Michael is not nearly as self-sufficient as he'd like to think he is.

"Michael?"

...No response. So Sam plucked up his courage and picked his way across the darkened floor to the side of the little 'mattress' he'd completely forgotten they'd put in there during the build.
Well, that Cas had been thoughtful enough to put in there, anyway.

"Michael?" He tried again, not all that interested in waking the archangel prematurely but feeling obliged to try and assess his mental faculties anyway.

...Still nothing.

Confident at least that he wasn't about to get a good old fashioned sucker punch from the unconscious lump on the one padded piece of floor, Sam knelt down and snapped the cuffs on the unresponsive archangel. Knowing that that was what Dean would want.

Satisfied with the sturdy click each half made as it was secured, Sam moved his hand to his brother's- to Michael's wrist, counting the beats of his pulse until he was at least sure that his heart was fine. Next he'd check-

And the bred and born hunter had to hide a flinch when he glanced up and noticed a pair of absolutely piercing eyes, open and staring right at him.

"So you simpletons have finally come to your senses."

"What?" Sam asked, almost sure he hadn't heard that right.

"You're taking this opportunity to kill me. Good for you. The universe will sing its praise for generations," the archangel said, an expression similar to 'impressed' coloring his tired, borrowed face.

"What? No, these are just a precaution; I'm here to make sure you stay alive. You're possessing my brother," Sam reminded, almost surprised when the expression soured to an overtly, deeply 'unimpressed'.

"For a moment, I'd thought maybe one of you had grown half a brain."

"You want us to kill you?" Sam asked, curiosity peaked by the reasoning more than his annoyance was stirred by the insult.

"I'd like to see you try," Michael replied, tone just a shade off from challenging. Which Sam had no idea what to do with. So he elected to ignore it.

"What I'm actually here about, is the fact that you've been in here for a month and haven't eaten."

"Let me guess, you're here to convince me to start? Pass," said the angelic body snatcher as he repositioned himself to a half sprawl, half sit. Back against the closest wall. Tone as supercilious as ever, even though the simple act of sitting up was obviously enough to tire him out.

"Well if eating is so far beneath you, then let Dean out and he'll eat for you," Sam tried. Aware how much of a long shot it was.

"That monkey? I don't think so," refused the archangel who Sam figured really couldn't afford to be that uppity anymore. Considering the condition he'd gotten himself into.

"Say what you want, but I've never seen 'that monkey' collapse out of hunger before," Sam informed, letting a little smug satisfaction show on his face.

"The way he eats? I should hope not," Michael said, looking like he might want to smile about the jab.

"Food wasn't always in abundant supply while we were growing up. I was young, so Dean never let me skip a meal, but... I think he remembers what going hungry feels like," Sam said, compelled to defend his brother but then kicking himself for his indiscretion almost before he'd finished. Doubly so when Michael's eyes sharpened in interest.

"Fascinating. So this meat suit has kept some memories private from me. I suppose your brother is good at something after all." The admission of adequateness left Sam off-put, to say the least.

"If there's one thing he's good at, it's keeping secrets," Sam admitted, kicking himself for it again, but also not feeling as if he needed to stop. Because, for once, strangely enough, it didn't seem as if Michael was groping around for an open wound to pour salt in.
So, against his better judgment, Sam went on. "He hid it well. I never would have figured it out if it weren't for one of my schools teaching a class on the Great Depression. A time of economic strife that took place nearly a hundred years ago," he explained when Michael seemed unfamiliar with the term.
Which was interesting, since it indicated that Apocalypse World hadn't suffered from the same. Which, in turn, made Sam wonder what else between their realities' histories were different.
"We heard firsthand accounts of families who had so little means that the adults or older children would go hungry so the younger family members could eat."

Michael's face betrayed scant little of what he was thinking, but his eyes, even in the low light, were riveted. And considering he hadn't interrupted with a cackle or disgusted scoff, Sam was pretty sure the angel was genuinely... interested.

"They would subject themselves to this?" The angel asked with a wave at his own practically supine position. "Willingly?"

"So says the history books," Sam said with a nod-shrug combo.

