Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You have enough footage, Dean.” 

“Never enough footage, sunshine.”

“As our resident editor, I beg to differ.”

“As our resident cameraman, I see your begging and raise you… B-roll.” 

From behind the “lens” (fine, it’s an LCD screen) of their prized (beautiful, sleek, immaculate) Sony A7 III Full-Frame Mirrorless Camera with its interchangeable lenses (currently boasting a 35mm wide-angle to properly capture the scenery), Dean smirks, but it’s all a smokescreen. 

After all, the picture-perfect scene he’s looking out over feels pretty freaking hard to beat—in any capacity. He’s damn well going to capture the entirety of it, for posterity or otherwise.

“We are currently standing on a private balcony of the most luxurious stateroom I have ever seen,” Castiel begins, rubbing his mittened hands together against the cold as his breath puffs white in the frigid air. “In person or through a computer screen. That stateroom is located on one of only two exclusive ships equipped with icebreaking capabilities powerful enough to navigate through the thick slabs between everyone and everything else on this planet and the North Pole, and the only one that offers a luxury travel experience getting there.”

Dean frowns, peering out from behind the camera. “So?”

Castiel pulls off a mitten just to rub fingers into the pinched crease of his forehead, the one Dean proudly recognizes has been permanently imprinted there by his behavior, specifically. 

“So, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, my love,” he says, the endearment pushed out roughly from between clenched teeth, and Dean preens. Castiel rolls his eyes and clears his throat. “At least look up! These are the Northern Lights, Dean—most people live their entire lives without ever seeing them.”

“I’m looking!” Dean insists, playing with the settings on his camera. The truth is, Cas is right. The scenery is gorgeous beyond the telling, but it’s not only the desire to preserve and monetize that’s driving him to hide behind the lens. It’s maybe also a little bit overwhelming to see Cas lit from above by bright streaks of greens and blues and pinks. He’s just standing there, looking like the eighth wonder of the world, and way more interesting to Dean’s eye than anything this remote part of the planet has to offer.

He can’t exactly just blurt that thought out loud, though, because first of all, it sounds stupid. This whole second-honeymoon thing was his idea, and it’s sixteen days of powering slowly through the Artic Sea on an icebreaker, unspoiled beauty on the outside and luxury within. They’re now only a day’s sail away from the northernmost point on Earth, and they’ve already seen it all: polar bears, arctic foxes, whales, remote archipelagos, vast ocean, and—of course—three-meter-thick ice, as far as the eye can see. 

The ship is powerful, cutting through the endless ice fields steadily. On deck, outside of the comfort and distraction of the fully-outfitted cruise liner, Dean’s sat for hours listening to the ice cracking and breaking. Creaking, splintering, being pushed aside and appearing to float away gently like a small cube bobbing in a drink. That ongoing process is framed by a backdrop that’s beyond beautiful in its desolate splendor, precious and special in being one of the least visited places on the whole of the planet, and all Dean can bring himself to think about is Cas. 

Even now, in the middle of the night, standing beneath the rare, incredible phenomenon that is the Aurora Borealis, he can’t look away. It’s been ten freaking years—that’s a decade in the bag for them. Over three thousand days in a row of Cas declaring his undying love each night, of Dean bringing him a cup of coffee in bed every single morning. 

Ten years of traveling the world together and recording every stop—him behind the camera, Cas in front of it. Both of them, documenting every up and down their lives and relationship have wrought, posting it for the world to see—and oftentimes, to pick apart.

Despite that, Dean still hasn’t completely digested the totality of it, of Cas choosing him.

So maybe it’s not the rugged, icy coastline, the age-old glaciers, or the constantly-changing ice floes. It’s not the towering, carved fjords, or the magnificent, scarcely-seen wildlife. Not the flat barrens or the wide, endless sky. 

It’s just Cas, leaning against the railing in his bulky parka and that ugly-ass hat that he knit from scratch the day after Dean surprised him with these tickets. Pink-cheeked from cold and (hopefully) amusement, blinking those beautiful baby blues up at a darkened sky that won’t see light for another two months, he is the view worth watching.

