Chapter Text
“Good morning everyone and welcome to Anchorage!” The cheerful voice of the flight attendant crackles through the speakers, muffled by the mumbling voices of the passengers stirring throughout the airplane cabin. “The time is 10:17 am and the temperature is five degrees Fahrenheit. At this time we’d like to thank you for flying Alaska Airlines and we hope you enjoy your stay in Anchorage.”
Castiel rolls his shoulders, stretching out the kinks from sleeping crumpled in a too-small airplane seat. He tilts his head from side to side, wincing at the pops and cracks as his spine straightens out, and grimaces in sympathy when the man in the middle seat beside him groans his own discomfort. The passengers around him start slowly disembarking and Castiel waits until the man and his wife file out into the aisle before pulling his coat out of the overhead compartment and tugging it onto his arms. Five degrees. He shivers pre-emptively, thinking mournfully of the relative warmth he’d left behind in California.
He lets himself be swept along by the tide of shuffling passengers off the plane and through the airport to baggage claim, wishing he was home and not shipped off to Alaska to live with strangers for two and a half months, not tasked with writing an in-depth article about what can only be described as an insane thousand mile journey across the Alaskan wilderness by dogsled. He rakes a hand through his plane-mussed hair, sighing as he remembers Zachariah’s smug, self-satisfied expression when he’d given him the assignment, knowing, no doubt, just how little Castiel would appreciate it.
He spots his bag, the stuffed-full navy canvas making its way slowly around the conveyor belt, and heaves it off the line, slinging it over his shoulder and glancing around until he finds a sign directing him where he needs to go. He trudges through the airport, meandering to the car rental desk where after what seems like a mountain of paperwork later, the cheerful blonde woman at the counter hands him the keys to a Ford F-150. “Alfie,” he groans quietly to himself, ignoring the quizzical look the woman shoots his direction and shaking his head as he makes his way outside to the waiting truck, making a note to give the office assistant hell for setting him up with such an ungainly vehicle. At home his vehicle is a tiny, fuel efficient Prius; nothing like this monstrosity of a truck. He sighs as he levers himself up onto the cold leather of the driver’s seat. He’ll be grateful for the four-wheel drive and the heated seats at least.
The truck roars to life at the turn of the ignition and Castiel starts on his journey out of Anchorage to the town of Willow. It’s about an eighty mile drive, and the further out of town he gets, the more Alaska resembles his wilder, more romantic imaginings. The buildings give way to wide blue skies, the trees tall, dark sentinels on either side of a winding road. The traffic becomes more and more sparse until it feels as though he is the only person out here, just him and the trees and the miles and miles of endless snow. He takes the roads perhaps slower than strictly necessary in the huge, unfamiliar vehicle, glancing often at the painstakingly hand-written directions ripped from a yellow legal pad resting on the seat beside him.
Finally he takes the last left turn and guides the truck slowly up a narrow, tree-lined driveway, parking in front of a small, ramshackle house and squinting hesitantly at it through the windshield. It’s old and rustic with brown wooden siding, barely more than a cabin, with a tall wooden fence behind it blocking his view of the rest of the property. There are no other homes on this road and he’d followed the directions he’d been given over the phone to the letter, but there is no indication at all that he is in the correct place, no address or sign post to let him know that he’s found himself at Winchester Kennels.
But then he opens the door of the truck and he hears them, the eerie chorus loud and brash in his ears. It’s deafening, the choir of mournfully howling dogs chilling and exciting all at once, and he feels the hair rise on the back of his neck, a shiver racing down his spine.
He can’t see them, not yet, but at least he knows he’s in the right place.
Castiel climbs out of the truck, zipping his coat higher up beneath his chin as he surveys his surroundings. Snow crunches beneath the soles of his boots as he swings the door shut behind him, his gaze trailing over the little house and the fence beyond it, skimming the naked, snow-draped trees around it. Feeling lost, Castiel wanders to the front door of the house and raises one heavily gloved fist to knock, stepping back to wait. When no reply comes, his brow furrows and he steps forward to knock again.
“You that reporter?”
Castiel jumps, turning at the sound of the voice at his back. There is a man standing there, distinguishable only by his height and the breadth of his shoulders, hidden as he is beneath layers of clothing, his face muffled by a frost-encrusted scarf and fur-lined hat.
“Journalist,” Castiel corrects automatically, speaking loudly to be heard over the howls and barks, extending a gloved hand because he knows that's what's expected under the circumstances. “Castiel Milton.”
The man grunts and stretches out his own hand to be shaken. His grip is firm, even dampened as it is by the layers of material between them, strong fingers closing almost too tightly around Castiel’s. “Dean Winchester,” the man says through the scarf swaddled about his nose and mouth.
Castiel’s brow furrows. “I was expecting a Sam Winchester.” Castiel’s research had put him in touch with a Dr. Bobby Singer DVM at first, the owner of a small veterinary practice in Willow, who had in turn given him Sam’s phone number. Sam had been friendly and helpful and seemed excited to be a part of Castiel’s article, but he had said nothing whatsoever about a person named Dean in their entire correspondence.
