milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Dean's changing the oil on the Impala. Sam should be in the motel room, working on gathering more background information for their next case.

He can't make himself sit still long enough to focus.

After the sixth circuit of the room, he throws his hands in the air and stalks through the door to Milliways instead.

At least there he can grab better coffee than the cheap vending machine crap, right?

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"My face is just stuck this way."

It used to be, at least. And her default expression still tends to be more dour than most.

"My brother despairs."

"Brothers are like that sometimes," he confides, relaxing further.

Her mouth twitches at one corner.

"At least you have only the one."

She has uncounted legions. It can be tiresome.

Without even an instant's hesitation:

"I don't need any more. I have Dean."

"I wasn't offering to lend mine out."

Michael runs her finger around the rim of her coffee cup.

It obligingly refills itself. And reheats.

"I don't think you'd like them much, anyway."

Sam shrugs, and nods to her coffee cup.

"Nice trick."

"I've got a lot of them."

It's part of the package, in its way.

"Do you want me to top you up?"

"... sure, why not."

"No iocane powder up my sleeve," Michael says wryly, unsmiling.

She leans forward, fingertip touching the very rim of the cup on the table that isn't hers.

Hopefully Sam likes really hot dark roast.

"Not that any passerby would be able to tell from your expression."

"What?"

Sam blinks at her in confusion.

Michael lets out an unladylike snort.

"Never mind."

He rolls his eyes.

"Angels."

It's just deadpan enough to be a joke.

"Archangels, Sam."

She's still not smiling, though one of her eyebrows is arched.

"We're a very different breed."

Not that breed is the right word.

"Yeah?"

Sam studies her, his own flickering attempt at humor gone.

"How so?"

"For one, I pick my own wardrobe."

Did her T-shirt always have a cartoon rabbit making a rude gesture?

Maybe.

But probably not.

He sighs.

"Fine, be that way. It was a serious question."

Michael merely spreads her hands.

"What do you think might be different about archangels?"

It's a reasonable enough place to start.

There are certain things that must be believed to be seen, after all.

"Considering nothing about angels so far has been what I expected, I haven't a freakin' clue."

"You should."

Here Michael does smile, crooked and wry.

"Or your memory is a lot more terrible than you let on."

"You're not exactly what I expected an angel to be either," Sam informs her, although more quietly and less acidly than before.

"... but I do remember. When you, uh, spoke to me."

A beat.

"And that you're not that fond of demons."

That part's dry as dust.

"My brother hardly counts. Nor do you, as yet."

Her own voice is equally as dry.

"As for the rest -- that's largely the point, these days."

She lifts her cup of coffee up again, taking a long swallow.

"Armor works best against what it's built to anticipate."

"Your br-- wait, what do you mean, as yet?"

"My brother. Lucifer. Not yours, of course. But he did come home. Eventually."

She takes another long swallow of coffee.

"You're going to need to remember that. Your brother, too. Tell him for me, will you?"

Sam shoves his chair back, his expression settling into bleak lines and his tone instantly flat and grim.

"You and Cas both."

Beat.

"Told you before you were talking to the wrong Winchester. Fine. I'll tell him what you said."

"Already you're forgetting, Sam."

For one flickering instant Michael sounds tired.

She looks it, too.

"But I'll be here to remind you."

As often as it takes, and then once more.

For luck.

Or maybe for love.

"Never fear."