Forget the Aurora—for Dean, it’s Cas. Cas and his ridiculous-looking, oversized mittens, one clutched in the other’s grasp while his free hand rubs tiredly against his face and he shakes his head.

“Incorrigible,” he mutters, dropping his hand to grab the half-frozen rail, and Dean hides his resulting smile behind the camera. 

On the screen: Cas, framed by the North’s most prized and revered treasure, the Arctic’s answer to the rainbow—would that make Castiel the pot of gold?

Embarrassed by his own bullshit, Dean has to physically shake that thought away. Fuck, he thinks. Love really does turn you stupid. He snaps photo after photo instead of leaving the device to capture endless video, each one a more spectacular still of Cas than the last. Screw their upload schedule and the B-roll, this shit is going in a frame. It’s getting professionally matted and then mounted next to the fuckin’ fireplace. 

Hell, yeah. 

“Love you,” he mutters, almost under his breath. 

Castiel grins, casting his eyes towards the heavens before scooting backward, out of Dean’s perfectly curated shot. “Is that so? May I go inside now?”

Scoffing, Dean kicks a leg out and tries using his boot to nudge Cas forward, but he’s a hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle, meaning Dean’s toe doesn’t do shit. “Don’t be a little bitch, Cas,” he complains. “C’mon—the lights! The people want to see the lights, get your happy ass into the fuckin’ frame for me.”

Instead of complying, Cas knocks his foot aside with his own, crowding up into Dean’s space and reaching for the camera, which he petulantly lifts just out of reach.

“Give it to me. Dean!” 

“No,” Dean retorts, using the scant two inches he has on Cas to tease, camera held obnoxiously high. “Never!”

“You—ugh, fine. Then at least take one picture of the two of us, just one.” 

“Nah,” Dean replies, dodging Cas’ jump and swipe, spinning around him to lean back against the rail, smug. “That’s what ship photogs are for, baby. Formal night’s in three days—you wear that sexy tux you rented, I’ll be the arm candy. There could be panties.”

“I want a selfie,” Castiel complains, pressing up against him from the front so that he’s trapped. “Something intimate and personal. Come on, Dean, ninety-five percent of our footage is me. Just me. Do you know how boring and annoying it is to edit me, myself, and I all of the time? Some of our viewers think that I made you up.” 

Dean throws his head back laughing, adjusting his grip on the camera, which—in retrospect—he would not have done had he seen Cas’ bare hand slip from the rail where it was bracing his weight. 

“Play nice, darlin’.”

“Put on those big boy panties and pose with me!” 

There’s this thing that Cas has been doing, all goddamn week. It’s cold as hell up here, obviously, and Cas’ hands and feet are icebergs in the middle of summer, so the weather is doing nothing but making that usual situation worse. Cas knows it, too—knows that the unexpected freezing touches drive Dean bananas. He’s a dick, though, so any chance he gets, he fucks Dean up with his popsicle digits. 

Out of nowhere, he’ll slide a stealthy hand beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt, resting a palm against the small of his back or tucking fingers inside his waistband. Any time he’s the slightest bit pissy (or for no reason at all) he’ll seize the opportunity to make Dean squirm, and the current moment is no exception. 

The next part is predictable, always—Dean yelps and jumps a foot in the air, Cas laughs, and nobody wins.

Except, this time, when Castiel’s glacially-cold fingers brush against his warm skin, Dean happens to be dangling a two thousand dollar camera over a dark and unforgiving ocean that’s raging past them below. The sudden cold freezes his brain as much as his skin, and because he’s right in the middle of fixing his grip, in an instant, his arm jerks—and the camera is gone.

“Oh!” Dean yelps—same as it ever was—whirling around just in time to see his beautiful, precious baby go bouncing off of a jagged ice floe, tumble a couple of times, and plop directly into the water. “Fuuuuck.”