“Figures,” Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m his big brother. Sam’s at work; he left me in charge of the PR today.” Dean looks him up and down while Castiel stands awkwardly, waiting for some signal of what he should do next. “You can leave that here for now,” Dean says finally, gesturing at the duffel bag Castiel has slung over his shoulder. “We need to do introductions or they’ll never shut up.”
“Introductions?”
Dean’s already moving back around the truck towards the wooden fence. “Yeah, the dogs’ll wanna meet you. They love visitors.”
Castiel opens the door of the truck again and slings his bags back onto the front seat, hurrying to follow his host around the back of the house. Dean opens a gate in the fence, gesturing Castiel through it and closing it behind them. It’s the closest Castiel has been to the man and before Dean turns away, Castiel registers windburned skin and bright green eyes framed by long lashes over the scarf covering his mouth.
Castiel turns too, finding himself face to face with a labyrinth of chain-link fences. Dean leads him to the nearest fence, pressing his gloved palm to the fence to greet the four excited dogs barking and howling from inside the kennel, jumping and hitting the fence with their paws in their excitement.
Closer to the fence, the din of the dogs is almost deafening. Dean leans in to speak loudly into Castiel’s ear. “These are the seniors. They’re too old to run on the team so they live the life of luxury.”
“These are retirees?” Castiel nearly shouts back, his brows arching skeptically. “They hardly look old enough to retire.”
“Jack over there is thirteen.” Dean stretches out his arm and sticks his finger through the fence to scratch the nose of a white and brown dog with one blue eye and one brown, jumping excitedly in front of Cas. “Say hi, man.”
“Hello,” Castiel says awkwardly to the excited canine. At his side, Dean scoffs but Castiel ignores it, stretching out his hand to let the dogs sniff him through the fence as Dean had done. Jack licks at his fingers through his gloves while the other three jockey for position around him, vying anxiously for the visitor’s attention.
“C’mon, lots more introductions to make. I ain’t got all day.” Dean beckons impatiently for Castiel to follow as he makes his way down the chain-link corridor and Castiel hurries after him. True to Dean’s word, the dogs they’ve greeted fall silent as they move away from the first kennel.
Dean leads him to a large compound fenced in once again by chain-link. Through the diamonds made by the heavy wire of the fence, Castiel sees rows and rows of wooden, flat-topped doghouses, each with a post sticking out of the snow in front of it. Attached to each post is a long chain leading to the collar of the house’s occupant, most of whom are either running in excited circles the length of the chain or dancing excitedly at the end of it. There must be at least forty dogs in the yard, all howling mouths and wagging tails.
“You have a lot of dogs,” Castiel says, eyes wide in stunned disbelief as he stares around the yard.
Dean snorts derisively. “’Course. You think you can run two teams in a thousand mile race without having a bunch of dogs? This is nothin’. Some of the bigger operations have seventy, eighty dogs in their kennels.”
Castiel follows Dean through the gate into the compound. “That is—” Castiel manages to catch himself in time, pausing and searching for a word more diplomatic than ‘insane’— “impressive. All this just to win a race?”
“To win? Who said anything about winning?” Dean closes the gate behind Castiel, nudging his arm and directing him to a doghouse to the right of the gate. “Most of us sorry bastards who run don’t even get a piece of the pot. We’re lucky to make it over the finish line.”
Castiel’s brow furrows. “If most people never have a chance to win, why do you do it?”
Dean turns back to him, lines appearing around his eyes over the frosted wool of his scarf so Castiel knows he’s smiling, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes which remain cold and guarded. “Because we can.”
Castiel’s mouth falls open, more questions springing instantly to mind in the wake of his last, but Dean is already turning away. They’ve reached the house Dean had indicated, on top of which stands a black dog with a splash of white on its chest, one of the only ones in the yard not yanking on its chain and raising a racket. “This here’s Chevy,” Dean says, reaching out and scratching vigorously behind the dog’s ear. “She’s my best girl, my main leader. She keeps all these other pups in line.” She wags her tail furiously as he speaks and Dean’s smile turns fond, the warmth finally stretching to his eyes as he strokes her head. It's a marked difference from the gruffness of Dean's demeanor up to this point, and Castiel cocks his head curiously as he watches.
Dean moves back, gesturing towards Castiel who steps forward, reaching a hand cautiously towards Chevy. She eyes him suspiciously around Dean, her tail stilling as she sniffs his hand carefully. Her eyes are dark amber, bright and intelligent as she surveys him, and finally she relaxes, dropping her eyes, her tail slowly resuming its wagging. She lets Castiel scratch her behind the ears where Dean shows him, the big dog leaning into his touch.
“Huh. She likes you,” Dean says, his voice disbelieving. Castiel frowns, wondering if he should feel as offended as he does at Dean’s surprise that his dog miraculously approves of him, but Dean just walks away, forcing Castiel to follow hurriedly after him.
