Chapter Text
Most mornings, Castiel wakes as dawn’s tendrils seep into his apartment, soft, golden light filling the bedroom, warming his eyelids. Today, he is woken not by the sunrise, but by Victor. The mattress dips beside him, and he is roused with a kiss to the temple. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times, and whatever dream he’d been having ebbs away with his unconsciousness. He smiles and sits up.
“Morning, bed-head,” Victor ruffles his hair fondly. He's almost completely dressed, missing only slacks and shoes. He's always walking around in dress socks and boxers. He doesn’t wait for Castiel to respond before shoving the morning’s paper in his face. He can smell the peppery scent of news ink. “Look at this; Roman’s still dragging us through the dirt. Man, I’d like to rip him a new one,” he grumbles, pointing a finger at the pixelated image. “He doesn’t know the first thing about oysters. The man is from Kentucky for Christ’s sake! Honestly, I don’t know why anyone in this industry bothers with his reviews.”
Castiel suppresses a grin at his grumbling and laces their fingers together. “Three stars isn’t bad, sweetheart,” he tries. Victor snorts.
“It is when you deserve five!” He kisses Castiel again before standing and plucking his coat from the hatstand. “I have to be in early. We’re getting more lobster at eight and you know how useless Crowley is. I’ll have to make sure it’s all in order.” He clucks his tongue, stepping around a stack of cookbooks on the floor. “You really need to put these away, before one of us breaks our neck. Oh, and can you check the mail? I think that baking magazine came in, and Chuck wants to borrow your copy. See you for dinner?” He hardly waits for Castiel's ‘yes, dear,’ before taking off out the front door and down the steps. Castiel yawns and stretches. His cotton pajamas drag on the floor as he crosses the room to peer out through the sheer curtains to the sidewalk below. Victor marches down the street, as if into battle. But then, working at an award winning restaurant in New York City is its own war.
Castiel smiles softly and pads to his computer. Victor is right; there are cookbooks and magazines covering nearly every inch of flat surface in his apartment. Where he is to put them away however, he has no clue. The bookshelves are stuffed to capacity, and there isn’t room for more. But Castiel likes it that way. He likes being surrounded by recipes and articles and photographs of delicious food. They’re like old friends, sharing old family secrets through glossy pages. The walls are decorated with framed reviews, milestone tributes, and yellowed newspaper clippings regarding the shop. Photographs of his mother and siblings are pinned to the bulletin board, along with postcards from numerous road trips and family vacations he has passed up to stay and run the business. The kitchen, in comparison to the rest of the apartment, is spotless. Castiel’s mother taught him at a very young age to keep the kitchen tidy. Efficiency and quality are greatly improved with an orderly workspace. He sits down at the cluttered desk, sinking into his comfy, plush chair. A crisp breeze ripples through the open window, along with the sounds of the city. Castiel waits for his laptop to power up, toes curling against the hardwood in anticipation. As soon as it is on, he logs into his email and checks his inbox. Four new messages.
From: Anna Milton
To: Castiel Novak
Subject: Honeymoon pictures!
From: Balthazar Fremont
To: Castiel Novak
Subject: your wretched girlfriend
From: KA2Y5
To: bakeryboy
Subject: Baby
From: Sarah Blake
To: Castiel Novak
Subject: Re: Cake Design
Castiel skips the first two messages, rolling his eyes at the second. His heart rate increases as he clicks the third. The email opens and he hungrily devours the text.
Baby is my ’67 chevy impala. She sits in a garage for weeks at a time, and most days I stop by to turn her on and check the engine, even though I know she hasn’t gone anywhere. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city and all, but there’s something about the open road I’ll never get used to missing. I take road trips sometimes, upstate, when things aren’t too hectic. You wouldn’t believe the views. Or maybe you would. Maybe you’re from somewhere with lots of pretty landscapes and shit. Man, you better not be Canadian. That’s the kinda thing I’d know about you if we knew each other. Do you have a car?
Castiel reads through the message four times, and then he begins to type.
No, I do not have a car, nor a license. I am, however, in possession of a bicycle. And to answer your unasked question, yes, I have spent time in a place with pretty landscapes. Alberta, actually. I lived there from ages sixteen to eighteen. Don’t worry though, I’m not Canadian. I must admit, this whole anonymous thing can be rather irksome at times. Every morning I am ecstatic to log onto my computer, scroll down past emails from my sister and old college roommate, until I reach your screen name. KA2Y5. I read your messages at least twice before responding, and even then, I sometimes go back later to read them again. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s the fact that I feel somewhat of a bond between us. Kindred spirits, if you will. Either way, the best part of my day is reading notes from someone I do not know, and may not ever know. Do you have any cats?
Satisfied with his response, Castiel clicks the little green SEND arrow at the top of the webpage and signs off. He quickly searches Google Images for a 1967 Chevrolet Impala and smiles. He closes his laptop and turns away, chest still thumping slightly. By the time he’s showered and dressed, though, KA2Y5 is somewhere at the back of his mind. He has so much to do today. A wedding cake delivery at ten (he’ll send Jo, yes, she’s always good with deliveries, and, somehow, always ends up making extra in tips), a baby shower pick up at noon (Garth is incredible with women, despite his lemur eyes and scrawny stature, he’ll be able to sell them at least double their order), and there will no doubt be at least a dozen walk-ins for birthday cakes all day. Castiel dresses swiftly and leaves his apartment. He stops at a coffeeshop on his way to the bakery, and at the farmer’s market he buys a couple pumpkins, the small ones. He can set up a nice little display in the window with some cupcakes. Yes, those fondant turkeys will look adorable.