“Oops,” Cas says guiltily, from somewhere behind him. For a second, Dean contemplates diving in after it. For another second, he contemplates making Cas do it.

Ultimately, he just gapes in disbelief, at a total loss for words, and then his vision goes red at the edges, even as his gaze remains locked on the water. “God damn it, Cas! Fucking—I told you to stop doing that!”

Castiel just huffs. Loudly. “Well, sor-ry for wanting to be close to you and create memories that might preserve our time together.”

“By annoying the fuck out of me?!” Dean retorts, turning back around to find his husband standing with his arms folded, one eyebrow raised challengingly. 

“Fine,” he responds. “I’ll never touch you again, happy?”

“Cas, that was a two thousand dollar camera, why don’t you care?” Narrowing his eyes, Castiel’s arms tighten across his chest, and he doesn’t respond. “Oh my god,” Dean says, realization dawning. “Oh my god.” 

“No,” Cas says defensively. “No to whatever you’re thinking, I preemptively reject it.”

“You’re jealous. You are jealous of my camera.” 

“Hardly. The camera has never fucked you raw in a cruise ship sauna with an unobstructed view of the Arctic Ocean as a backdrop. It has, however, gotten more touch than me, lately.”

Dean balks. “Did you do this on purpose?” 

Castiel throws his arms in the air. “Yes, Dean, I threw our livelihood into the ocean on purpose and necessitated an immediate and expensive replacement when we’re stuck in the one distant corner of the world to which Amazon does not deliver—do you have even one brain cell floating around in that head, or were you storing it in the battery compartment of the camera?”

“Go sleep in a lifeboat,” Dean snaps, brushing past Cas to open the slider that leads back into their suite. He thinks about shutting it behind him, but Cas is hot on his tail and doesn’t leave him room. Just to be a dick, Dean spins around abruptly and essentially traps him in the doorway—Cas is surprised and too slow to react, slamming headlong into his chest.

Staring down into his husband’s eyes, Dean briefly finds himself wondering—not for the first time—whether Cas is secretly some kind of magical creature with the power of thrall, because he’s immediately thrown off his game. He’s definitely no less angry, but being this close to Cas and watching him stare back, defiant but still hopeful—fuckin’ Cas, he thinks. Instead of yelling, Dean exhales forcefully in Cas’ face and shakes his head.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, pausing for another second before crashing their mouths together and kissing Castiel with everything he’s got. All of the anger and frustration at losing his sweet, innocent Baby—Dean pours it into the way he captures Cas’ lips, the way he nips at the edge of his mouth and digs needy fingernails into his biceps.

“I’m still angry at you,” he says, gasping a little when he surfaces.

Cas, still halfway out on the balcony and looking a bit dazed, narrows his eyes again and retorts, “Well, I’m angry at you. ”

“What?! Cas—”

“I deserve to have someone join me on camera sometimes, and I deserve to have a husband who enjoys taking the occasional sentimental photo with me, so—”

“I take photos with you, Castiel,” Dean fires back. “I was teasing!”

“So was I!” 

“My teasing doesn’t have us out a potential three grand, gorgeous.”

Castiel snorts and rolls his eyes. “Of course, you’re blameless.” 

Frowning, Dean grabs him by the front of his coat, yanking roughly on the zipper until it’s open all the way. “Take off your pants,” he demands. “We’ll settle this the old-fashioned way. You wanted to be touched, let’s touch.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that, how can I possibly resist?” Castiel replies, but he moves inside the stateroom and starts stripping anyway. Feeling salty, Dean leaves the door wide open, the cold breeze whipping Castiel solidly as he’s straightening up from dropping his underwear, and he rolls his eyes again. “That isn’t going to do anything but prevent you from getting what you want,” he snarks, palming his own groin. “Close the door, Dean.” 

Grumbling and reluctant, Dean does, but only because he’s half-hard in his pants and Cas is a better man than him—he’s not twenty-one anymore, and getting hit by that kind of cold blast might honestly knock him down for the count. It’s a good choice, because he barely has the door closed when Cas is on him, kissing him wildly, pawing and ripping at his clothing. 