Dean introduces him to the rest of the dogs in the yard, gruffly pointing out all their names as they weave throughout the field of little rectangular doghouses. The dogs come in a surprising variety of colors and markings, fur ranging from bright white to mottled brown to shining black, and eye colors from whiskey gold to chocolate brown and in a few cases even bright, robin’s-egg blue. Despite the variety, some of them are still so similar that Castiel doesn’t know how they manage to tell them apart. One, a gigantic pure white brute named Jimmy (“like Page” Dean explains, which doesn't actually clarify anything for Castiel, but he opts not to admit his ignorance), leaps up at Castiel, catching him off-guard when his big paws connect with Castiel’s gut. He goes down in the snow with sixty pounds of excited dog on top of him, and receives a rather disgusting and extremely thorough face-washing while Dean laughs scornfully, finally composing himself enough to drag Jimmy off. Castiel scowls at Dean as he pushes himself to his feet, brushing snow off his jeans.
His questions go largely unanswered as he follows Dean through the compound, the man responding with clipped, curt replies if he answers at all. They make it through the whole dog-yard and gradually the dogs relax into silence, some reclining on top of their dog houses and others climbing inside to rest contentedly with their heads hanging out of the openings.
Dean digs through the layers of clothing at his wrist to find his watch. “Almost dinner time,” he comments. “Sam’ll be home soon, thank god. Might as well head in.”
He turns away without waiting for Castiel to reply and Castiel hurries to catch up, following Dean back to the house. He stops at the truck and grabs his duffel and laptop bags from the front seat before following Dean to the front door, hitting the lock button on the keyfob for the truck and immediately feeling foolish when Dean snorts derisively. There’s no one out here to break into his vehicle and nothing of value left in it anyway. Old habits are difficult to break.
Castiel comes through the door, shutting it behind him, finding himself in a small entryway lined with shelves and hooks and plastic bins filled with winter gear. Dean has his back to him, tugging his hat off his head to reveal short, brown hair damp with sweat and mussed from being covered by the hat. He combs his fingers through the strands, making it stand up in spiky clumps, and starts unwinding his scarf. Castiel follows suit, peeling himself out of the layers of outerwear he’d donned in the airport and hanging it on an empty hook beside the door. He bends to loosen the laces on his boots, toeing them off and setting them neatly beside the other pairs on the mat and straightens.
Dean’s waiting impatiently, stripped down to jeans and a black long-sleeved thermal top with a white Under Armour logo on the left side of his chest. Without the heavy layers of coats and sweaters, the man’s shoulders are broad and well-muscled through the thin material of his shirt. Castiel stares. Uninhibited by the scarf and hat, Castiel registers full lips, sharply-carved cheekbones and a clean-shaven jaw on a beautifully proportioned face, combining with the bright green of his eyes and long thick lashes to make Dean a very striking man.
His host arches an eyebrow under the scrutiny and turns, gesturing over his shoulder for Castiel to follow him, and Castiel shoulders his bag and lets Dean lead him through the entryway into the rest of the little house.
He finds himself in an small open area featuring a hideous, beat-up old couch, the color of which is somewhere between orange and brown, facing an actual wood stove. On one side of the stove is a TV-stand topped by an ancient TV, complete with antenna and dials for channel selection, and on the other is a box of rough cut logs, presumably for use in the stove. There’s an older record player set up along one wall, beside a large bookshelf filled with books of every shape and size. Reference texts on dog care and veterinary medicine stand side by side with Ray Bradbury and Stephen King novels. There's also a treadmill and a small set of weights tucked in along the opposite wall. On the other side of the living area, Castiel notes a round four-person table in the center of a small kitchen with outdated appliances.
Dean gestures expansively around the room. “Well, this is home.” Castiel flicks a glance at him in time to see him shift uncomfortably. “Not much, I know,” he says defensively. “Probably nothing like you’re used to.”
Castiel pauses to slide his eyes over the room again. At home, he has a bright, well-furnished apartment near the office with shiny, stainless steel appliances and a writing desk by the window. Here, the furniture and appliances may be old but everything is immaculately clean and well-maintained. There’s a patch on one of the couch cushions that was done in plaid fabric, carefully sewn into place with neat, even stitches. There are knitted blankets and hand-embroidered cushions on the ancient sofa, and the air in the house has a hint of the smoky smell of burning wood and fresh pine, a scent that’s not unpleasant.
He looks back up at Dean. The man is watching Castiel, his eyes narrow and his expression defensive as he waits for some reply. “It’s very different,” Castiel agrees. He frowns, searching for the right word. “It seems… comfortable.”
Dean grunts and shrugs. “Your room’s down here,” he says shortly, starting down a hallway off the kitchen. Dean points out the bathroom on the way past and pushes open a door at the end of the hallway. He waves Castiel into the room, leaving him to get settled while he starts on dinner because “Sam’ll be hungry when he gets home; kid never stops eating.”
Castiel shuts the door behind Dean’s retreating form, slinging his bags from his shoulder onto the bed. The room is modest in size, the bed a double mattress in an aged bedframe, strewn with colorful hand-sewn quilts. He unzips the oversized duffel and unpacks it into the rickety dresser with peeling paint in the corner of his room, then makes a quick trip to the bathroom to relieve himself and sort out the mess that his wool hat had made of his hair before heading back into the main room with his laptop.
