Work Text:
Dean lowered his beer when Cas came out to him. The ang--human--still looked pretty beat up, and his Bad News face was getting easier to recognize.
Dean hated that face.
"Dean, I feel that I should inform you... I can no longer hear prayers."
Dean set his beer on the long library table (Sam'd bitch about watermarks later, like the girl he was) and considered what Cas wasn't saying. "So you can't hear me or Sammy when we're somewhere else." Oh hey, thought. "That normal for fallen angels? 'Cause that'd mean Metatron..."
"Is the only angel currently hearing prayers, yes."
Dean laughed. "Well, I bet Bruce Almighty's having a ball up there." Cas cocked his head inquisitively, and Dean thumped his shoulder companionably. "C'mon, man. Movie time for you."
As he escorted Cas into the home theater he'd jerry-rigged (the old '50's screen was good for more than ancient, demon-curing home videos), Dean sent a new prayer.
Metatron, you dick, we're coming for you. I don't know if anyone else is listening, but I promise you that Sam and I are coming for your wings, you fucking feathered dick. You won't get away with sweeping your problems through the Pearly Gates onto Earth, and you DEFINITELY don't get away with drop-kicking Cas out of his home.
Far away, a long-haired man with ripped tee leaned back and whooped. "Got 'im, ladies! Can I track a prayer, or can I track a prayer?"