But April 14, 1996 was different. Gabriel wasn't there to pull me out of the fire. It was a situation similar to the one now, without Gabriel or Dean to confide in. I was fifteen, and I was living in an ignorant bliss. It was my sixteenth birthday, and we were finishing a rather difficult hunt, taking down a werewolf in Michigan. It should've been fairly easy, but it was a smarter one. And it didn't help that we split up.

John had taken Sam and gone left, while Dean and I went right. When we heard the gunshots, Dean immediately ran back, trying to find his family. I was going to follow, but before I could move, I was roughly pinned to the wall by my jacket . There had been a second werewolf, the mate, that we were unaware of. I could feel it's breath on my neck as its teeth barely grazed my skin, and a wet tongue flattened itself against me, licking a stripe up my throat. I kicked out, ducking beneath its arm and tearing myself out of my coat. Before I could get far enough, the werewolf 's claw had ripped through my back, three long gashes tearing through fabric, skin, and muscle.

Suppressing a scream, I rolled over, burying my gun into its chest and emptying the clip, the gunshots muffled by its clothing. The corpse collapsed on top of me, the warm, sticky blood flowing onto my shirt. Before anyone could notice I was missing, I managed to shove the body to the side, and shakily rise to my feet. I zipped up the jacket I had discarded over my shirt to hide the bloodstains, ignoring the pain in my back. It didn't even occur to me that this was my first kill.

I count this as part of April 14 because it was after midnight, so technically, it was that morning. The morning my life went to shit. John gave me hell for splitting up, but he got over it pretty quickly when he thought that everyone was fine. He dropped us off at the motel, barely ensuring that we had unlocked the door before speeding away to find the closest bar.

Dean quickly figured out that I was hurt, and he stitched me up in the bathroom while Sam did something on his laptop. The three of us managed to catch a few hours of shut eye before John was bustling around the room, still running on a significant buzz. He was gone in an hour or two, scouting out the next hunt.

I decided to take a shower then, washing away the grime from the night before. It was while the stream of hot water was running down my back the wings emerged, tearing some of the perfect stitching that Dean had done early that morning. It terrified me, the realization that I wasn't human. Knowing John's protocols when it came to this job, I figured I should be dead. I stayed in the bathroom longer than I had any right to, but Dean let it slide, see as how it was my birthday.

I lived in fear the next few months, until John finally confronted me about it, outside the impala that summer day. I was riding the high from the success of the last hunt, and, well, you know, I never saw it coming.

Anyway…where was I?

She laid there for what felt like hours, staring up at the sky, watching the broken branches sway in the breeze, and letting the open wounds on her back sit in the dirt. She just didn't care.

It still wasn't clear to her, back in Paris, whether it was Gabriel who had talked her off the ledge or the fact that Sam and Dean were alive. She thought about that for a while, before she left her thoughts drift, not really thinking about anything. If it was up to her, she probably would've let herself rot there in the dirt of that forest.

Before she was able to process what was going on, Bobby was cradling her in his arms. "Bobby?" she whispered.

"Jesus, kid," he breathed, pulling her close to his chest. He immediately noticed the stickiness of his fingers, and he pulled them up to his eye level to see the blood. "We gotta get you back."

She shook her head, leaning into his chest. "Dean's downstairs," he said. "He's not gonna bother you."

Emily was a firm as she could be about her answer as she weakly looked up at him. "Bobby, I can't."

"Em–"

"I'm sorry," she cut him off, lowering her gaze and letting her head thump against him once more.

"For what?" he muttered.

"I've never been…You've always been there for me, Bobby. You're like my dad, and there's nothing I wouldn't so for you. But I've…I've treated you like…crap."

"No, Emi–"

"Yes. Yeah, Bobby I have. I take off for two years, you think I'm dead. And then I only called a few times a month. I've always put the boys above you…I never really thought… After everything I put you through, you deserve better."

"You know damn well that's not true," he grumbled. "You're the daughter I never had. Nothing you do is gonna make me love you any less, and you have never, never, done me wrong. You hear me?"

"Bobby–"

"You understand me? I all need from you is to know you're happy and healthy."

She sighed, closing her eyes. "Thanks, Bobby," she whispered.

"Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" he said quietly, shifting his weight to pick her up.

She jerked at the pain consuming her back before Bobby quickly moved his arm away from the raw area. "Shit, I'm sorry – I'm sorry," he repeated, gently lifting her off the ground.

"N-no, Bobby. Dean doesn't want me," she attempted to resist, squirming in his arms.

"Dean's a frigin' idjit. He's just pissed cuz Sam's in a fix. He don't mean anything he says right now, you understand?"

"Bobby, don't take me back," she whined pitifully.

He didn't respond, only kept moving forward, one foot in front of the other, bringing her closer and closer to Dean's rage. She resigned herself to her fate, too weak to walk herself.

"How are your wings?" he asked gently.

"Fine," she grumbled.

Bobby carefully kissed the top of her head as he walked. "I just need you safe, kid. You gotta understand that."

She sniffed, "Yeah, Bobby. I know."

The walked in silence for what felt like forever, and Emily found herself slowly passing out. In a moment, she was standing to the side of Bobby, watching him carry her toward the house. It stuck her that this same thing happened back in Grants Pass, Oregon, after she had the fight with Dean about not being able to defend herself.

She followed Bobby and her body back up to the house. After Bobby had managed to get the door open, she stopped in her tracks. Dean had been pacing the study, and he immediately stopped, his head shooting up, when the door opened. She came back to her senses just in time to make it inside the house before Bobby shut the door.

"What the hell happened?" Dean's voice was thick with emotion as he stared down at her limp body in Bobby's arms.

The older man ignored him, instead moving to gently lay her body down on the couch. This is so weird, she thought, watching Bobby straighten his back as he stood up. Still refusing to look at Dean, he turned on his heel, walking out the garage door. Dean gave a quick glance at her body before following Bobby, Emily on his heels.

"Bobby!" Dean called, slamming the garage door behind them. "Talk to me!"

Bobby immediately slammed him up against the wall, his eyes raging. "You want me to talk? Fine," he growled. "That kid's the closest thing I've got to family. She's practically my daughter. And you've got the nerve to treat her like that?"

"Bobby–" Dean's voice sounded broken, but Bobby wouldn't let him finish.

"She could be dying right now!"

His words hung in the air as Dean looked at him in shock, unable to comprehend the enormity of the situation. "You have no idea," Bobby hissed, finally letting him go. "You get in there, and you fix this…or so help me God…"

Dean turned away, running back inside as fast as he dared, halting in the doorway when he saw your body. It struck him then, what he had done. Sure, you've always been really attached to them, but Dean always thought you were strong enough to handle whatever got thrown at you, no matter what he's said in the past. But the fact that you weren't human…that didn't make you stronger. It could just as well make you so incredibly vulnerable. And he screwed up.

He really screwed up.