Their tongues are practically in each other’s throats, only tearing themselves apart long enough for shirts to be pulled haphazardly over heads, or for someone to be shoved in one direction or another.

“I give everything for you,” Cas growls, jacking Dean up roughly against a wall, hard enough that the mounted light fixture shakes and he lowkey worries that their neighbors might call the concierge. “And this is what you give to me?” 

“It’s a fuckin’ selfie Cas, grow u—” His retort is smothered by Castiel’s mouth smashing against his, kissing like he’s trying to eat him alive, to devour him whole, and if he’s being honest, Dean doesn’t hate this at all. 

His heart beats wildly in his chest as he experimentally shoves Castiel away a little, interest immediately fueled by the lustful look in Cas’ eye and the spreading smile on his face. He likes this—okay. Okay. Dean can live with that—he’s got some shit to work out, might as well do it the fun way. Stepping forward, he pauses for a second to grab Cas’ phone off of the nightstand, swiping it open to the camera and then tossing it across the room, making Castiel dive for the catch. 

“Here,” he says. “You want your selfie so bad, let’s take it.” Cas’ head cocks to the side, not understanding, and Dean grins. “On your hands and knees, though. Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.” 

One of Castiel’s eyebrows raises nearly to his hairline, but he’s otherwise visibly unfazed, and Dean should’ve known better than to bait him. Wordlessly, Cas turns to face the king-sized bed that takes up most of the room, bends over, and sticks his ass out. In front of him, he balances the phone against a pillow, posing himself towards the left side of the frame and creating an empty space to his right that might as well be labeled, “DEAN’S FACE HERE.”

Oh shit, that’s hot. 

He’s gotta regain the upper hand. With that in mind, instead of grabbing the lube and giving Cas the ride of his life, Dean shimmies up behind him, pushes both palms up the lithe stretch of his back, and then drops down to his knees.

“I’m still mad as hell,” he grumbles, right before pulling Cas’ cheeks apart and licking a stripe over his hole. 

Now, Cas is a lot of things, usually—careful, composed, difficult to shake. Put a little tongue in his ass, though, and he falls apart like a house of cards. House of cards, baby, and Dean’s holding all of ‘em. 

As predicted, Cas’ tense form goes loose-limbed and relaxed beneath his hands and mouth, moaning and clutching at the bedsheets as Dean goes to town. Pushing his tongue just past the ring of muscle, Castiel bucks, reaching back and grabbing hold of his hair, tugging in a way that riles Dean up even more. He smacks Cas’ ass and snatches up the lube from their nightstand, standing and drizzling a generous amount right on Cas’ hole and his own dick.

Castiel impatiently slaps the mattress with his palm. “I swear to God, Dean, if you don’t stop teasing me—”

“You’ll throw me in the ocean, too?” he teases, before lining himself up and pushing inside Cas, effectively stealing the air from his lungs. 

Holding onto Castiel’s left shoulder as he bottoms out, Dean’s thighs slide flush against his husband’s. The ring on his left hand glints in the low light, and Dean can’t help but exhale a little laugh. This is the wildest sex they’ve had in ages—maybe Cas was onto something, after all. 

Ever the bossy asshole, Castiel’s squirming and pushing back onto him, trying terribly hard to move his hips but failing because he’s trapped against the bed. Still slightly bitter, Dean opts to hold him there for a minute. 

“Dean,” he growls. “Seriously?”

“Just enjoying myself,” he replies, tracing patterns over the tanned skin of Castiel’s muscled back. He glances briefly over his shoulder and out the balcony door, noting the way that the Aurora is fading from the sky. “Alright, let’s do this.” 

He pulls out nearly all the way and then slides slowly back in, biting his lip and leaning forward into the camera frame when Castiel lifts the phone up in what is apparently meant to be a threat.

