Castiel's welcome is a sharp narrowing of Michael's eyes. Don't you 'brother' him. He's still irritated about events that his little brother has no way of remembering, because he hasn't taken those actions yet.

Michael looks him over, his expression as judgemental as it's ever been. He's younger than the last time Michael saw him.

"Castiel. I see the Singularity's had its way with you. I don't suppose you remember our last meeting?" It had gone better than the one before: no one had been handcuffed, and no one had been strangled. They'd had bigger problems than one another at the time.

Michael sweeps away without waiting for an answer, satisfied with the apparent amount of discomfort his presence in his personal space causes Castiel, and takes a seat in the middle of the front pew like he owns the place—because, well, he does. He'd act the same even if he didn't, though.

"Charming little establishment, isn't it? I'm rather fond of the stained glass, though they never do get the wings right."

He motions off to one side, to the colourful window that depicts an armored angel bearing a flaming sword.