01 The Lazarus' Monday

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Dean slowly opened his eyes. He pulled his arms from under the
duvet and started stretching, still in a lovely haze of semi-
awakening. Eyelids hiding his green eyes fluttered, then widened
wildly. Dean froze mid-stretch; arms spread wide, hands
clenched, tense muscles rippling under the skin of his shoulders.
“The fu… wha… hell…?!” he mumbled vacantly.
“Dean” said Castiel, stir naked, leaning low over the pillow
supporting the Winchester‟s head.
“Ca… Cass?!” Dean rasped, goggling at the angel. For a moment
they looked at each other, their noses almost connecting;
heavenly blue angel‟s eyes glaring fixedly into the man‟s green
irises. Finally Dean‟s eyes broke free and, widening still, begun a
slow descent. Castiel stood there hunched, with his hands
resting on both sides of the pillow. Dean‟s gaze slid down across
the angel‟s bare chest, across his stomach (Winchester‟s eyes
were now so wide, one could see post-sleep bloodshot circles of
sclera around his irises), to… Dean shut his eyes so quickly and
intensely, his long eyelashes curled between folds of his eyelids.
“Dean,” Castiel repeated. “What has happened?”
Dean absolutely refused to open his eyes again, but he started to
wriggle, trying to snake his way out from under the naked angel‟s
body cornering him in his bed. He halted suddenly and looked
up, his thoughts slightly more lucid.
Castiel‟s face was so close to his own it seemed blurry. Dean
hurriedly raised his hands and pressed them against his friend‟s
shoulders, pushing him away and at the same time making sure
he was dealing with a physical creature and not a ghost or a
figment of a nightmare. His fingers closed on a cool, smooth skin,
found muscles and bones underneath. Dean choke on air.
“Ca… Castiel?” he mumbled. “Dammit,
Cass
?”
“Dean,” the angel repeated impatiently.
“
Cass
?!”
“It‟s me.”
“But…
Cass
…?!”
“Do I look different?” asked the angel, completely unfazed by the
single-trackedness of their conversation.
“
Cass
!” Dean yelled, jumping out of the bed and wrapping his
arms around the angel‟s neck in a mindless, crazy hug.
“The hell?!” he added after a second, pushing Castiel away,
sitting down and quickly wrapping the duvet around his waist.
His bare feet slapped the floor next to the angel‟s bare feet. He
dodged warily, jumped to the middle of the room and halted
there, duvet-wrapped, with tousled hair and bewilderment
written on his face.
“Dude,” he pointed accusing finger at Castiel, who turned to
follow him with his gaze. “Decency?
Lack
of… thereof…?
Castiel tilted his head left, mouth agape in confusion. His eyes
followed Dean like blue bees following the scent of honey.
“What has happened, Dean?” he repeated.
“What has… Wha…?” Dean paused to catch a deep, shaky
breath. He dug his fists into his sides, suddenly under the
impression that all blood had drained from his face, and his legs
turned to jelly. “What‟s
happened
, Cass? How, the fudge, shall I
know, what‟s happened?!”
An idea flashed in the depth of his haunted eyes. Suddenly he
slapped himself across the face. There was a very loud clap. Dean
moaned, swayed backwards, nearly losing a grip on the duvet,
regained the hold at the very last moment and pulled the quilt
up, almost to his armpits.
“It is not a dream,” said Castiel.
“I can damn well feel it‟s not!” Dean yelled. A clear, read outline of
his own fingers started emerging on his cheek. “Couldn‟t you say
it sooner? …
Owww
…?”
“Dean…”
“Don‟t you
dean
me! This… This is not…
healthy
! No! It‟s not
normal
! Dude… You… This… D‟ya wanna
kill
me?!”
“I‟ve never wished for your demise.” The surprised angel made a
single step towards him. Dean jumped back gracefully.
“And
this
!” he shouted, pointing his finger slightly below Castiel‟s
midriff. “This… This
detail
could well have stayed a mystery!”
Castiel halted and looked down his body, from the bare chest to
bare toes. He raised at Dean his light eyes under the eyebrows
arched in pure surprise.
“Does my nakedness seem repulsive to you?” he whispered.
“Your… nakedness… doesn‟t seem…” Words entangled Dean very
much like the duvet. He had to gasp again, slowly and shakily.
“Repulsive,” he finished bravely. “But it is
nakedness
! Cass…
nakedness! Like, „no clothing? Like „pantless‟?
“Oh, no!” he grumbled instantly, noticing that Castiel had opened
his mouth to answer. “Don‟t you tell me it‟s the robe we wear
when we pass through the Pearly Gates or something! Really…
Cass…
Don’t
!”
“Dean,” Castiel interrupted, a shard of an ounce of impatience in
his voice. “Do we have to discuss my… my lack of pants?”
“We don‟t!” Dean shouted. He looked around wildly, grabbed his
own, tangled jeans from the armchair‟s seat and threw them at
the angel. “Verily, we don‟t! So, make thyself decent!”
He realised he was falling into biblical manner, so he shut his
mouth and slumped onto the armchair, still safely cocooned with
the duvet.
“No, seriously, put it on,” he gasped. “And give me a moment.
Just a sec.”
Castiel pulled the pants over his naked skin and quickly did the
zipper. The jeans slid down loosely from his waist, but at least
hung on his hips. Castiel moved them clumsily.
“That is not comfortable,” he said.
“Well, get over it,” Dean growled.
“Can I get some underwear?”
“Jeez Christ and all the angels!” Dean yelled. “Stop. Full stop!
You‟re dressed! End with that! Now talk!”
“What about?”
“What about?
What
?! Cass, the last time I saw you, you exploded
under water! The Leviathans atomised you! D‟you know what was
left of you?!
A trench-coat
!”
“Do you have my trench-coat?” Castiel asked.
Dean closed his eyes for a moment and counted to ten, not even
attempting to pretend he wasn‟t doing it. Moving his lips he
counted back to zero and opened his eyes again.
The angel was still standing in the middle of the motel room,
trousers hanging loosely, shoulders bent, colourful neon light
from outside the window crawling across his bare chest.
“I am sorry, Dean,” he said quietly. He crossed his arms on his
chest, as if, for the first time, he had become aware of, if not
ambiguity, then at least awkwardness of the situation. He was
never that good in detecting awkwardness. “I did not think to
cover my shame. I beheld you in your bed…”
“
Cass
!” Dean gasped.
“S… saw you,” Castiel corrected. “In bed. I did not even know
where I was. What has happened, Dean. How did you do it?”
“Did what? Who did?”
“You and Sam. And maybe Bobby Singer.”
Dean bit on his lower lip and ran his hand through his
dishevelled hair, right to the nape of his neck, where he squeezed
his fingers trying to stop the pain radiating from the back of his
head.
“Cass,” he whispered. “You really think we… That me and
Sammy, and Bobby… What? Raised you from the dead?”
Castiel furrowed his brow and pursed his lips in uneasy
anticipation.
Dean laughed joylessly.
“Dude, we wouldn‟t even know where to start. Don‟t overestimate
us. Anyway, you‟ve never told us where the angels go after they
die.”
“Nowhere, apparently,” Cass said tearfully. “Or to a room in the
Silver Pond Motel.” He smiled wanly, his eyes glimmering as if
ready to spill fountains of tears. “I do not remember anything,
Dean. I wish… I wish I could recall… the might… that raised me
from the fall… There‟s nothing…”
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