“I said, do it,” Dean says, and Cas clicks the shutter a couple of times, not fast enough to hide his own grin from the frozen moment. 

“I love you,” Dean grunts as he starts fucking him in earnest. “Hate your stupid cold fingers and your ice cube feet, and I hate being in front of the camera, but I love your dumb ass.” 

God, Dean should’ve known better. Every time he thinks he has Cas pegged—no pun intended—the guy come out swinging. Even while being fucked mercilessly up against a bed, he manages to rally. Without warning, Castiel shoves Dean backward, knocking him off balance and ultimately sending him crashing to the floor, falling on his ass with a thud, dick waving in the wind.

“Damn it, Cas, I was trying to—”

Cas swiftly follows him down, straddling Dean’s hips and slapping a hand aggressively over his mouth. He uses the one that’s free to hold Dean’s cock, lining it up and sinking all the way down like nothing. Despite himself, Dean is kind of impressed.

“Now you listen to me, Dean Winchester. You are not doing me a favor by loving me or fucking me.”

“Mmph,” Dean grumbles against Cas’ palm, increasingly irritated that words he meant as a sweet little love confession are being mischaracterized. “Mmmdafhdffoo!”

Smiling smugly, Castiel peers smugly down his nose and into Dean’s eyes as he circles his hips. In turn, Dean does his best to hold contact and not allow them to roll all the way back into his head, but it’s tough. 

“If I release you, are you going to be good to me?” Eyes wide and imploring, Dean nods. “Are you ready to call a truce?”

Dean nods again, and Cas removes his hand. “Here are my terms: one selfie or one full minute of Dean-screentime in exchange for every thirty minutes I give you on camera. Before you say anything,” he rushes to add, holding a finger against Dean’s already-parted lips, “I love you. And you love me. And you may not realize it now, but someday, you will want tangible memories of these moments we’ve shared together. Proof. Things that we can hold and watch and reminisce over.”

“Cas,” Dean replies, taken aback. “Listen, every time I look at you, I see the things we’ve done. I see you at the edge of the Grand Canyon, squinting into the sun. Surfacing next to that capsized canoe in Lake Michigan. Snorking in Grand Turk, trying to fuckin’ skateboard in the parking lot of Buccee’s, that—biggest gas station in the US, place.”

Castiel snorts, clearly remembering. 

“Not to mention, trying to help you shower in the van with that fuckin’ cast on for the next six weeks after that. But fine—yeah, if it means so much to you, I’ll do it. Gladly. I just—I like looking at you. And I do, I see all of those things, every time you’re in front of my lens. I didn’t realize it bugged you.”

“That’s disgustingly romantic,” Castiel admits, swiveling his hips a little as Dean grabs onto his thighs, hopeful.

“Can we finish fucking, now?” he pleads, and Castiel answers by bracing both hands on his chest and working his hips as fast and as hard as he can. Dean responds by planting his feet on the floor and fucking up into him, watching with pure satisfaction as Cas drags a hand over his own cock, tossing his head back with a groan and coming all over Dean’s belly. 

It’s devastatingly sexy, maybe the hottest thing he’s seen Cas do in months.

Dean’s close, and he holds tight to Castiel’s hips, finishing with a last series of stuttered thrusts that drag inside of Cas as he yanks him down and moans his relief into his mouth. 

With a very pleased sigh, Castiel slides carefully off of his cock and then collapses beside Dean on the floor. “I think we’ve had a breakthrough,” he says. “And just in the nick of time—we should be arriving at the North Pole within the next six to eight hours.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, a little breathlessly, flopping an arm out and patting Cas’ head. “Totally. I’m ready to take all the selfies with you, me, and Santa Claus.” Castiel laughs, fumbling around on the floor for something. Dean doesn’t realize that it’s his phone until their disheveled, exhausted faces are blinking back at him from the screen. “Oh, come on, now?” 

“Memories,” Cas insists, nestling his head on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean has to admit—it makes for a damn cute photo op.

