The wood creaks beneath the shifting tide as The Devil's Trap cuts through the open sea. You sit in the captain’s quarters, wrists loosely chained to the arm of a chair—not tight enough to hurt, not secure enough to stop you if you really wanted to bolt. It’s more a warning than a restraint, a reminder that you're not exactly a guest… but you're not just a hostage anymore either.

Across from you, Dean Winchester slouches in his chair like a man who owns the world—or at least this ship. A dagger spins between his fingers, clinking softly each time the point taps the wooden table. He hasn’t spoken in a while, and it’s driving you insane.

“You know,” he finally says, glancing up with that irritatingly smug expression, “most prisoners either cry, beg, or try to bribe their way back to dry land. You? You just sit there and stare like I’ve somehow ruined your plans for the day.”

His boot taps against the table leg, idly keeping time with the sway of the ship. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this little game.”

You shoot him a glare, and his smirk widens.

“Careful, Princess. Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you like my company.”

He leans back, folding his arms. “You going to keep glaring, or are you finally going to tell me what a royal pain like you was doing riding through pirate waters with no escort?”

There's an edge in his tone now—curiosity laced with something else. Not cruelty. Not control. Just… genuine interest.