A/N I have an idea for a sequel that I'll probably write when I finish this one. It'll be shorter than this and Strings Attached, but whatever. I'm also thinking that maybe after/as I write the sequel, I'll write a book about Anna during this story (or maybe starting between this one and Strings Attached idk yet)

"I swear to god, Adam, if you tell me it needs more protein one more time!" Samandriel threatens.

Dean and Castiel share an amused look. What did they just walk into?

"You're a bit salty today," Adam observes teasingly. "You know what would help? If you add some protein."

"What the hell is going on?" Castiel whispers.

"I don't think we want to know," Dean whispers back.

"Probably not."

The two follow the sounds of people chatting — or arguing, more accurately — to the living room, where is looks like Samandriel is ten seconds away from strangling Adam, Claire and Anna are about to become expert body hiders, Sam and Gabriel are both asleep on the couch together, and Lucifer looks... bored? Lucifer is never bored. Castiel can't remember the last time this happened.

"Guys, shut up before you wake Sam and Gabriel up!" Dean whispers loudly, actually having a reason to whisper this time.

Everyone but Lucifer looks over at the two, just now realizing they're asleep.

"Oops?" Samandriel says halfheartedly.

"They've literally been sleeping for the last fifteen minutes," Lucifer mutters under his breath. "How am I the observant one?"

Castiel plops down on the floor next to his older brother. "Heya, Lucifer, what's up?" he asks, acting much more cheerful than he really feels. He does that a lot. Fake it 'til you make it.

"The sky, the ceiling, the —"

"Okay, I get it," Castiel interrupts. "You're a smart ass. I mean why are you sad?"

"Why are you assuming my emotions?" Lucifer counters.

"Because I know you. Why are you sad?"

Lucifer sighs as he lies down on the floor. "I'm not sad; just bored. Michael's in hibernation or something, so I'm on my own for now."

"Where is Michael?" Castiel asks.

"I dunno. His room, probably."

"For hours?" Castiel says skeptically.

"Anna spends her life in her room," Lucifer reminds him, earning a glare from her, which he ignores. "I don't see why Michael can't."

"Because Anna has friends to text — and a boyfriend. All Michael's friends are in this room."

"That we know of," Lucifer adds. "Maybe he does have friends, and we just haven't met them." He glances at Castiel and sighs. "Yeah, you're right. That's not it. I'd go ask, but he's probably doing something important. Or on Tumblr."

"You think Michael has a Tumblr?" Claire scoffs. "Have you met the guy?"

"Hey, you never know," Lucifer says defensively.

"Weren't you just saying you wanted to go bug him before we got pie?" Dean reminds him.

Lucifer shrugs. "Probably. I don't remember that far back. That was, like, an hour ago. But if he wants to be alone, let him. He's probably sleeping, anyway."

"But you look so miserable without him, so I'm gonna go grab him," Castiel announces, ducking away before Lucifer can stop him. He heads to Michael's room and knocks on the door softly.

"Mm?" Michael's voice comes from the other side of the door.

"Can I come in?" Castiel asks. He used to hate when his siblings barged into his room, so he always makes sure to ask first.

"Sure."

Opening the door, he sees Michael lying on his bed with a pencil in hand, with one of those cheap, locking notebooks on his pillow in front of him. He gives his younger brother a small smile.

"Did you need something?" Michael asks politely.

"Lucifer's bored out of his mind but didn't want to bother you, so I decided I would instead," Castiel explains. "But, uh, if you're busy..." He eyes the notebook on the bed inquisitively.

"No, I can finish this later," Michael decides, closing the notebook and clipping the lock on.

"You realize you can open those with a bobby pin, right?"

Michael nods as he slides the notebook under his pillow. "That's what I use, actually. It's nothing really personal; I don't really care if someone decides to pick the lock on it."

"What is it?" Castiel asks curiously.

"Just random thoughts. Politics, social issues, things like that."

Castiel isn't sure how to respond to that. That's the most Michael thing to do he's ever heard. After a pause, he asks, "So, are you planning to announce your bid for president as soon as you're 35, or are you going to go into politics first and make friends with the other politicians?"

Michael rolls his eyes. "I'm not running for president."

"You totally should. Just sayin'."

