The reminder that Lucifer should never be allowed freedom of choice if he can help it resonates through his domain. If Castiel was napping in some part of the church again, or tucked under a bush, he surely isn't anymore. Michael twitches at the sound, feathers he hasn't bothered to manifest lifting in a startled gesture. A dark frown quickly overtakes his impassive expression.

"It's fully within my power to kick you out of here."

It wouldn't be the first time. Michael has tossed his brother out of far more exclusive digs than the Horizon. Not that Lucifer likely needs the reminder.

Fine, then. If Lucifer wants to be spoonfed, that's nothing new to Michael, either. He'd done it for millennia with the Host. It was shocking the ways they'd interpret his orders if he didn't get incredibly specific about the details of what he wanted them to do.

"Day-to-day offerings don't typically involve a sacrifice. It would be inconvenient to have to clean chicken blood from your walls and floor every time you wanted to check the contents of your closet, don't you think?" Michael snaps his fingers, and a set of six bottles disappear from one of the shelves and appear on the closest table. "A substance manufactured from those ingredients had to be painted on the door."

He stalks over to it, draws the symbol from the abduction site onto the door just as he did when they opened the real thing—minus Wanda's helpful corrections from over his shoulder, but he has a good memory. Though there's nothing on his finger, a line of the black substance appears in its wake nonetheless.

When he's done, the door obligingly clicks open. Michael turns around and steps aside again.

"Any questions?"

As he'd said at one point: it's not terribly different from magic in their own world. They just use different ingredients and symbols.