Chapter Text
Chapter One
Wool for the Summer
Dean didn't hear the key turning in the door; didn't hear it being opened, only slammed shut.
He didn't have time to hide the colorful piece of craft in his hands, although he did try. Which, of course, only made it look even more suspicious.
Not that there was anything wrong with what a grown ass Alpha did with his own hard earned money, but his moose of a brother was always full of opinions and after the fifth time it just got tiring to justify his reasons for buying winter gear. You know. In the summer.
"What do you have there?" Sam asked, already stuffing his nose in his business despite being home for 0.3 seconds. "Is it..." He squinted at the brown package Dean clutched in his hands. "Dean, tell me you didn't —" He put on bitchface #7. "For the love of God, it's three hundred and seventy four degrees out there, why, in the name of all things holy, would you need another... what is it this time? Another pair of mittens? A new scarf? Oh, let me guess," he licked his lips and smirked. "Wool socks?”
"Oh, come on!" Dean protested, but Sam just put his hands up.
"I'm just saying, if you have extra money laying around, you could be a grown up about it and save it, or, or invest it — damn, just give it to me, I promise I'll make better use of it than what you're doing right now."
"Yeah, sure, we'll see how much better you'll fare in winter when these things are costing an arm and leg. See if I'll care when your butt falls off frozen."
He stormed off to his room like the rebellious teenager he'd never been — despite appearances and general opinion — and slammed the door behind him (a statement), promptly turning on the AC. It was really hot outside.
Dean jumped on his bed and sat against the headboard, placing the package on his lap and pulling at the string that circled the parcel until it came loose, just a tad less excitedly than a child on Christmas morning. He also might or might not have left work early to wait for the delivery, but such were the perks of being his own boss and finally being in a place in life where he could delegate some of the responsibilities to his annoying employees and have money to spare on knitted or crochet goods (that he didn't really need, if he absolutely had to be honest with himself), but if Sammy could go on a stationery shopping spree every once in a while, he certainly could indulge in soft, heavenly smelling winter caps once every... two weeks?
Anyway.
With the most care he could manage, he ripped the parcel open with the tips of his fingers and pulled out the forest green cap he had ordered online a few days ago. He brought it close to his face and inhaled deeply, the smell on the beanie reaching his central nervous system in mere seconds. His body went lax against his pillows and he sighed out all the tension and restlessness that had accumulated in his body since his ex-girlfriend had entered his coffee shop the week before and just kept coming back.
Which he didn't have a problem with, of course. So what if she had been the only person he ever fell for and the first one to break his heart? It had been a long time ago and he was so over her. He just found it impressive that she was still just as pretty and surprisingly single, that's all.
Another sniff of the cap and all thoughts of Cassie — present Cassie and high school Cassie — flew out of his mind, leaving only the smell of honey drizzled apple pie and an undercurrent of something warm — if temperature had a smell — that made his mouth water. He should worry if the seller was putting some sort of volatile drugs on the goods to keep the customers coming back but he was too relaxed for that.
It was hard to understand his body's reaction to that smell. He knew it put him at ease, yes, but it also made something flutter in his stomach and left him with this weird feeling of... home? Of being hugged by a family member?
His father had been an abusive drunk bastard, but Dean kind of wished he was alive in that moment to ask him what his mom's scent had been like, if it had anything to do with apple pies and honey and warmth. It would just explain a lot if it did.
Reaching out to the switch next to his bed, he turned off the lights in the room and turned on his bedside lamp, casting his room in a soft yellow glow. Combined with the scent on the cap, the lamplight had the potential to put him under in ten minutes or less, despite it being barely past seven. His blackout curtains were closed so the room was in semi darkness, and it was starting to get a little cold from the AC finally working to beat the summer heat.
It was really unfortunate timing that he had only found out about The Bees' Knees shop (that was the name of the user on Etsy, no joke) during Summer and therefore had to endure Sam's endless teasing. He had gone online to find an amigurumi Princess Leia for Charlie's birthday (Charlie herself being the reason he knew what the hell amigurumi even was) but when it arrived he caught a sniff of something just too heavenly to be real coming from the package.
Which was the reason why a six inch amigurumi princess Leia now lay on top of his GPU on his desk.
(Because of that, Charlie had gotten an even better and more expensive gift, so hold your horses before calling him a bad friend.)
He eyed the three characters fondly — he had ordered a Darth Vader and a Yoda the following weeks before he realized softer wools held more of the smell than the more compact yarn from the figures. They had lost the scent entirely at that point, but Dean was attached to the little things.
Closing his eyes and basking on the cool air in the room and the honey smell from the cap, Dean thought that happiness could be this, and it didn't feel so lonely.
It was 100 degrees outside and Castiel was annoyed.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, (where they kept slipping due to the sweat that covered his whole body) and regretted for the millionth time his choice in wardrobe for the day. His beloved patchwork cardigan was so lightweight that it hadn't ever presented itself as an inadequate clothing choice for hot days—until then, that is—and his usual summer scarf. Yes, it was a thing.