Dean doesn't look up when he arrives back in the kitchen, busy at the counter slicing mushrooms. He clears his throat and Dean jumps.
"Jesus." Dean turns to glare over his shoulder. "Would it kill you to make a noise?” He waves a hand at the room at large. "Go ahead, set up wherever. Mi casa es su casa or whatever.” His tone is reluctant, belying the welcoming words. “If you need the WiFi, password's M-A-R-Y."
Castiel surveys the room and slides into a chair at the kitchen table, flipping open his laptop. He wonders who Mary is; maybe a girlfriend or wife. Sam hadn’t given him any indication that he was married, but then again he had never explicitly mentioned a brother either, so it’s entirely possible, and he doesn’t know anything at all about Dean. Dean doesn't offer any explanation so he doesn't ask, just types the password in when he's prompted and opens up his browser and a new document. Dean keeps glancing uneasily at him like him like he's about to speak but he never does so Castiel ignores him, losing himself in the rhythmic tapping of the keys as he types out the notes of his experience so far. He finds himself with more questions than answers, his hands combing aggressively through his hair in his frustration. He fills in as much as he can, leaving question marks beside all of Dean’s half-answers, thinking pessimistically of the glee Zachariah would feel if he knew the trouble Castiel was already having with this dismal assignment.
When he gets to his notes on Jimmy ("like Page"), the behemoth of a dog who had knocked him on his backside, he decides to google the reference and discovers that he was a guitarist for the classic rock group Led Zeppelin. He files away the information for later: that Dean—or perhaps Sam—is a fan of classic rock, or at least one classic rock group in particular.
Suddenly, Dean looks up as if scenting the air, the hand that had been wielding a sturdy knife pausing mid-chop. "Sam's home."
Castiel's brow furrows as he studies Dean. "How do you know that? Did you hear him pull up?"
Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Dogs," he says shortly, waving the knife in the general direction of the kennels. And—ah, Castiel can hear them now, howling a greeting similar to the one they'd raised when he arrived. The sound of an engine rumbling up the driveway and a vehicle door slamming follows only a few minutes later, and the front door opens to admit one of the largest men Castiel thinks he has ever seen, layers of outerwear emphasizing his broad shoulders and overwhelming height.
"Hey Dean," he calls, his voice muffled as he starts to strip off the excess clothing.
"Hey Sammy," Dean replies, resuming his chopping. "That reporter's here."
Sam looks back up from pulling off a boot, peering around the corner and smiling broadly. "Hi, Castiel, right?" he asks, dropping the boot on the floor and making his way into the kitchen in socked feet. “We spoke on the phone.”
"Yes," Castiel says, standing. Sam extends a hand and after a moment's hesitation, Castiel clasps it with his own. He's not a small man, but he feels like one next to this giant, his eyes seeming to go up and up and up until they find Sam's. His eyes are warm and welcoming, the irises hazel to Dean's green, and his hair hangs to his jawline, brushing against cleanshaven cheeks pink from the cold. "It’s good to meet you.”
"Yeah, same here," Sam says, shaking his hand heartily. "It's great to have you here, really."
"Easy, Sammy, don't lay it on too thick. You'll scare the nice reporter off before he can get his story."
Castiel tenses at the sarcasm in Dean’s voice but Sam just rolls his eyes at his brother's back. "Don't mind him," he says, jerking his head in Dean's direction. "He's glad you're here too." Dean snorts but doesn’t comment.
“So, how was the trip?” Sam asks, his eyes bright as he folds his long frame into one of the chairs at the table. “Was the flight okay?”
Castiel nods. “Boring, mostly. I read through most of it. I had to transfer in Seattle which was aggravating but otherwise it was fine.” He doesn’t mention that the worst part of his trip so far was driving himself up icy, unfamiliar Alaskan roads in his enormous rental truck.
Sam nods sympathetically. “Not a lot of direct flights up here, unfortunately. But at least you’re not like Dean; he’s terrified of flying.”
“Sam!” Dean protests sharply, turning to glare over his shoulder at his brother.
“What?” Sam asks, shrugging. “You are!” He turns back to Castiel. “He’s lucky that it’s way easier to rent a truck and drive when you have twelve dogs to cart along with you or I would have made him fly when we moved up from Kansas.”
“How long ago was that?” Castiel asks with interest, pulling up the document on his laptop where he’s keeping his notes.
“Six years ago,” Sam replies eagerly while Castiel types, his fingers tapping rapidly over the keys. “A friend of our dad’s hooked us up with this place. After dad died, we had no reason to stay in Kansas, so we rented a truck, loaded up all the dogs and the equipment and the little bit of furniture we could take with us and hit the road.”
“Why did you wait until then?” Castiel asks curiously, cocking his head as he stares intently at Sam. “You said you already had twelve dogs so this was obviously a thought of yours before that time.”