Manhattan truly is a sight to behold in Autumn. The sounds of the city fill his body, making his nerves buzz with something more than caffeine. Things always happens in Autumn. A young mother pushes a stroller as she walks a little dog, talking cheerfully into a cellphone. Two men negotiate a fair price for cod. Castiel catches a whiff from the back of the delivery truck as he passes. He scrunches his nose and takes a long sip of espresso. Even these unsavory moments brighten his day; they are the goings-on of the city, all part of a massive machine. A flock of birds takes off out of a small tree, chirping overhead. Joggers lope along the curb, into Central Park. Castiel imagines the sound of an old, boxy car rumbling down the street. Vendors are still setting up their little carts, and he is tempted to buy a donut or something, as he’d skipped breakfast again. Victor is always lecturing him about the importance of regular mealtimes. He supposes chefs are like that, all persnickety about anything to do with food. As a baker, he is much more mellow, much more easygoing. He purchases an onion bagel to appease the sound of Victor's voice in his head, and eats it as he walks. The bread is warm and soft, more enjoyable than expected for being bought off the street. Or perhaps he’s just in a rather good mood. As he approaches the bakery, a small, blonde figure waves from her spot on the little green bench. Castiel grins and hands her the pumpkins.
“Good morning, Joanna Beth,” he sings. Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Someone’s happy this morning,” she says, voice still sleepy, as Castiel unlocks the front door. Castiel shrugs.
“It’s a nice day,” he sighs, letting them into the bakery. Jo grumbles incoherently and follows him inside. Castiel sees the place everyday, and yet he’ll never get used to that first moment every morning, walking in after being away for a good twelve hours. It’s warm and friendly and cozy and his absolute favorite place on Earth. Filled with memories of his childhood. It smells like flaky croissants, like half-baked cookie dough, like just-whipped buttercream frosting. Like honey and biscuits. He flips the lights on and retrieves the fondant turkeys from one of the big, industrial refrigerators in the back. He hums and takes the little pumpkins from Jo. He unpacks the little bag of straw he’d brought with him and begins setting up a display.
“Are you humming?” Jo asks incredulously from behind him. Castiel glances over his shoulder and blushes.
“No. I’m just… talking to myself. How was your exam?” He continues to hum.
“Totally bombed it,” she scrutinizes him for a moment. “You’re totally humming. What’s with you today? Something’s got you all loopy.” Castiel puts the finishing touches on his display and takes a step back, appraising his work.
“Needs some pilgrims, I think,” he murmurs to himself, still smiling. “Bombed it? Can you ask for a retake?”
Jo rolls her eyes and fetches two aprons from the kitchen, ignoring his question. She tosses one to Castiel and ties her own on, still eyeing him suspiciously. Castiel takes his place behind the large wooden counter and begins rolling pretzel dough. The humming starts up again. Jo sits on a barstool across from him and crosses her arms.
“I’m not doing any work ’til you tell me what’s going on.” Her expression is one of great determination, and Castiel can’t help but laugh. He sighs in defeat.
“Alright. Fine. Let me ask you something.” He takes a great pause, deliberating on how to phrase his next words. “Would you consider an online friendship adultery?” He stops his kneading to gauge Jo’s reaction. She raises her eyebrows again.
“You have an online relationship? Didn’t even know you had the technical savvy to turn a computer on.”
“Just answer,” says Castiel, smudging flour on her nose.
Jo purses her lips. “I mean, it depends. Is it sexy?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know. Sexy. Is it kinky? Like sexting.”
“Um. No. Not at all. It’s just.. I don’t know. We just talk.” Castiel drops his gaze from Jo’s unbroken stare. She ‘hmph’s.
“Well, if it’s not sexy, then I don’t see how it could be considered cheating. Anyway, who is this person?”
“Just someone I met in a chatroom,” Castiel blushes again. He isn’t normally one to peruse online forums, but he’d felt a bit lonely, and the internet is a well-known cure to loneliness. And, incidental, also an aggravator.
“You go on chatrooms? Aren’t you just full of surprises today!”
Castiel returns to kneading. “It was sort of a low point in my week. And you know, I’m considering ending our correspondence. I don’t even know the guy.”
“Well. Then you definitely won’t meet him. Unless you already have. He could be a regular and you’d never even know it.” The bells above the door jangle as she finishes her sentence, announcing Garth’s arrival. Jo turns to him, leaning back against the counter on her elbows. “Garth, do you sext?”
“All the time. Why, you wanna give me your number?” He waggles his brows and Jo mimes gagging.
“You already have my number, idiot, and if you ever sext me, I’ll shove your cellphone up your—“
The bells chime again, and in steps Frank. He’s an older man, in his late sixties, whose mind is slowly deteriorating. But he makes the best apple pie New York has ever tasted, so Castiel keeps him around. Plus, the man is a family friend.
“What are you kids chatting about?” He asks, waddling over to the counter, arms overflowing with bags of fresh gala, granny smith, fuji, and golden delicious apples. His scarf trails on the ground, dragging a few dead leaves into the shop by its end tassels.
“Sexting,” Jo answers, and thus commences the day’s topic of conversation. She and Frank swap stories as they stock the fridge, while Garth takes the phone line. Castiel flips the closed sign and rounds the counter, ready for the first customer of the day.