One of the many truths about life nowadays is that assumptions are a waste of time, but apart from malicious cases, it's generally not a sin or a fault to assume something: it's inherent to human nature, correlated to the natural instinct of making hypotheses and being curious. So really, questioning and wondering is good, but in some cases, it really is pointless.
When everything is said and done, and Amara and Michael exchange a curt nod and a look that aren't a reconciliation yet, but don't seem cold or hateful either, for all their divergencies the archangel—or, well, technically God—does spare the Winchester brothers a look that seems to say, no, assert: don't mess anything up and if you do, don't bother praying.
(“Oh, okay, cool. Wait, hang on, what time is it again?”)
Then, out of the blue, Michael simply announces, “We'll be off.”
And it's not like they're planning on having a celebratory dinner together, but it's been, what, ten minutes?
Dean squints at him, and Sam asks, “Wait, where are you going?”
A bright flash of blue and the change of posture bring Adam to the front. His only reply is a hurried and curt, “I have class!”, and that... literally is the sum of it because then they're both gone in a flutter of powerful wings.
No one there expected the last time they spoke to play off like that.
Had there been some kind of actual bond or instance of caring between the three brothers, Sam and Dean would probably have been worried about Adam's state of mind.
As it is, they're just left weirded out and bewildered for the entirety of twenty minutes. And Adam, well, he does have classes to attend.
“...and a useless piece of paper with the instructions to put this thing together. Seriously!”
“You know I can have it done and ready in an instant, right?”
It turns out if there is any trait that resembles humanity Adam still has and, in fact, shares with the rest of his kind, that's the struggle of building an IKEA furniture. Michael knows that thing is supposed to be a desk, but it looks anything but one.
The floor of their bedroom is basically invisible with the exception of the area near the window Michael is currently occupying and the bed, and Adam is currently fidgeting with a screwdriver. He casually points it in Michael's general direction and waves it around without looking at him.
“Yeah, I know, but you don't need to, halo. I got this,” he says.
“Hhm,” Michael blinks, vaguely amused and fond, but mostly blunt when he inspects the pieces of wood and says after a minor, hushed curse escapes Adam's mouth, “I don't think you got this.”
Adam sighs, frustrated because he really needs to get this thing built and he's trying. It's not like he's going to have a mental breakdown for not being great at building a desk — let's be clear — he's just. . . well, it's only been a week since the almost end of the world. Okay?
“Rome wasn't built in a day, it's fine,” he insists.
Michael's grace engulfs him, soothingly. The sensation and the pulse of warmth are subtle enough to suggest that he senses a little part of that human soul he cares about so deeply is hurting a little, but knows he doesn't need to hover. He's just there.
“That's a desk, not Rome.”
Michael's voice is honey-like, a vessel of the affection that he carries in his very core and that, under his attentive gaze, seems to help wash away part of Adam's tension. Michael's mind may be preoccupied with even more matters nowadays, their visits to Heaven are a concrete testimony of that, but his main focus lies to his right, where Adam is. Where the only person he has left, the only one who cares about him and who Michael cares for in return, is.
“Well, shit, I have all eternity to get better at this,” is Adam's final statement, before he tosses the instruction paper aside and looks at Michael, bright blue eyes filled with resilience and humor, and a smile that makes his cheeks pop up endearingly and the room so much brighter.
(And he's not even aware of it.)
Adam pats the spot next to him. “Alright. But no archangel magic.” He blinks, then adds, “Or godly.”
He briefly thinks he should put that on a shirt.
Swiftly and not even a moment later, Michael's apparition is at his side, on the floor. Quiet mirth smoothes the lines of his face when he imperceptibly quirks a brow in humor and hums, “If you insist.”
He is so close that their thighs touch, and a buzzing feeling passes through at the contact. They both know what it is by now.
Captivated, Adam watches as Michael idly takes initiative.
“Here, you had the wrong pieces.”
And, well, indeed, isn't that a sight to behold! But then again, that's their thing, isn't it? The entirety of their story — because that's what everyone is, at the end of the day. And it's not necessarily bad, it's just another way to see life as a journey. Your journey, your story; no one else's.
(Not even God's. No, he stopped having a say in their story a long time ago, and there is a new one now anyway. A God who isn't a writer so much as he is a protector.)
They trace it together; build it, write it down, sear it among the stars themselves. Together, little by little, and like I was saying, that has always been kind of their thing: unpredictability.