He lived five minutes away from the post office, five minutes, this was supposed to be a half an hour errand tops, but he'd been in this line for at least forty minutes now, what could possibly be taking them this long?
One of the five boxes in his arms tried to slip from his hold at the same time he pushed his glasses up on his face, groaning in frustration at the juggling he had to do to keep everything from toppling over. Ten more minutes of that and he was finally in the establishment, with only two people to go before his turn. He noticed the single postal worker in there doing the task of ten men and started feeling so sorry for him he forgot to nurture his annoyance.
He approached the counter on his turn where he all but dropped the boxes, arms tired from holding the uncomfortable pile of mail for so long. The guy almost didn't look at his face, but Castiel hoped he hadn't sweated through his blockers in the line outside—this was an annoyed Alpha in front of him and in his experience, bad things usually happened when Alphas were annoyed.
After paying the fees to ship every order to its respective owner, Castiel left as quickly as possible. He couldn't wait to go home, shower, and sit in front of the fan with a tall glass of lemonade. Not for the first time that day he wondered what the hell one of his customers was doing buying a winter cap from him in such weather. It had been in one of the packages he had just shipped off and it wasn't going to one of the colder states up north where he himself had come from, no, it was going just to the other side of this stuffy town.
Castiel wondered how different the weather there could be from his part of town. Maybe he should go check it out just in case the city had an artificial winter retreat he wasn't familiar with. Regardless of the reasons this Impala67 person had to buy his work, he was grateful for it since the vast majority of his buyers lived nationally and their orders were coherent with the seasons, but Castiel's bills came all year long.
During summer he sold some crochet crop tops, slippers, some beach wear and his amigurumi figures were seasonless of course, but they weren't a big hit. Come autumn and winter, however, he has to do his physical therapy exercises with increased frequency, and just a few weeks into it he has to suspend the handmade orders.
He does prepare in advance and creates a considerable stock to sell during these seasons, but people prefer to personalize their sweaters and scarves and gloves with the very specific patterns and color options he offers and nobody has the hindsight to plan in advance for the winter. Unless that's what Impala67 had been doing, and thank God for that, because they were almost single handedly paying for Castiel's rent during the hotter part of the year.
Minutes later, the Omega unlocked the door to his tiny studio apartment and let himself in, leaving his shoes at the entrance area. Meg meowed in acknowledgment of his return but didn't move from her spot in one of the nooks in his yarn storage shelves. Castiel eyed the rolls she had kicked onto the floor to make space and sighed. It could be worse, he supposed; he could always come home to find her so tangled and stressed he had to cut off the threads to set her free and she might even have the audacity to scratch him in the process, for example. Which had happened before because cats just don't particularly care for the price of yarn or the integrity of human skin, it seems.
Castiel retrieved the rolls from the floor and shoved them into the other nooks before taking a cold shower to wash off all the sweat and blockers before he sat down to do his homework and study with his glass of lemonade. All of his classes that summer term were having tests that week, starting on Monday, and they weren't going to take themselves.
After taking his shower and preparing his drink (and also baking a batch of brownies because not even he was immune to some procrastination once in a while) he finally cracked up his books. A little more than an hour passed before he made a trip to the bathroom and got a piece of the now cool baked goods.
He couldn't help but look around at the little life he made for himself there and be immensely proud. It wasn't at all what he used to dream of but it was exactly what he needed after... after everything.
He loved his tiny apartment and even its questionable neighborhood, his reading nook under the window where he could also knit and crochet, his few most prized books on the shelves he had assembled himself. His bed was comfortable and every single knick-knack on the place brought him joy and reminded him of home. He even liked the California sun and the demonic cat that had invited herself to live with him and made her sorry ass his responsibility. He enjoyed his routine, he studied a subject he loved, he found satisfaction in his crafts and, thanks to the support of his brother, even managed to make a living out of it.
He was perfectly content. Happy, even.
In a very different way than when he thought what happiness would be when he was younger, yes, but happy nonetheless. He felt accomplished and proud. Not hopeless and lost like he'd been for a minute there, but filled with serenity, like he was back on the farm, floating on the still waters of the lake on the border of his father's land.
He would say he was living the dream, except that what he used to dream of was having an Alpha husband who adored and cherished him, a big country house and his own square of land to grow his flowers and his vegetables, a few pups running in the backyard, another one on his hip. All of his family using the knitted sweaters he'd made them. A peaceful, idyllic life, of watching sunrises and sunsets with a cup of coffee on the porch and the strong arms of his husband on his back.
But this was okay too.
Way more than okay, actually, he thought as Meg — who had finally left her usurped spot on the yarn stash — rubbed herself against his legs and lovingly (as he liked to believe) bit his ankles.
Going after all that had been his downfall once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.