As odd as it is, Michael supposes that gossiping with Lucifer about their least favourite human is no stranger than finding himself in a backwards, pagan-worshiping farming commune after being all but certain that he'd ceased to exist. Nothing has felt quite right since he was pulled out of that well. This might as well happen.

Since neither of them seems to be leaving, and neither of them seems inclined to fight, Michael slides into the closest chair.

"For once, we don't disagree. Wings don't suit him." Putting aside that he'd adopted Castiel, Dean had rejected everything about the angels: their plans for him, the life after death Heaven offered, and Michael himself. What right did he have to a pair of wings?

"I don't suppose you've been the recipient of the Singularity's beneficence?"