a moment on the constellation of freckles scattered across the man’s nose and cheekbones, like stars against the pale canvas of his skin. The detail was disarming—so human, so intimate—that it stole whatever words he might have said.
❄❄❄
“Whoa there, buddy,” Dean exclaimed hastily, his hand landing on the man’s shoulder to steady them both.
For a moment, it was hard to gauge any reaction from the stranger. Then, in one smooth motion, the man tugged down his scarf, revealing a wide, gummy smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sight was unexpected, bright enough to momentarily throw Dean off his stride.
“Sorry about that,” the stranger said, raising an expensive looking camera in his hand as an explanation. “I thought I heard some dogs back there and couldn’t resist sneaking a peek.”
Dean’s breath stuttered as he took in the man’s sharp jawline and the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. There was an elegance to him that seemed out of place here, but the flush on his cheeks from the cold made him fit, somehow. Shaking his head, he forced himself to snap out of it, slipping into his practiced, affable tour-guide persona.
“Sure thing, Mister Gunderson,” Dean said warmly, though his smile felt a little stiff. “The dogs are back there, but we’ll start the tour at the cabin. My colleague Garth is already waiting for you and your family.”
The man blinked, his brow furrowing slightly before he tilted his head, his confusion evident. “Oh, no, I’m not Mister Gunderson. My name’s Castiel Novak. I called yesterday?”
Dean’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, his hand dropping quickly from Castiel’s shoulder. Of course, that name.
“Right. Mister Novak,” Dean responded, his tone noticeably cooler now. “The tour is just about to start. Please meet Garth at the cabin.”
If Castiel noticed the shift in Dean’s demeanor, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded politely, a faint smile still tugging at his lips. “Thank you. And please—call me Castiel.”
With that, he turned and started toward the cabin, his boots crunching lightly in the snow.
Dean watched him go, his gaze inevitably lingering longer than necessary. And if it happened to trace the curve of Castiel’s shoulders or the way he moved as he climbed the stairs to the cabin, well, that was purely professional observation. Definitely.
—
It wasn’t long before Garth brought the group around the kennels. Leading the way, two young children sprinted ahead toward the sleds, their arms outstretched, little hands making grabby motions at the dogs. The crisp air was pierced by their squeals of delight as the huskies reciprocated with wagging tails and excited barks.
Behind them, Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson followed, their pace brisk as they tried to keep the children from overwhelming the dogs. “Careful, Melody! Misty, don’t get too close yet!” Mrs. Gunderson called out, her voice tinged with both amusement and worry.
Dean chuckled softly at the sight. He knew his dogs were gentle and would never harm anyone, but he appreciated the parents’ cautious approach. It wasn’t uncommon for guests to be unfamiliar with handling animals, and Dean respected anyone who took safety seriously.
Trailing behind the group, Castiel moved at a much slower pace, his camera now slung around his neck. The glint of the lens caught the morning light as he adjusted the strap and seemed to contemplate something.
Dean was startled from his thoughts when a clipboard appeared in his peripheral vision. Garth handed him the waivers for a final review, and Dean quickly flipped through the forms. With a satisfied nod, he turned his attention to the group.
“Alright, everyone,” he called out, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. “Welcome to the Arctic Circle, and welcome to Winchester Sledding Co.! Before we head out into the wilderness, I want you to get to know the dogs and go over a couple of safety rules.”
Dean’s tone shifted, taking on the authoritative edge that his staff lovingly teased him for. Among his team, he was infamous for being a stickler for rules, often delivering them with more severity than they thought necessary. One particularly snarky Google review which even his childhood friend and IT-genius Charlie hadn’t managed to take down, had even referred to him as The Arctic Drill Sergeant. Though it stung at the time, it had since become a running joke.
Raising a finger, Dean addressed the group with practiced precision. “First rule,” he began, his voice firm, “never wander off alone. The landscape out here is stunning, but it’s also dangerous. There are crevasses, wild animals, and weather that can change in an instant. If you wander off, you’re not just risking your life—you’re risking the group’s safety.”
As he spoke, Dean scanned the faces before him, noting with mild irritation that more than half the group seemed only partially invested in what he was saying. The kids were understandably distracted, whispering excitedly about the dogs, but what really caught his attention was Castiel. The man’s focus was entirely on the camera in his hands, fiddling with dials like he hadn’t heard a word.
“Cas,” Dean called, his voice tinged with exasperation.
Startled, Castiel looked up. “I’m listening,” he said simply, his tone neutral but ultimately unapologetic.
Dean sighed, rolling his shoulders to dispel his irritation, and raised a second finger. “Rule two: Follow my instructions, especially when it comes to the dogs and the sleds. These dogs are trained, but they’re still animals. Treat them with respect and trust my lead. If I tell you to adjust your position or slow down, do it. This isn’t a race—it’s about staying safe.”
Mr. and Mrs. Gunderson nodded solemnly, their expressions attentive. Castiel, on the other hand, offered only a brief glance before his gaze shifted to a point somewhere over Dean’s shoulder.
Dean felt his frustration grow but pressed on, lifting a third finger. “And finally: Be prepared for bad weather. Layer up and keep track of your gear. Out here, a sudden storm isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s dangerous.”
That seemed to get Castiel’s attention. He nodded, his lips pressing into a tight line, as though acknowledging the weight of Dean’s words.
