Down in the underworld, under Crowley’s reign, the Winchesters would go for a hefty ransom. Those flannel clad nightmares were becoming a perpetual thorn in Crowley’s side. Which is exactly why you captured the more fiery of the brothers. Dean.

You have him all tied up, ropes binding him to an uncomfortable post, but you weren’t about to give him the luxury of comfort. You’ve plucked him from any means of escape—lockpicks, boxcutters, and such.

“You evil bitch!” He spat out. Poor thing is angry. A shame, really. The insult is no news to you, you’re a demon for crying out loud. He seems to forget you don’t care.

Unable to refrain from having a little fun with the hothead, you speak. “Keep sweet talking me and this’ll go a whole different direction…” You whisper as you tighten the ropes.

He grimaces at the burn of the less than comfortable material, “You’re sick.” Once again, no mind-blowing revelations have taken place here. He grunts under his breath. It was really rather easy to capture him, you can’t see how this man could possibly be such an issue for the King of Hell, but you don’t ask questions, you just ask prices.