Michael knew he wasn't in a position to fight and it wouldn't have hurt him to hear it said. He had more than enough other things to be hurt by. He turned to his brother, water bottle still in his hands. "You and Saint Agatha are right. I am in no condition to fight."
Even his words were weak. His throat was dry and parts of him were still healing themselves. He wouldn't be in a position to fight for hours. It was likely, however, that just the feel of Michael back on this plane would be enough to send Lucifer running. He would know a lost cause when he saw it.
"Lucifer won't want to risk fighting with three angels. Raphael, go to Uriel and Zadkiel. The Saints can stay behind with me until it is safe. Lucifer will likely run quickly. He will know he is outmatched. Take a gun. Don't doubt for a second he won't have one too."
Michael knew he was likely disgusting and he probably smelled. He tried to stand to move away from the puddle of slime that had once been inside him, but his muscles weren't ready yet and he fell back to the ground. "I appear to need assistance. I apologise about the smell." At least he didn't smell rotten any more.