Dean let his gaze sweep over Castiel, taking in the man’s appearance with a mix of curiosity and begrudging approval. Despite the assumptions Dean had made when he’d first read the name “Castiel Novak” on the roster, the guy had shown up dressed for the weather—thick coat, sturdy boots, and gear that looked high-end, if a bit too pristine to have seen much use.
With the rules covered, Dean clapped his hands together, his tone warming as he said, “Alright, now it’s time to meet the dogs!”
He moved to help the Gundersons first, setting Mr. Gunderson and his older daughter, Melody, on Freya’s sled. The younger dogs in Freya’s team wagged their tails excitedly as Dean ran through the instructions. Next, he set Mrs. Gunderson and Misty up with Odin’s sled, patiently demonstrating how to hold onto the sled properly and steer.
Dean spent a bit longer than usual on the Gundersons’ setup, partially to ensure they were comfortable, but mostly to delay the inevitable. His final customer of the day was Castiel, and they’d be riding together.
When Dean finally turned his attention back to Loki’s sled, Castiel was already waiting there, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his camera swaying lightly on its strap. The dogs barked excitedly, but Dean’s focus wavered. Castiel stood quietly, his eyes scanning the horizon with a kind of calm that felt oddly grounding. Something about the way he carried himself—unbothered but deliberate—made Dean linger a second longer than he meant to. He shook it off quickly, brushing a hand over Loki’s harness as though it might help steady him.
“Well,” Dean said, clearing his throat as he approached. “Looks like you’re with me.”
Castiel’s lips twitched into a small smile, his eyes flicking from Dean to the sled. “Lucky me.”
❄❄❄
Considering how excited he’d been for the tour that morning, Castiel found himself struggling to focus on the serene beauty of the landscape around them. The Arctic tundra stretched endlessly on either side of the trail, its pristine white expanse glowing softly under the twilight sky. The faint, diffuse light painted the snow in shades of blue and silver, lending the scene a quiet, almost dreamlike quality. The air was sharp and clean, and the rhythmic sound of the sled’s runners cutting through the snow should have lulled him into peace.
But Castiel’s mind was anything but peaceful.
Instead, he found himself distracted—drawn in, swallowed up, and spit out again—by an entirely different kind of beauty. Thoughts of Dean consumed him, swirling in his head with an intensity that surprised even him.
From the moment Castiel had laid eyes on Dean for the first time that day, he’d been unable to shake the man from his mind. There was something magnetic about him—something in the way he moved with an easy confidence among the dogs, how his green eyes sparkled when he smiled, or the gravelly timbre of his voice as he gave instructions.
Castiel had tried to be polite, forcing himself to look at anything but Dean’s face during the safety briefing. Yet even as he focused on the dogs, the sleds, or the snow crunching under his boots, Dean’s commanding tone sent a warm flush creeping through his body. It was impossible to ignore the authority in his voice, how he spoke with both experience and a quiet passion for what he did.
And then there was the moment when Dean called him Cas .
The nickname had stopped his racing mind in its tracks. Nobody had called him that since… well, since a time he preferred not to think about. Castiel had blinked up at Dean, startled, only to find the man staring at him with a look of mild exasperation.
Now, as the sled glided across the frozen wilderness, Castiel closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. He could feel Dean looming behind him, his presence solid and warm despite the icy air. Dean’s voice occasionally carried over the sound of the dogs, offering quiet commands that steered them smoothly along the trail.
Ahead of them, the Gundersons’ sleds chugged along, their laughter and the occasional squeals of the children punctuating the otherwise still morning. Castiel let out a slow breath, reaching for the camera hanging around his neck. He hadn’t come all this way to waste the opportunity for a few good shots, no matter how preoccupied his thoughts were.
He trained the camera’s telephoto lens on a cluster of snow-draped trees to their right, hoping to catch sight of an Arctic fox or some other wildlife. The lens adjusted smoothly, but the sled was moving too fast for him to make out anything that small in the distance.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, Castiel lowered the camera to his lap.
From behind him, Dean’s voice cut through the rush of the sled. “What are you hoping to see out here?”
Castiel turned slightly in his seat, craning his neck to glance back at Dean. His tour guide’s gaze was fixed firmly ahead, the scarf around his face doing little to hide his curiosity.
“I’m hoping to maybe catch an Arctic fox. Or something worth the effort,” Castiel replied, adjusting the camera strap across his chest.
Dean didn’t respond immediately, his focus still on the trail ahead. Just when Castiel thought the conversation might end there, he noticed Dean’s lips moving. It took a moment to realize he was mumbling something under his breath.
Leaning forward slightly, Castiel tilted his head. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
Dean’s eyes flicked toward him briefly before darting away again. Castiel didn’t miss the faint pink flush creeping over his cheeks.
“I said,” Dean repeated, his voice gruffer now, “we might meet some moose along the trail. We’ve gotten pretty close to a few on recent tours.”
Castiel raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but unwilling to press the matter. He nodded and settled back into his seat, letting the conversation drop.
The rest of the ride passed in relative silence, broken only by the occasional bark of the dogs or the Gunderson children’s chatter. Castiel tried to refocus on the scenery, lifting his camera every now and then, but his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the man behind him.
They didn’t meet any moose that day.