almaasi:

A half-baked donut hit the wall tiles with a splop.

The donut remained stuck for a moment, then folded down on itself, and slumped into a mushy, doughy pile on the workbench.

Dean seethed, fingers clawed around his cheeks. “That. Is. It,” he said aloud, more to himself than the other people in his peripheral vision. “I am not working like this.” He let his hands drop, shaking his head. Reaching up, he took off his white chef’s hat, and handed it to his brother. “Sammy, here. Take this.”

Sam startled. “Wait— You’re not quitting—?”

“What? Hell no.” Dean had a spark of fury in his eyes. “I’m going to write to the company. I’m going to tell them, in words, how disgusted I am with the quality of their flour products, and dammit, Sam, I am going to post it.”

Sam breathed out in relief. “Okay. Yeah. You— You do that.” He nodded quickly.

Dean rolled up his sleeves. “Now,” he said crisply, “Someone get me the address.”

♥

Castiel entered his library and shed his snow-flecked beekeeper’s coat, holding it out to his side with a stretched arm. As he walked forward, he waved it, hoping it would catch on something, and when it did – a chair – he let it fall.

With a sigh, he welcomed the warmth of the inside air upon his cold cheeks. He found his desk below the window, and pulled out his armchair to sit.

In his hand, he held a letter delivered while he’d been outside, checking his bees were warm enough. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling the smell of the envelope.

Hmm. Sweet! How unusual.

With a thumb, he opened up the envelope, fumbling inside until he pulled out the folded paper.

The aroma immediately overwhelmed him. “Oh,” he whispered, as shocks of lightning struck him in the heart, in the palms of his hands, sending prickles down his back and through his chest.

Sugar. Sweet, sweet perfume.

“Oh— Oh,” he breathed again, grasping the letter to his face, breathing in deeply. The air gushed out through his mouth, but he quickly inhaled again. The scent brought tears to his eyes, and he found himself trembling, a weak smile caught on his lips.

Blinking through his tears, he scoured the page for something to read.

The handwriting seemed blocky, not the delicate cursive swirls he was accustomed to trying to decipher. He breathed easily now, sinking back into his chair, pulling the letter close, settling down to enjoy whatever message accompanied such a splendid perfume.

To whom it may concern
(And I assure you, sir or madam, it should concern you a GREAT DEAL):

As a long term customer of Oregon Miller flour products, I am appalled to inform you that THIS, sir or madam, is the THIRD bag of disappointment I have purchased from your company. In ONE WEEK. My flans will not set. My donuts fall to grit in the mouth, if they even bake through. The dust these bags emit are not the happy clouds of white that I grew up breathing in. These smell foul. I refuse to go on using your products if something is not done about this issue.

Yours sincerely (and very unhappily),
D. Winchester
Winchester Family Bakery
16th Street
Portland, Oregon

Castiel shook his head. This letter wasn’t intended for him.

But, somehow, a thread of excitement tugging in his heart made him feel that it was, in fact, very much meant for him.

♥

Paramour by Post • 18k • read on AO3~!!