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Claire's brushing off her hands when one eyebrow raises.

"Lucifer? How very awful sounding for all of us. But that's a lot of people from your world all in one spot. I think Wanda knows quite a few people as well from her world, either directly or by association."

It makes her wonder if she can expect more than just Lord John.

What if it's Black Jack? Christ, she'd have to warn everyone somehow. Could they lock up a man upon arrival? It isn't something she wants to consider and not a path of conversation she wants to go down right now. She watches as Michael rubs down the ewe, and it does smell nice; it most certainly has cooling properties and something to keep the sheep from itching.

"Why don't those specific humans like angels? That seems like a generalization, considering you and I get along just fine. I like to believe I'm an okay judge of character." Obviously not the best, but she's had her moments where her gut has told her to get the hell away as fast as possible. It hasn't happened at all in Abraxas yet, not that she can remember.

"Lucifer isn't quite the threat he once was. Thorne's borders keep him from causing trouble in Solvunn, at least for the time being. Nonetheless, I recommend you avoid him if you can; if you can't, avoid mentioning my name."

Becoming an item of interest to his siblings is an unfortunate consequence of getting friendly with Michael, and Lucifer's sense of play isn't unlike a cat batting around a small animal.

He moves to the sheep's back next, smoothing the balm across its skin in wide sweeps of his hand. The ewe, apparently at ease with the current proceedings, ducks her head and nibbles at the grass.

How does he explain the conflict between him and the Winchesters without starting at the very beginning? The whole affair seems so pointless now, knowing that it was all a game his Father was playing with Himself. What had been destiny to Michael had been nothing more than a short story for His entertainment—and Michael hadn't even been a main character.

"You've met me at a unique point in my life. There was a time when I wouldn't have bothered conversing with humans, and I wouldn't have hesitated to cut you down if you came between me and one of my Father's orders. Most of my kin were equally single-minded." Ruthless. Michael looks up from his task, his expression matter-of-fact. "These particular humans opposed the will of God. That made us enemies."

She can't imagine herself becoming chatty with anyone calling themselves Lucifer, but she does take note, and nods slowly in understanding. As he speaks and she watches him work, Claire takes note of his words. How does an archangel normally act? Of course, she has no point of reference, so she must take Michael at his word. There's no reason to doubt him, though.

"Obviously you're different now, so something changed. They have no consideration for you being more open-minded than not?"

There must be more to the story, but those details are up to him to share.

"What does it mean to refuse the will of God? To denounce Him and walk away or something more?"

Lucifer might not introduce himself by name. Even if he did, his brother can be both charming and charismatic when he puts his mind to it. He managed to convince Wanda that he's the victim in his own schemes. If Claire were to fall for his sob story too, Michael could only accuse her of being human.

He scoops another palmful of salve from the jar and then kneels, applying it to the ewe's stomach with the same efficient movements. Stray bits of wool and grass cling to his fingers. Claire guesses correctly: there have been changes in his life. They're few, but they're significant. There's no way of getting into that without explaining it all from the very beginning, though.

"Some grievances are too severe to forgive or forget," he says. He turns his head to peer over his shoulder, his expression flat. "Also, I'm not any more inclined to apologize for my part in our past than they are."

He doesn't like the Winchesters. They don't like him. Being on different parts of the continent is working for them.

Michael sets back to his task.

"It was more than that. It's a long story, but if you have time to hear it, I have time to tell it. What do you know of the Apocalypse?"

Claire's found that sharing back and forth with Michael has been easy, but she hasn't pushed for any reciprocation. Everyone's story is theirs to tell at their own pace, or at least she believes so. That may simply be her not wanting anyone to poke holes in her life and ask questions she isn't ready to answer. She hasn't run into that problem with him, or anyone else she's met so far, for that matter.

"You have no obligation to justify anything to me." She certainly has her own sins she won't apologize for or try to justify.

"I'm happy to hear your story. That's the perk of farm life: it's a bit slower at times. As for my knowledge of the Apocalypse, there are so many versions depending on which civilization we're speaking of. At a very basic level, and what I assume most people associate with the term, the End Times, Four Horsemen, et cetera. The book of Revelations, essentially."

If Michael hasn't been particularly forthcoming about his past up to now, it's only because sharing it hadn't occurred to him. Angels don't really do casual conversation, certainly not between the lower ranks and archangels. He's never had to tell any of the Host about the Apocalypse, anyway. They all knew the story. Most of them had been there when it happened.

"No, I don't." There's momentarily raised eyebrows and a hint of something that might be amusement on his face, but it's a flash at the surface and then it's gone.

He's an archangel, Claire. Of course an ego like his doesn't believe it needs to justify itself to anyone.

With the sheep now pretty thoroughly coated in a balm that Michael suspects is at least as much if not more ritual and tradition than actually useful, he reaches for the clean rag she offered earlier. He could snap his fingers and be done with it, but he might as well have something to do with his hands while he speaks. Farm life is slower indeed.

"Some of what you know applies. The bible is as much embellishment and outright lies as it is truth. The original conflict was between my brother Lucifer and our Father. Our Father created humanity and asked us to love them above all else, even Himself. Lucifer refused. Eventually he was cast out of Heaven and into Hell." And oh boy is he ever glossing over the details of how that went down, but she wanted to know about why the Winchesters hate him. His issues with Lucifer will have to wait for another day. "The Apocalypse was meant to be the moment I faced him again—our final battle. Our fight would have meant the death of a few billion humans. Dean Winchester was intended to be my earthly vessel for the task, but he refused."

Michael decides that's a sizable first bite, and pauses, giving her a moment to chew on it. He wipes the sticky balm off of his fingers without looking at them as he waits for either a question or a nod to proceed.

Claire is listening intently, gathering the wool and collecting it in a burlap sack. It all basically tracks with what she knows, what she remembers from the few Sunday school classes she ever attended, and the pious Bible reading she was told to do.

"From a human perspective, stopping the apocalypse is the theme. A battle against heaven and hell that someone on Earth must inevitably solve. Which...seems not too far from the truth?"

That's her confirmation that she's following so far, since she hasn't looked up from her collecting.

Michael frowns, unhappy with the reminder that humans inevitably jump straight to the thought of stopping the Apocalypse. Thousands of years of prophecy and effort, all gone to waste thanks to a pair of men who couldn't handle the thought of following the rules.

Hands and fingers now clean, he folds up the rag, dirty surface towards the inside.

"It wasn't for them to stop or solve, it was their place to play their role. We already had a solution. All I needed was a body. This..." He gestures at himself, but he doesn't have the right words for Adam's former flesh. This body is what? A loaner? A gift? Just a seat he's keeping warm? Almost a year into wearing it solo, it might as well be his. "I didn't have a physical form of my own at the time. Angels are composed of grace and celestial intent."

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