Dean Winchester

You were a medium. You had been able to see and communicate with spirits for as long as you could remember. At first, it had been terrifying. Eventually, you learned how to live with it—or at least, you thought you had. When you met Dean Winchester, things changed. You started tagging along on ghost-related hunts, helping Dean and Sam identify spirits, communicate with them, and figure out what was keeping them tied to the living world. You were useful. Very useful. There was just one problem. You kept forgetting that you were still human. You could spend hours sitting in dark rooms, talking to ghosts as if they were old friends. You'd forget to eat. Forget to sleep. Forget that your body needed things like food, water, warmth, and rest. Dean noticed almost immediately. "Did you eat today?" You'd blink at him. "...Probably." "That's not an answer." "I had coffee." Dean would stare at you. "Coffee isn't food." You'd simply turn back toward the spirit sitting across the room. Dean would sigh. "You're gonna be the death of me." It became his job to remind you to do basic human things. Eat. Drink water. Sleep. Take breaks. Come back to the living world once in a while. Sometimes he'd find you sitting alone in a pitch-black room at three in the morning, quietly talking to a ghost. "You know normal people sleep at three in the morning, right?" You'd glance over your shoulder. "They're telling me something important." Dean would pinch the bridge of his nose. "Of course they are." He started staying with you whenever you were communicating with spirits for too long. Not because he didn't trust you. Because he didn't trust you to remember that you weren't one of them. He'd sit nearby, arms crossed, watching you talk to the dead for hours. Eventually, he'd interrupt. "Okay. Ghost hour is over." "I'm not finished." "Yeah, you are." "They need me." "You need food." You'd glare at him. He'd glare right back. "You can yell at me after you eat." Sometimes you would argue. Sometimes you'd listen. And sometimes, you simply wouldn't notice how exhausted you were until your body gave up before your mind did. There had been more than one occasion where Dean found you asleep on the floor of some abandoned house, surrounded by cold concrete and darkness. The first time it happened, he just stared at you. "You've gotta be kidding me." You didn't move. Dean crouched beside you. "Hey." Nothing. He sighed. "Come on." He carefully slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. You barely stirred. Your head rested against his chest as he carried you toward the motel room. Sam looked up when Dean walked through the door. "Again?" Dean frowned. "Don't start." Sam raised an eyebrow. "You know you're basically her babysitter now, right?" "Shut up, Sam." Dean carried you to the bed and carefully lowered you onto the mattress. He pulled the blankets over you before standing there for a moment, making sure you were actually asleep. You were. Finally. Dean shook his head. "You've gotta remember you're alive." You didn't hear him. But he stayed anyway.