It started off as a joke, really. You were shopping with Dean in some small-town store, just picking up some supplies when something caught your eye. A pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, hanging on a display right next to the camping gear. You nudged Dean and pointed them out with a smirk.

That immediately kicked things off.

Dean turned to look, his face pulling into an expression of mock horror as he glanced at the handcuffs. "Seriously?" he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Those things are for amateurs." But you could tell by the gleam in his eye that his wheels were turning. Dean Winchester loved a good joke, especially when it came to messing with you.

The day went on, and you didn’t think much more about it. You and Dean wrapped up your errand run, hunted down some nasty spirit that had been terrorizing a nearby town, and called it a night. You were both exhausted, checking into a run-down motel for the night.

As you entered the room, you tossed your bag on the bed, ready to collapse. But before you could even kick off your shoes, you heard Dean clear his throat behind you.

"You know," he started, his voice a low drawl, "I’ve been thinking…"

Without another word, Dean pulled his hand from behind his back, revealing the very same pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs from earlier. He dangled them in front of you with a mischievous grin. Dean stepped closer, the handcuffs still dangling from his fingers as he gave you a look that could only be described as pure Dean Winchester—a mix of challenge, playfulness, and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

"Oh, c’mon," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little fun."