Sam’s grimaces, some memory twisting his face darkly. “Dad never really liked the dog thing. He—”
“Grub’s on,” Dean interrupts loudly, cutting the conversation short. “Sam, you gonna offer Castiel a brew?” He turns from the stove to glare pointedly at his brother. “Be nice if you could get some plates out too. This ain’t a diner.”
A muscle jumps in Sam’s jaw as he glares up at his brother, but he pushes himself up from the table with a loud scrape of his chair. “You want a beer?” he asks, smiling ruefully at Castiel, who nods, wondering what he’s just witnessed pass between the two brothers. Sam seems to be much more willing to talk about their past than Dean, and it’s obvious that Dean had not wanted Sam to talk about their father.
Sam hands him a bottle of beer, which Castiel takes with a nod of thanks, and passes some plates down from a nearby cupboard to Dean who loads them up with some penne pasta and sauce from the pan on the stove. Castiel sets aside his laptop, saving and backing up his document before closing it and placing it on the nearby sideboard.
“Thank you, Dean,” he says as Dean deposits a plate in front of him. His host grunts his acceptance of the thanks and sits down to his own meal, not meeting Castiel’s eyes as he chugs back a generous measure of his beer.
The food is delicious: spaghetti with mushrooms and onions and tomatoes, the homemade meat sauce more flavorful than many he’d tasted at home. Dean is quiet throughout the meal, but Sam chatters about his day at work and a procedure he’d seen done to remove porcupine quills from an unlucky dog's mouth.
“I understand you’re a veterinary technician?” Castiel asks, shoveling another mouthful of the flavorful pasta onto his fork.
Sam nods but to Castiel’s surprise, it’s Dean who answers. “Just while he’s in school. Sammy’s gonna be a vet,” he answers proudly. “He’s the smart Winchester.”
Sam looks pleased at the praise but he rolls his eyes again. “You’re smart too, Dean.” He turns to Castiel. “He has his own carpentry business. He sells his stuff at a store in town.”
Castiel opens his mouth to reply but Dean interrupts. “Yeah whatever, Sam. You keep saying that but truth is only one of us at this table is gonna be fixing torn ACLs and performing C-sections on whelping mothers with stuck puppies. Unless Cas here has aspirations beyond the written word.” He raises his beer bottle in a sardonic salute and takes a long drag from the mouth of the bottle. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep on scooping shit and slapping furniture together and serving shots to redneck hunters until I win the race and get rich.” Dean’s mouth turns up in a cocky grin that doesn’t reach his eyes and he shoves back from the table to throw his empty plate in the sink and disappear into the living room. The TV flickers to life and Dean starts flipping through channels, effectively ignoring his brother and their guest as he stares determinedly at the screen.
Sam smiles weakly across the table. “Sorry about him,” he says quietly. “I swear he’s not usually this much of an asshole.”
“That’s all right, Sam.” Castiel stands with his own plate. “Can I help you with the dishes?”
Sam waves him away. “No way, you’re a guest. At least for the first couple days. Enjoy it while you can because Dean’ll have you shoveling dog crap with him in no time.”
“Well in that case, I think I’ll call it an early night. I’m quite tired from my flight.”
“No problem, man,” Sam replies, smiling sympathetically. “If you need anything, just holler.”
Castiel gathers up his laptop and retreats to the safety of his bedroom, passing by where Dean lies sprawled out on the couch, studiously ignoring both him and his brother. He shuts the door and sags against it, cursing Zachariah and this entire venture. He supposes he should be pleased that at least one of the Winchesters has welcomed him with open arms, but he can’t help but think that Dean is going to make next two months a living hell in spite of Sam’s hospitality.
But he’s here now and there’s no turning back, regardless of whether he—or Dean—wants him to be. He pushes away from the door with a sigh, collapsing on the bed which creaks its protest. The bone-deep weariness of his long day weighs him down, and he’s tempted to let himself fall asleep, still fully clothed in his jeans and sweater, before he remembers Anna, who will no doubt be frantic for news. He flips his laptop back open and opens up Skype, smiling when his sister messages him almost immediately.
Anna: Castiel! Did you make it to the North Pole all right?
Castiel: Alaska.
Castiel: But yes.
Anna: And? How is it? Aside from cold.
Anna: How are your hosts?
Castiel sighs, raking a hand through his hair before setting his fingers back on the keyboard.
Castiel: Fine. But I’m very tired. I will fill you in tomorrow. I just wanted to let you know I arrived safely.
He sets the computer aside and stands to change out of his clothes into a pair of blue flannel pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. After a moment’s indecision, he leaves his socks on against the slight chill in the room. He slides back into the bed, pulling the layers of knitted blankets and hand-sewn quilts over himself just as his laptop beside him chimes three times with the new message alert.
Anna: Okay.
Anna: But you owe me!
Anna: Love you.
Castiel smiles sleepily and types his response.
Castiel: I love you too. Goodnight, Anna.
He flips his laptop closed and slides it onto the nightstand, switching the bedside lamp off with a groan. He burrows down deep into the nest of homemade blankets, letting the heaviness of his eyelids swallow him up in sleep.