"...Your brother did this?" The question coming out quiet enough that Sam wasn't sure Michael had meant to voice it.

"Well, like I said, I never saw him passed out from hunger. You're ruining his perfect record."

To that, Michael coughed. But Sam was eighty percent sure it was solely to cover up a surprised laugh.

"So, food?" Sam suggested, pretty sure he had the archangel on the ropes.

"Oh alright, if it'll get this flaccid lump of a vessel back on its feet, why the hell not?"

"Well then, Bon appétit," said Sam, victorious smile well suppressed as he retrieved and presented the food Cas and he had earlier decided upon. And left on the floor inside the door.

"What. Is. That?"

At the intense reaction, Sam had to double take to make sure nothing atrocious had happened to the food over the past few hours. He sighed and cocked an eyebrow when everything was shipshape.
"Oatmeal? It's a porridge made from dried, rolled oat grains, boiled until soft, then generally mixed with milk and some sort of sweetener."

"It looks like vomit," Michael said with a very wrinkled nose.

"Uh, it's one of the blander, easier to digest foods known to man," Sam offered. Trying not to let the ridiculous rejection get him down. And not to outright laugh at the archangel who was, unbeknownst to him, acting like a picky child.

"Why is it full of chunks then? Has it turned?"

"No, dude, we just made this," the hunter half fibbed as he directed an incredulous look at the incapacitated world destroyer wearing his brother's face. "Those 'chunks' are bits of apple. Thought you could use some enzymes."

To that, Michael made a noise of disgust. "You humans are so needy."

"That's one way to put it," Sam indulged, holding out the bowl and then holding in a chuckle when their resident archangel rolled his eyes before holding out his hands.
Then, the man with the patience of a saint watched in great amusement as the bedridden angel sneered down into his bowl and, with the speed of dripping tar, brought it to his lips. Where he then took the smallest, daintiest sip Sam had ever seen that face take.

It was almost disturbing.

"There's cinnamon in this," Michael pointed out. Voice rather accusatory.

"Didn't want it to be too bland," Sam admitted with a shrug. To which, Michael 'hm'ed and took another sip.

"The sweetener is honey. From bees fatted on clover. The milk is free of fat and from cows fatted on cornmeal and alfalfa."

The observations were stated as fact, and seeing as they were probably correct, Sam saw no reason to speak. Not wanting to break up the angel's progress. Nor interrupt the way his disgust seemed to be abating with every sip.
Still, Sam found himself unable to smother a flinch when that diminishing disgust turned suddenly to a smile. One verging on sadistic.

"The cows miss their babies."

"Okay, well, it looks like you have everything under control," Sam said as he hurried to a stand. "Just leave it by the slot when you're done, like usual," he finished, trying to fight down that ferocious, tightening sense of unease he was so used to feeling when in any archangel's presence. And which he strangely hadn't felt until just then.

"Hold," the practically helpless archangel more demanded than asked. Though, Sam had to admit, it was a close thing. Which was a definite improvement over... ever. So he stayed where he stood and made a face, indicating he was listening.
"Am I to wear these cuffs indefinitely? Spend my time in bondage as well as imprisoned?" The practically powerless Michael asked, rattling the cuffs' chain and almost spilling oatmeal all over Dean's shirt as he did.

Sam gave it a good moment, studying the angel who made his brother's usually so familiar face... almost unrecognizable, before moving. Letting him digging the key from his pocket be answer enough.
Then he half squatted, half kneeled by the angel and gave him his best warning look. "Don't make me make you regret this."

The answering snort was eerily similar to a noise Dean often made. "As if you had the stomach for it."

At the flippant brush off, Sam moved to put the key back in his pocket, but was compelled to stop by an unexpected, almost worried-

"Wait."

"?" Sam prompted, making sure his eyebrows didn't look taunting

"Just take the damn things off," the depowered archangel demanded. The half griping, half concerned tone making it sound almost like a request.
Almost.

Which it turned out was good enough for Sam, who took pity on the guy wearing his brother's face and unshackled him.

Then, without another word, Michael went back to nursing what may well have been his first ever meal, and Sam took the silence as his invitation to show himself out. So he did. Cas once again shutting the door immediately behind him.