Five days after the Apocalypse that wasn't, Castiel woke up to the terrifying sensation of being suddenly soaked in very cold water. He scrambled a little belatedly and desperately for the knife on the nightstand (Sam didn't trust him to sleep with it under his pillow), only to be pushed off the other side of the bed.
Still tangled in the bedcovers, it took a few minutes to work himself free and peer warily over the edge of the bed through wet hair. Bobby promptly threw boxers and a towel at him, before settling back with crossed arms. "The idjits are pussy-footing around the issue all worried about yer feelings, but someone's gotta do something, and apparently it's going to be me." There was a single beat of silence. "You smell, Feathers. Ever heard of a shower?"
"I participated in the requisite cleansing to remove the dragon innards shortly after the devil was incarcerated once more," Castiel put forth cautiously, deciding that the inquiry of his hearing was mostly rhetorical. "Dean prescribes immediate submersion for anything that can be described as oddly-colored viscous goo."
"And in the last two years, you never noticed that the boys take showers on a more daily basis?" Bobby grunted, skepticism obvious.
"They are rather often covered in oddly-colored viscous goo," Castiel mumbled softly.
Bobby threw up his arms in exasperation and wheeled around. "Idjits!"