“We are really ridiculously good-looking,” he says, by way of assent. “Fine, do your worst.”

“This one will be perfect for our bedside table at the nursing home,” Castiel says happily. It’s hard to be reluctant when Dean can see on his face how thrilled Cas is at his own choice to relent and actually smile. Twice as thrilled when he dips down to kiss Cas’ cheek for one of the shots.

“I was with you up ‘til ‘nursing home,’” Dean grumps, flashing air quotes. “You’re on your own, there. You can take that photo with as a reminder of me, because when it’s about that time, I’m gonna dig myself a hole and fall in it.”

“A beautiful sentiment,” Castiel says. “By the way, I have something for you.” 

Dean’s rightfully confused when Castiel pushes himself up off of the floor, makes his way over to their small closet, and pulls a medium-sized silver box with a bow on it from the top shelf. Returning to Dean’s side, he proudly holds it out in offering. “I wanted to get you something special for our anniversary,” he says.

“The cruise was our present to each other,” Dean protests.

“The cruise was your idea, and something you saved and planned for, complete with securing endorsement deals. Endorsement deals that we may now struggle to fulfill since our footage is at the bottom of the ocean,” he admits ruefully.

“Nah,” Dean replies, waving him off. “This is the future, Cas—everything except for the last couple of clicks got uploaded to the Cloud. Heck, maybe even those. Took Baby like half a minute to go under.” 

Castiel just stares at him blankly, so Dean takes the box out of his hands and rips it open. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit.”

It’s a camera, and not just any point-and-click, this is Dean’s dream camera, one he’s been lusting over for months now. Safari tab on his phone that never gets closed and everything. But much as he might have craved upgrading the other love of his life, he kept refusing to pull the trigger, because this camera costs the better part of four thousand fucking dollars.

“Cas,” he rasps, lifting the actual box from the decorative one, “The R-fucking-5?! No goddamn way. No way! How are we—”

Lifting a hand, Castiel stops him in his slightly-panicked tracks. “Not a word about the price. I’ve been working on this since I saw you eyeing it up in Miami. We’re probably going to have to mention its existence from now until you start digging that hole and I begin touring nursing facilities, respectively, but if that’s amenable to you—”

“Amenable?! You scored a sponsorship deal with Canon? Cas, I take it back—dump me in the ocean, I deserve it. I’m not worthy.”

Knocking their knees together gently, Castiel just smiles softly and takes his hand, lifting it to his mouth. “Just fulfill your end of our deal, and I’ll be the happiest man on the planet.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, staring down at the box. His fingers are itching to rip the thing open and explore all of his new Baby’s facets, and he can tell from the look on Cas’ face that doing so is what he expects to happen. Even for Dean, that makes his next step an absolute no-brainer.

Setting the box aside, he cups Castiel’s cheek and kisses him thoroughly. “Thank you,” he says sincerely, when they separate. “You’re the best. Now, come on—put some clothes on that fine ass, and let's go look at the lights.”

“Yeah?” Castiel replies, perking up but sounding skeptical. “I thought you’d want to—”

“Nope.” Dean cuts him off, straightening and holding out a hand to help Cas stand, too. “I want to look at the stars, the water, the coastline, the Aurora, the fuckin’ seals—whatever the hell is out there—and make memories with my husband. Bring your phone, I owe you like, a thousand photos, just for tonight.”

“I am truly sorry about your camera,” Castiel offers, a hand resting on his bicep.

“Shut up,” Dean replies, yanking his arm away like he’s been burned and then knocking playfully against him. “Keep your iceberg-ass fingers to yourself from now on.”

 Castiel’s smile widens, and then he’s on him, pressing toes to his calf and fingers to the soft skin of his throat where it’s most sensitive—and they’re cold. 

“Damn it, Cas!” 

“Take me to bed and warm me back up,” Cas suggests, and Dean raises his eyebrows, surprised. Castiel picks up his phone, only to toss it carelessly over his shoulder before tugging Dean towards the bed. “The Aurora will wait.”

***