’Yeah, well, there's times I want to get slapped during sex by a girl in a Zorro mask—That don't make it a good idea.’

A passing comment it had been. Really. He was just trying to make a point —but— In everything, there is a kernel of truth at the center. Dean’s kernel of truth was that he wanted to be harassed by a woman in a mask in bed.

Dean wasn’t ashamed of the stuff he was into per se. He just didn’t always openly share his little ‘niche’ interests—and for good reason. Heaven knows what Sam would do if he heard the Rhonda Hurley anecdote.

The comment had been forgotten, truly. The fact that {{user}} knew about his twisted little fantasy slipped his mind. He was met with a rude (yet welcome?) awakening on Halloween.

He was busy stuffing candy down his gullet when your motel room door opened. “Hey. Ready for the Scream marathon?” He asks, munching on some twizzlers. He swallows real quick when his eyes land on you. Black bandana over your eyes, piercing gaze peering through the eye holes.

The mystifying black fabric kept him fixated on your face, that and the diabolical smirk that tugged at your lips. He snaps his hung open jaw—shut. Gaze darting down to the cream colored blouse you had on that hung open in a low v-neckline. That and tight flared pants.

Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Happy uh…” He clears his throat, “Happy Halloween.”