"Twinkle twinkle little star,
How I wonder What the Fuck,
Up there fluttering about the sky,
Like a dickass kinda guy,
Buttercup! Hey Mikey? Pronto. Amen."
There was the sound of rustling feathers.
"What was that?" Michael curled his lip in disgust, "Didn't anyone teach you how to pray?"
"My Daddy wasn't all that religious, y'know. Having your life ripped apart in the name of some deadbeat God's apocalypse doesn't make for a pious soul." Dean shrugged and gave his trademark smirk.
"You have hit your stumbling block." Michael intoned.
Dean glanced behind the archangel to where Castiel had the edge of the altar in a death grip and Sam… well Sam had a look of complete petrified horror.
Michael noticed Dean's eye movement and swiveled around in one of those unnatural motions that sucked it to Dean that he was looking at an occupied vessel. Not that Dean was going to forget that for an instant. It hurt bad seeing John's young handsome features, a reminder of all the pain his Dad still had to face when Michael finished using him as an angel condom and wiped his memory.
"Well, well, if it isn't the disobedient former seraph who thought he could Molotov me into oblivion, and my brother's own specially crafted chew toy." Michael smile was chilled with ice, "Aren't you going to say Hello, Sam? We spent so long as cellmates."
"Up yours." Sam choked out.
"I should roast you." Michael clicked his fingers. Flames licked at Sam's legs.
Dean yelled, "How fucking dare you! Leave Sammy alone."
He couldn't breathe. This whole crap-fair was going from clusterfuck to utter FURBAR. Sam was frozen in place, letting out extreme nasal huffs, so much Dean was thinking of hyperventilation and paper bags. He looked down. Michael's boots straddled two holy oil rings. Dean's Zippo had gotten kicked towards the altar. He eye jerked Castiel to pick it up. He needed to get Michael to take a step to the left or the right.
Within seconds the stench of burning hair and denim signaled that Sam was actually catching fire. His little brother grimaced in pain but wouldn't give Michael the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.
As if it was a random gesture Michael flicked his wrist and there were no flames. Sam's jeans were not even blackened. "… but I won't BBQ you Sam. Lucifer would not be pleased. I have enough to deal with cleaning up the consequences of his environmental temper tantrums."
Dean mouthed over to Sam, YOU GOOD?
Sam swallowed hard and put on a brave face. He nodded but Dean didn't believe him.
Michael turned towards Dean, "So monkey, as distracting as it is to toy with your brother, why have you called at this time?"
Dean glared hate at the douchebag, "Come over here and deal with me."
"I have told you…" Michael swept a hand over John Winchester's body, "…Archangel. No deals. Also I am comfortable here between your pathetic circles of sacred oil, thank you."
Dean cussed internally, licked his lips and began to explain, "We have lost our demon…"
Michael mocked him, "Lost? Misplaced? Where did you last see the abomination?"
"He escaped…" Dean tried again.
"Not a problem. I am sure I can obtain the corruption." Michael said smugly.
"That is not why I…" The word caught in Dean's throat, "…prayed to you." He took a deep inhalation, "The Grace… Cas's Grace for the spell. We, that is… Metatron said the original spell devoured it. It is gone."
"Atoms on the wind." Castiel quoted gravely.
Michael tilted his head, "You wish me to discover if the scribe was speaking a falsehood, and to seek out any traces of the spilled Grace."
"In a nutshell," Dean gave a firm nod.
Michael went absolutely still.
Dean gaped open mouthed at Castiel's confidential whisper that he thought it unlikely that his Grace was secreted in a nutshell.
Dean leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Michael's face. "He's zoned out Sammy. You think Elvis has left the building?"
"Naw, Dean. He's on angel radio." Sam gave a dry cough to clear his throat and gazed down at his legs as if he could hardly believe he was uninjured. He shot a murderous look at Michael. "Fucking asshole."
Dean was relieved to see the anger. He considered it a normal healthy response to Michael's dick move. Sam's rage face made the pressure on Dean's heart lighten.
Michael remained mannequin like. His chest did not rise and fall. Dean kept an eye on the lips for signs of cyanosis.
"True."
Dean startled back at the resounding word from the archangel.
"There is but one deposit of Castiel's Grace. To procure it I would be required to GIZ IAX AL DON GETA."
Castiel looked aghast. Dean resisted spitting out a request for the assbutt to speak American.
Michael continued, "This would best be translated from the Enochian as open cast fracking. I can mine for it using my Grace to extract the ore."
"Peachy," Dean responded, "Let's get fracking."
Dean liked the sound of it. Even the word was like a mish-mash of Fricking and Cracking. He did have a vague memory of some TV news special Sam watched which exposed the environmental damage caused by both pumping millions of gallons of water into the ground, and of open cast mining, but freaking hell, this was to reverse Metatron's monumental expulsion of angels all over the planet.
"Sign me up," He clicked his tongue at the archangel, "Gold in them there hills. Panning for Grace nuggets. Tunnels and those funny rail track lever trucks. Where is the seam of Cas's diamond Grace?"
Michael stared at him, "In you."
"What now?"
"In you Dean. The righteous man remade. My sword reconstituted. My true vessel knitted back together and purged of Hell's taint, all with Castiel's Grace. Also profoundly bonded as an unforeseen consequence. Time to break those ties. I can remove all trace of Castiel from you by fracking your soul with an in-pouring of my Grace. It will wash the other's Grace from you at a subatomic level, breaking you back down to your molecules and chemical bonds. It will wipe his essence clean from your body, mind and soul."