"You don't even know what party I'd run for or what policies I'd advocate."

"Details," Castiel replies, waving a hand dismissively. "Actually... Can I look, so I know what to expect from President Michael Novak?"

"I'm not running for president!" Michael repeats.

"Fine, fine." Honestly, Castiel doesn't believe Michael would run for president, but it's fun to mess with him. "So, can I read it?"

Michael shrugs and unlocks it again. "If you really want to. It's not very interesting, though."

Castiel takes it from his hands. "I'm sure it's super interesting." Michael never really talks about his opinions, so it really will be interesting to see what he thinks about stuff.

He flips to a random page, this one dated just over a year ago, titled simply, "College." It's written in Michael's perfect handwriting, which is going to be the biggest separating factor when he starts working at a hospital, where no one writes neatly.

"Why is college so expensive? Why should it be any more expensive than high school? It's the time most people move out, at least for the duration of the school year, which is expensive enough. Why add the extra expenses for the classes? It's almost as if they're setting people up to fail. Those who need a college education most — people raised in poorer families who need a good job to support themselves and their families — can't afford a higher education to get a good job.

"That's one thing Republicans obviously don't understand is how rigged the system is. Poor people can't win. You don't make enough money working minimum wage jobs? Well, you should have gone to college and gotten a better job. Can't afford go to college? Too bad. You don't need to go to college. Go work at McDonald's. It's not their fault they were bored into such a fucked up world."

Castiel looks at his brother in surprise. "I've never heard you swear before."

Michael just shrugs, and Castiel continues reading.

"And, unfortunately, there's no effort being made to fix this. If anything, it's just getting worse. College is just becoming more expensive every year, much quicker than the rate of inflation, and minimum wage isn't growing fast enough. Oh my god, it's four in the morning. I should probably go to bed."

Castiel looks at his brother with an amused smile. "You wrote this at four in the morning?"

"Possibly," Michael replies, glancing at the page. "I usually stay up late when I don't have classes."

"Yeah, but four in the morning is a bit too late."

"Well, to each their own," Michael replies with a shrug.

Castiel flips the page to see "Immigrants" written in sloppier handwriting, but still completely legible. Well, this could get interesting. There's no happy medium here, so either they agree or their viewpoints are completely opposite of each other.

"Donald Trump was a fucking idiot.
"Great, now that that's out of the way: Immigration, one of America's most debated topics with no single answer because some people see different things as more important (read: some people are completely incapable of empathy.)

"It genuinely baffles me that anyone would want to come to America. That whole "land of the free" thing is bullshit. This is a patriarchal country run by the rich that in no way benefits anyone else. Why anyone would choose America over a cool place like Canada, I will never understand. Anyway...

"Here's where the lack of empathy comes in. A lot of immigrants — or refugees, at least, and they're still technically immigrants — have been through hell, and not the fun one Luci runs."

Castiel chuckles and looks over at Michael. "You had way too much fun writing this, didn't you?

Michael looks over at the book, looking slightly confused as he begins skimming it. A small smile creeps up on his face. "I might have been a little drunk for that one," he admits.
"You drink?"

Michael scoffs. "I'm 25 years old. Of course I drink."

"Huh," is all Castiel can think to say to that. He never would have guessed that with Michael's responsible character. As long as he doesn't drink and drive, though, it's all good.

"Why can't they escape and come here? I get that Americans come first in many people's minds, but why does your place of birth determine whether you deserve safety? Why do the beliefs you were raised into determine whether you can search for a better life? It's fucked up."

Castiel nods approvingly. "I like drunk you. Drunk you is smart."

"Thank you?" Michael replies uncertainly.

"I could read these all day, honestly," Castiel tells him, flipping the page again.

"Rich People

"The world needs to rethink who gets paid a million dollars a year, because it's just wrong. Surgeons deserve to make a lot of money. Their job is literally life or death. People who spend twelve hours a day doing intense manual labor deserve to make a lot of money, too, because I'm sure that's not fun. Authors deserve to make a lot of money, because they have to create a world out of nothing. Veterans deserve to make a lot of money because the idiots that are our world leaders insist on continuously going to war for no good reason, so these veterans are putting their lives in danger. Celebrities, on the other hand, make way too much money. Why should models get paid more than teachers, when teachers are supposed to be raising our next generation so they're not as fucked up as us and models just walk down a runway? It's not that hard. Anna could be a model if she was a few inches taller. Actors are basically paid to play around and do cool stuff. Singers basically do nothing all day compared to pretty much every other profession ever, especially those that don't even write their own songs. If anything, the writers should be the rich ones."