Castiel startles awake to the crash of drums and the wailing of rock guitars blasting through the little house. He’s momentarily disoriented, blinking into the darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom until he remembers where he is and sighs regretfully. He shoves aside the layers of blankets that had gone nearly undisturbed during the night and rubs at his stiff neck, stifling a groan. His entire body aches from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed and from hours of having his nearly six foot frame squashed into an airplane seat yesterday, and his feet are freezing, his socks having been kicked off sometime in the night.
He fumbles for his phone on the bedside table and groans at the time. 7:06 am. He’s going to kill whoever it is blasting that obscene noise at such an indecent time, and barring that, he will kill Zachariah for saddling him with two idiots who seem to think that this time in the morning is actually acceptable for human functioning.
Forcing himself out of bed, Castiel stumbles out of the bedroom and down the hall, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and is met with a disgustingly cheerful Dean Winchester, running on the treadmill against the wall. The house seems to shake with the noise streaming out of the stereo, what Castiel identifies as AC/DC playing at an absurd volume. The belt and motor of the treadmill whirr along with Dean’s footsteps, and the man himself flashes him a grin that Castiel can only characterize as sadistic.
“‘Morning Sunshine,” he calls over the noise. Apparently his temper tantrum from the previous night had been forgotten or at least pushed aside for now. “Sleep well?”
Castiel meets his host’s grin with a glare, choosing to ignore the question. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he replies, his voice hoarse with sleep.
Dean’s grin widens cruelly, his feet never missing a step as he answers. “Sorry dude, but we keep pretty early hours here. Training for humans is just as important as training for dogs. Better get used to it.”
Several choice curses spring to Castiel’s mind but he manages to tamp them down at the last minute, choosing instead to turn on his heel and retreat to the bathroom to freshen up; there’s no way he’s getting any more sleep so he might as well greet the day.
He ignores his reflection in the mirror, climbing into the shower. He takes his time, lingering in the hot spray long after he’s finished washing, letting the water wake up his tired body and soothe his stiff muscles. The water pressure is terrible, but at least the water is hot, the bathtub immaculately clean like the rest of the little house.
The bathroom fan is decrepit at best, leaving the room filled with steam when he’s finished. He swipes a hand across the mirror, taking in the damp, dark hair that curls against his forehead and neck and the tired blue eyes that stare back at him out of the glass. He has never spent much time on his appearance, letting his hair fall in whichever direction it so chooses, preferring to be clean-shaven out of comfort only. Today there’s a shadow of scruff across his jaw but it’s far too early for him to deal with it so he leaves it for later; he can stand the slight itch for a day or two.
He dresses in a pair of worn jeans, pulling a grey knit sweater with heavy brown buttons at the neck over a navy long-sleeved t-shirt and tugging thick socks onto his feet. He lingers in the bedroom for longer than is strictly necessary, catching up on his email, sending a message to Zachariah to let him know he’s arrived at his destination, and browsing through the news at home. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s avoiding Dean, but that’s exactly what he’s doing, and eventually he can’t do it anymore, and forces himself to his feet.
When he emerges for the second time, Dean has finished his workout and switched the music to something a little more appropriate for first thing in the morning. He’s humming to himself and bustling around the kitchen, still in the clothes from his workout. His hair is wet with sweat, as is the red t-shirt he has on over black sweatpants.
The smell of fresh coffee goes a long way to improving Castiel’s mood, and he heads straight for the machine merrily percolating away on the corner of the counter beside the toaster. To his surprise, Dean passes him a mug without a word, and Castiel takes it with a shocked nod, noting the cupboard that it came from for future reference.
“Sugar’s in the cupboard above the machine, milk’s in the fridge if we have it,” Dean says. “Help yourself to whatever, I gotta go shower. Sam should be out soon.” He disappears from the room, leaving Castiel to his own devices.
Castiel fixes up his coffee, deciding against breakfast in favor of exploring the little cabin. It’s good coffee, almost as good as the coffee he gets from the little independent shop around the corner from the office back home, and he hums happily as he sips it, turning his head sideways between sips to read the titles of the books on the shelves.
“Did you eat?”
Castiel looks up, startled, to see Sam smiling at him from the kitchen, wearing blue scrubs with a black long-sleeved t-shirt underneath. One of the dogs—Chase, Castiel remembers eventually—is sitting at his side, big tan head resting against the younger Winchester’s thigh, Sam’s big hand scratching absently between the dog’s ears.
Castiel shakes his head. “I don’t normally eat breakfast,” he replies, straightening and moving back to join the younger Winchester at the kitchen table.
Sam takes a bite of his breakfast, some mixture of oatmeal and fruit and yogurt, by the looks of things. “You should start. Our mornings are pretty busy here and you won’t make it if you don’t eat until lunch.” Castiel shrugs, unconvinced, and Sam laughs. “Suit yourself.”
