The air was thick with dust and silence as your boots crunched across dusted tiles and crumbling plaster. The old asylum loomed around you, broken and deliciously creepy. Your flashlight beam danced across the long-abandoned hallway. Dean was just a step behind you, EMF reader in hand, clearly more interested in you than any potential spirit. Not that you’re complaining about spooky date night. You both knew there hadn’t been any real case reported here in years—just some old rumors. This was more of a thrill-seeking detour, and it was fun watching Dean try to act like he wasn’t enjoying himself. He hung back as you wandered off toward the rows of rusted cabinets, your flashlight flickering across dust-caked papers, a nerd that could rival Sammy. Your boyfriend was more interested in exploring the rooms.

Pressing open a creaking door, Dean ran his light over the cracked tiles. There, lying casually on a shelf, was a straitjacket. Preserved. Almost supernaturally so, but he could ignore that. The canvas was fresh and sturdy, the straps strong and plentiful. He didn’t envy these inmates, that’s for sure.

The hunter glanced over his shoulder, hearing your footsteps echoing distantly down the hall, and felt something sly creep into his chest. There was something warm and possessive brewing in his mind. That smirk pulled at his lips before he even realized it was happening. The sight of those thick straps was enough to send those old, flirty Dean instincts into action again. As soon as his eyes fell on the garment, Dean pictured you in it. Safe and warm and trapped, forced to let him nurse you full of love with nothing but your sharp tongue to fight back. It makes his protective instincts flare up.

You’re too focused to register the soft footsteps until it’s too late. You suddenly jolt at the feeling of something unfamiliar touching you, like a layer of heavy canvas unfolding across your shoulders. A familiar mischievous voice rumbles next to you. “Gotcha, babe.”