Castiel hands Michael the notebook back. "Congratulations, you just proved you know absolutely nothing about being a celebrity."

Michael skims the page briefly before looking up at his brother. "I should have known you'd take offense to that one. Well, I didn't write this for a debate, but I'm always up for hearing new viewpoints. How do you justify it?"

"Well, first of all, you can't spend all this 'downtime' doing whatever you want. If you do anything with even a slight chance of getting hurt, you'll never hear the end of it." Not that that stops him, but still. "Then there's the fact that a lot of said downtime is spent at the gym, because as much as society preaches body positivity, celebrities aren't allowed to have any fat whatsoever. That also means you can't eat all that delicious food you see everywhere, especially the parties you don't want to be at but were dragged to. Secrets are practically nonexistent, because you know that eventually, it'll be all over the news, and if you react, it looks bad, but if you ignore it, it looks worse. You can't win. There are rumors everywhere, and it's practically impossible to prove that that's all they are is rumors. You're expected to acknowledge your fans on social media, but your Twitter mentions are always full of hate. You can't even go to the grocery store without getting mobbed by fans half the time. And concerts are pretty much hell. Anyone who thinks celebrities don't get stage fright is a fucking moron. You've got to remember blocking, timing, lyrics, chords, the track list, mini speeches before different songs, and the whole time you've got to smile and hope to god you don't screw up, because if you do, it will be all over every social media network ever."

"Breathe," Michael interrupts.

Castiel takes a deep breath, breaking up his rant. "Sorry. I just..."

"No, I get it," Michael replies. "And I get that it's not all sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everyday, but that is the epitome of first world problems."

"Pretty much every American's life is full of first world problems."

"Yes, but not every American has a couple hundred million dollars in the bank by twenty-one," Michael counters. "At this rate, not only are none of us going to have to work a day in our lives, but neither are our kids or grandkids."

"What's the point of having all that money if I can't spend it on anything good? Like, I've always wanted to go to Disney World, but nope, if I go to Disney World, I won't get to ride a single ride because I'll be swarmed by people. That pretty much rules out any vacation ever. I can't spend all my money on pizza, either, because otherwise Jim would murder me. So you guys might be winning — well, maybe not you so much because you're hell bent on becoming a doctor — but I'm not. At all."

"It's better than living off food stamps," Michael replies simply.

"It's not my fault some people are too lazy to get a job."

"It's not that simple," Michael says calmly. "There are people who can barely provide for their families working two full-time jobs, and you could afford to own a giant animal shelter in your house. You know, if you weren't afraid of dogs."

"I'm not afraid of dogs!" Castiel protests.

Michael just gives him a "really?" look.

"I just don't like them," Castiel adds. "They're smelly, hair... things."

"But they're cute, and they like to snuggle."

"But they're energetic and take a lot of work."

"But they'll love you for years."

"But they're loud and obnoxious."

"But they'll warn you if someone's in the house."

"But they'll bark at anyone who walks by."

"But everyone will love them."

"But you can't bring them anywhere without people trying to pet them."

"But they'll become everyone's best friend."

"But they're too big to bring on vacation."

"But they can fit in a cage and come anyway."

Out of ideas, Castiel crosses his arms stubbornly. "Dogs are just annoying."

"Dogs are perfect, and I'll stand by that until I die," Michael replies. "And when I eventually move out and get a dog, I'll convince you that they're gifts from the gods."

"Well, good luck with that, because you're wrong."

"You'll change your mind," Michael says knowingly. "Trust me."

"Whatever," Castiel says dismissively. He's never going to like dogs. End of story.

A/N Idek what this chapter was but... Tada? I swear there was a reason for this. It'll just take a while for it to make sense. Like, a long, long time. Probably. Idk I change my mind a lot.
Disclaimer: I don't necessarily agree with everything Michael (or any of my other characters, for that matter) says