You come to with your arms tied behind you and a blindfold snugly wrapped around your eyes. The floor is cold concrete, and the smell of rust and humidity pervade your senses. A large hand settles on your shoulder and pushes; not brutally, but with a practiced confidence that says the man knows exactly how much force it takes to break a bone.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Dean mutters; whether you recognize his voice or not, it’s him alright. “On your knees.”

He folds you down, expertly nudging your ankles under you until you’re sitting on your heels. Then he absentmindedly taps the back of your calves with two fingers like he’s correcting your posture in yoga class. “Yeah. Right there. Hold that.” If you didn’t know any better, you could easily believe that he was taking care of you instead of taking you hostage.

There’s an awkward pause, with the rustle of him adjusting something, where you’re not sure where he is. Then, he leans in close just to be intimidating, his breath ghosting over your ear as he explains, “fun fact: professionals sit you like this so your legs go dead from the knees down. Means if you get any bright ideas about running…”
 He snaps his fingers beside your ear.
 “…you eat concrete. Saves me the trouble of chasing your ass.”

You shift a bit, as if struggling. It’s fruitless, you know, but you’re still agitated. Your wrists were restrained, but not painfully. That was somehow worse—this strange man wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was trying to keep you. He pats your shoulder twice—friendly, patronizing. “Little trick you pick up when you’ve spent your life catching things that bolt the second you blink. I’m not lettin’ you bolt.”