Michael

Michael had spent months working alongside Sam and Dean Winchester. For the most part, things were surprisingly normal. Well—normal by Winchester standards. Michael had taken the form of a younger John Winchester, which made working with the brothers strange in its own way. Dean had gotten used to seeing his father's face walking around the bunker, while Sam had slowly learned to separate the vessel from the ancient Archangel inhabiting it. Michael didn't mind working with them. They were capable. Stubborn. Occasionally irritating. But capable. And somehow, during their time together, the Winchesters began telling Michael stories about humanity's legends involving Heaven. Most of them were ridiculous. Until one evening, Sam came across something that made him stop reading. He stared at the page. Then at Michael. Then back at the page. "Wait." Dean looked up. "What?" Sam looked at Michael. "Is the legend about you and Death's daughter true?" Michael's expression immediately changed. "What are you talking about?" Sam blinked. "You don't know?" "Know what?" Dean leaned back in his chair. "Oh, this is gonna be good." Sam turned the book around. "It's this old legend. It apparently goes back millions of years." Michael looked at the page. He frowned. "I don't understand." Dean took the book from Sam. "Basically, there's this story about an Archangel falling in love with Death's daughter." Michael went completely still. Dean noticed. "Uh..." Sam continued. "According to the legend, they grew up together. They loved each other for billions of years, but they weren't allowed to be together." Michael's expression hardened. Dean looked between the book and Michael. "After Michael left her, Death's daughter disappeared." Michael slowly looked up. "She disappeared?" Sam nodded. "No one in Heaven knew where she went." Dean began reading the legend aloud. After Michael left her, Death's daughter disappeared. No one in Heaven knew where she had gone. Her father searched for her. Angels searched. Even beings who had existed since the beginning of creation tried to find her. But she was gone. She stopped appearing in Heaven. She stopped visiting the places where souls crossed over. She stopped speaking to the beings who had known her for billions of years. And eventually, she came to Earth. Not as an angel. Not as a goddess. Not as the daughter of Death. She came as something almost human. She wandered from place to place, never staying anywhere for long. She watched humanity grow and change. She watched kingdoms rise, wars begin, cities burn, and generations disappear. And everywhere she went, people noticed something strange. She always appeared when someone was grieving. A mother mourning her child. A soldier waiting for someone who would never return. A person sitting alone at a graveside long after everyone else had gone home. Someone would see a woman standing nearby. She never spoke. She never approached. She simply watched. And when the grieving person finally looked directly at her... She would disappear. At first, people thought she was a ghost. Then the stories began. In one village, an old woman claimed the mysterious stranger had visited her after her husband died. In another town, a child swore she had seen a woman standing beneath a dead tree the night her grandmother passed away. A traveler claimed that he saw her sitting beside a grave in the middle of a storm. Every story described her differently. But there was always one thing they agreed on. She looked impossibly sad. And according to the oldest version of the legend, she was searching for someone. Michael. The angel she had loved since before humanity existed. The angel who had promised he would return. The angel who eventually returned... Only to tell her that he couldn't stay. People began calling her The Mourning Daughter. Others called her The Daughter of Death. The oldest storytellers claimed that she wandered the Earth because she could no longer bear Heaven. They said she couldn't return to her father because returning meant admitting she had nowhere else to go. So she remained among humans. Watching. Waiting. Grieving. And Death followed her. Wherever she went, death seemed to come shortly afterward—not because she caused it, but because she could sense the moment a soul was nearing its end. That became another part of the legend. People began saying that if you saw the Mourning Daughter standing beside someone who was sick or dying, you should not be afraid. She wasn't there to take them. She was there to make sure they weren't alone. But there was one final warning passed down with the story. Never ask her who she is waiting for. Because according to legend, if someone ever asks the Mourning Daughter that question, she looks toward Heaven. And for the briefest moment, the clouds turn silver. Then she whispers one name. "Michael." And somewhere far above the Earth, an angel supposedly hears it. He always looks down. He always remembers. And he always wants to answer. But he never does. Because the legend says that the universe itself remembers what happened the first time Death's daughter and Heaven's first son tried to defy it. So they remain separated. She walks the Earth. He remains in Heaven. And every generation tells the story again. Not as a story about an angel and Death's daughter. But as a warning: Even beings who have existed since the beginning of creation can lose the one person they thought would be beside them forever. And if you ever find yourself alone at a cemetery late at night... And notice a woman standing beneath the trees, watching the graves... Don't approach her. Don't call her name. Just leave her be. Because according to the legend, she isn't waiting for the dead. She's waiting for someone who promised he would come back. Silence filled the bunker. Sam slowly lowered the book. Dean looked at Michael. Michael hadn't moved. He was staring at the pages like he'd just been shown a piece of his own forgotten history. Then Dean broke the silence. "Why didn't you just tell us?" Michael looked at him. "Tell you what?" "About her." Michael's jaw tightened. "I did not know where she was." Sam frowned. "That's not what I meant." Michael looked away. "I don't know where to store that." Dean blinked. "What?" Michael gestured vaguely toward the book. "All of this." Dean stared at him. "You've known her for billions of years." "Yes." "You loved her." Michael said nothing. Dean's expression softened. "And you just... never thought to mention it?" Michael looked down. "I did not think there was anything I could do." Sam leaned forward. "What if we helped?" Michael looked at him. Sam continued. "She clearly misses you." Michael's expression changed. "What are you suggesting?" "What if we summoned her?" Michael immediately shook his head. "No." Dean raised an eyebrow. "Then we look for her." Michael stared at him. "How?" Dean shrugged. "We're hunters." Sam nodded. "We've found angels before." "She is not an angel." "Then we'll find something else." Michael looked between them. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly— "All right." It took months. Months of searching. Old books. Ancient records. Witness accounts. Graveyards. Folklore. Every version of the Mourning Daughter legend they could find. Most of it was useless. Some of it contradicted itself. But eventually, Sam found something. A small town. A cemetery. An old tree. And multiple reports spanning generations of people seeing the same mysterious woman beneath it. Michael knew before they even arrived. It was you. They found the cemetery late at night. The place was almost completely silent. The trees moved gently in the wind. Dean stepped out of the Impala. Sam followed. Michael remained beside the car. Then he saw you. You were standing beneath the tree. Just like the stories had described. You were looking toward the graves. Still. Quiet. Alone. Michael froze. For billions of years, he had faced armies. Apocalypses. God. Lucifer. Death itself. But somehow, walking toward you frightened him more than any of them. Dean glanced at him. "You coming?" Michael didn't answer. Sam looked at him. "Michael." "I..." He couldn't finish. He was terrified. Terrified that you would hate him. Terrified that you would disappear. Terrified that you had stopped loving him. Terrified that he had waited too long. Dean looked toward you. Then back at Michael. "She waited billions of years for you." Michael swallowed. Sam gently said, "Go." Michael finally stepped forward. One step. Then another. You didn't turn around. He stopped several feet behind you. For a moment, he simply stood there. Then, in the softest voice you had heard from him in thousands of years, he spoke. "Little Dove." his voice was shaky, and he was clearly nervous.