The shower starts up at the other end of the house and Castiel relaxes, glad to find himself alone with the friendlier Winchester for at least a few minutes. He asks Sam about his work at the veterinary office and Sam lights up as he describes his work, a kind of apprenticeship under Dr. Singer (referred to affectionately as Bobby) and Dr. Moore while he completes his schooling. Castiel learns that Dr. Moore is a young woman actually a few months younger than Sam and that she and Sam have been dating for some time. Sam flushes when he talks about her, and Castiel smiles into his coffee, recognizing the look of someone smitten. He’s seen the look on his sister’s face a few times over the years, most recently when she met her current girlfriend.
“Maybe you can shadow me for a day,” Sam suggests. “Get an idea of how things run at the clinic. Lots of mushers come to our practice; you might get to meet a few of them and their dogs.”
“I would like that, Sam,” Castiel replies.
“Great! I’ll ask Bobby if that would be okay and maybe we can set it up for a couple weeks from now after you’ve settled in.”
Sam excuses himself from the table, pouring coffee into a to-go mug and throwing together a lunch for himself. He grabs his coat from the entryway and runs out to the dog yard to put Chase away, still tugging his coat into place as he comes back into the house.
“So listen, Castiel. Don’t let Dean work you too hard today, okay?” He straightens the hood of his coat, tugging a beanie on over his long hair. “And I know he can be a dick, but try not to take it too seriously. I promise it’s not personal.”
Castiel tries for a confident smile, just as he hears the shower shut off at the other end of the house. “I’m sure I can handle it,” he says, tipping back the rest of his coffee and standing to refill it.
Sam grins and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Bye Dean!” he calls, and Castiel hears an answering bellow from the other end of the hall. “Bye Castiel,” he says, in his normal voice. “Enjoy your first day.” And then Sam is rushing out the door, waving over his shoulder and leaving Castiel alone with his coffee, wondering what the rest of the day—and Dean—will have in store for him.
Castiel glares across the yard as he picks up dog feces using the long-handled scoop and scraper Dean had pressed into his gloved hands only minutes before. This is quite possibly the worst job Castiel has ever had to work and whatever small flicker of glamor he thought he would find in this assignment has long since disappeared, chased away by the wide smirk Dean had sported when he told him what they’d be doing this morning.
Dean had emerged shortly after Sam had left, devouring two pieces of toast with butter and raspberry jam before he beckoned Castiel out the door with him. He helped Dean feed the dogs, listening as the man gruffly explained the mixture of kibble, fish and beef that he ladled out into metal bowls. The dogs, Dean had explained, need ten to fifteen thousand calories a day while they’re on the trail, not quite so much during training, but still much more than your average house pet.
Dean handed him the full bowls and Castiel helped him feed, the yard gradually going silent as they doled out the dogs’ morning meal. It was astonishing to watch them go from screaming and howling, leaping at the end of their chains, to quiet and sedate when the metal bowls are set down in front of them.
And then there was the scoop, and Castiel had looked at Dean incredulously. Behind his scarf and hat, Dean had raised his eyebrows. “What? You think the shit scoops itself?”
Castiel had hoped to be spared this particular chore, but Dean apparently has no shame. So Castiel had taken the scoop without comment and shoved down his protests, refusing to give Dean the satisfaction. This was what he was here for after all, and why he was being forced into exile for such a long time: to experience the lifestyle of a dedicated musher and Iditarod race competitor, not only during the race but in the months leading up to it as well.
It’s harder work than he had anticipated, and though his fingers and toes are cold inside his gloves, by the time he finishes his side of the yard there’s sweat dampening the small of his back and his hair underneath his hat. His stomach is already growling unpleasantly and he begrudgingly admits to himself that Sam may have been right about the inadvisability of skipping breakfast. He pauses to pat the head of the dog whose orbit he is currently occupying, scratching between her ears with a gloved hand and smiling in spite of himself as her tongue lolls out the side of her mouth.
Dean takes longer to finish his side than Castiel, so Castiel sets his scoop aside, leaning up against the dog house and trying to keep its inhabitant from covering his entire face in saliva, and watches Dean work his way through the remaining dogs. Dean stops at each dog, leaning the scoop against the house as he greets them, kissing the tops of furry heads and rubbing furry ears, scratching gloved hands over necks and backs. As Castiel watches, he sees Dean duck his head, and it almost looks as though he is whispering to the dog as he scratches under its chin, before he’s picking up the scoop and cleaning up the dog’s area and moving on to the next.
Dean finishes his side and meets Castiel at the gate. “What?” he asks gruffly, his voice muffled by the scarf around his face, and Castiel realizes he’s staring. He shakes his head, mute, and Dean glares at him for a few more seconds before shrugging and leading Castiel through the gate back to the house.
Dean makes grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Castiel devours his greedily, and Dean leaves Castiel alone for most of the afternoon after changing out of his sweat-soaked clothes and into a new, warm, dry set. He mumbles something about “getting some work done and taking out some dogs” and then he’s gone, the back door swinging creakily shut behind him. Castiel is a bit perturbed at being left behind without any indication of when his host will be back and no invitation to come along, but he settles himself on the end of the couch with his laptop in his lap and a cup of fresh coffee on the side table. He boots up Skype and finds Anna online and calls her.
There’s a long delay during which Skype’s distinct ringtone filters tinnily out of his computer speakers and then the call connects, Anna’s pretty face and bright red hair filling the screen. “Hi Castiel!” she says happily and he smiles back at her.
“Anna,” he replies. “Hard at work I see.” There’s a smudge of blue paint across her cheekbone and a bit of white in the loose strands of her hair where it curls against her face.
“Yeah sorry, I was working on a piece.” She waves the brush still clenched in her hand before the screen so he can see.
Castiel reaches for his coffee mug, settling his laptop on his thighs and bringing the cup to his lips. “What are you working on right now?”
“Another piece for the gallery,” she says, scratching her head with the end of the paintbrush. “Ruby thought the exhibition needed one more piece before we open so I’m working on something. She’s such a slave driver.”
“Quit whining,” calls another voice and then Ruby’s dark head is ducking into the frame beside his sister’s. “Hi Castiel.”
“Hello Ruby,” Castiel greets his sister’s girlfriend. The brunette wiggles her fingers at him with a crooked smile and then slips back out of the way, leaving them to their conversation.
“So how’s Alaska?” Anna asks him brightly.
Castiel sips at his coffee before replying. “It’s fine,” he hedges.
Anna’s brow furrows. “Just fine? It’s not intrepid and wild and beautiful?”
“Well, yes,” Castiel agrees. “But I haven’t had a chance to see much besides my trip up.” He carefully leaves out that he hadn’t had a chance to sightsee much, given that his attention was focused on not driving the enormous truck off the icy roads.
“I’m sure you’ll get to see lots in three months,” she replies. “How is your host?”
“Hosts,” Castiel corrects. “There are two of them. Sam Winchester and his older brother, Dean.”
Anna rolls her eyes. “And? How are they?”
Castiel looks up at the beams of the ceiling, casting about for a proper way to describe them. “Sam is very kind. Welcoming, very forthcoming with information.”
“And Dean?” Anna prompts.
Rude. Hostile.Beautiful. “Dean is challenging,” Castiel finally replies. “He’s been nothing but surly and it’s clear he doesn’t approve of his brother’s decision to invite me here.”
Anna’s frowns, her brows coming together and lips pursing in a familiar expression of disapproval she shares with him. “Maybe he’ll warm up to you,” she offers.
“I doubt it,” Castiel says grimly. “He seems to think I’m some kind of gossip. Like I work for a tabloid or something equally distasteful.”
“Maybe if you explained your assignment?”
Castiel shrugs one shoulder. “I have been cursing that ass Zachariah for this assignment every moment since I stepped off the plane.” He tells her about the nerve-wracking drive up to Winchester Kennels, the awkward evening he’d experienced, his rude awakening and his morning spent picking up dog excrement.
By the end of his tirade, Anna isn’t even trying to hide her grin. “Poor, sheltered Castiel,” she says with mock sympathy. “Having to skulk around with mortals.”
“Thanks so much,” he grumbles, but he feels the corner of his lip twitch.
“Listen, Cas,” Anna says, serious again. “I told you you should quit when he threw that piece at you but you’re too bull-headed and dutiful to go through with it and now it’s too late. Just get through this assignment, show that asshole that you can take anything he throws your way and still write a great piece. And then if he keeps treating you like shit, you can quit and find a new job.”
He nods wearily. It’s a speech he’s heard before.
“And in the meantime, shut up and enjoy Alaska! They call this thing ‘The Last Great Race on Earth’, and you get a backstage pass.” Anna twists her hair into a knot at the back of her head, securing it with the paintbrush like she’s done since she was a teenager. “And take lots of pictures so that I can live vicariously through you while I’m trying to teach our disenchanted youth and shmoozing with rich people in fancy suits during gallery opening hell.”
“Shut up, you love it!” Ruby calls from somewhere off-camera.
“I do,” Anna admits to Castiel, who huffs a laugh.
Castiel asks Anna about the preparations for the gallery opening, effectively distracting her. She and Ruby are stressed, Anna with finishing up her last pieces for the exhibit and Ruby with arranging caterers and servers and sending invitations to the art-world elite. Castiel feels a pang in his chest that he’s going to miss his sister’s big debut. She’s had pieces in exhibits before but this is the first that’s all her own, and he wishes he could be there to see it. She waves off his apology though, and makes him promise to come see it as soon as he gets home, a promise he readily makes.
They sign off, Castiel to type up his notes from the morning, and Anna to go back to work on her painting. He promises to call her again soon and to check his email daily before they disconnect.
Two cups of coffee later, after all his notes have been typed and he’s managed to read through five chapters of one of the books he’d brought with him, the dogs start up their howling again and Dean reappears, stripping off his layers and raking a hand through sweaty hair. His eyes catch on Castiel where he’s perched on the couch and he looks like he’s about to say something before he shakes his head stubbornly and retreats to his bedroom to change again. Castiel stares after him long after the bedroom door closes behind his retreating figure, seething resentfully and wondering how he will possibly be able to stand two and a half months of this.