Chapter Text
It’s been a long time since you’ve been to Hell.
Your heels echo loudly as you meander your way down the hallways that lead to the throne room. Nothing’s really changed — it’s still as dark and abysmal as always. Crowley could really do something with this place with a little bit of a remodel.
You turn the corner into the throne room. Crowley is perched on his chair, one leg crossed over the other, face propped on his hand like he’s bored. That also hasn’t changed in the near century you’ve known him. Always so posh and above it all.
“Hello, darling,” Crowley drawls. You simper, flashing back to the rare few times you’d shared a bed with Crowley, and he grins. You both know that’s not why you’re here, but it is quite fun to reminisce when your paths cross.
“Crowley,” you greet him, stopping a few feet in front of him. He peruses you from head to toe, not even trying to hide that his gaze lingers in some places longer than others. You’re wearing a skin-tight body suit and over-the-knee boots; the mesh down the front of your suit displays your cleavage daringly. He sucks on his teeth like he’s considering changing the reason you’re here, but thinks the better of it and folds his hands in his lap.
“Looking stunning as ever, little viper.” You smirk at the nickname, but wait for him to continue. You’re here because twenty-ish years ago, Crowley did you a tremendous favor. Rather than asking for something in return, he told you you’d owe him a favor one day, and it was up to him when and what that favor is. Now, all these years later, you got the call.
“I’ve got to go off the grid for a little while. Just some business I need to attend to. Now, I’ve got everything covered here, but I have a couple of frenemies top-side who will require a demon’s aid now and again. Hunters.”
Your lip curls into a grimace. “Hunters. Please don’t tell me it’s—”
“The Winchesters.”
You gape at him disbelievingly. “You can’t be serious.”
Crowley chuckles and stands, tucking his hands in his pockets as he closes the space between you. “Deadly. Darling, you owe me a favor, and I’m calling it in. You don’t have to like it. But I expect you to answer when they call and for Hell’s sake, keep them alive.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to you. You reach out to grab it but he pulls it back, locking eyes with you. “You’re the only one I trust with this. Don’t make me regret it.”
He relinquishes the phone to you with a devilish grin. You ask, “Where are you going? What’s so important that you’re disappearing?”
He winks. “I reckon you’ll find out when I return.”
“And that will be…when?”
“When I finish what it is that I’m doing.” His eyes twinkle mischievously. He draws nearer, placing his finger at the top of your sternum and gently dragging it down, tracing the visible space between your breasts. You shiver as he leans in and puts his lips to your ear. “Now, be a good girl while Daddy’s gone.”
Quick as a viper — one of the reasons it's your nickname — you turn your head and sink your teeth into his earlobe, pulling on it meanly, before murmuring, “We both know that’s not possible. Daddy.”
All you hear is an echoing chuckle as he snaps his fingers and disappears.
It’s a little over a month before Crowley’s phone buzzes with a text. You’re just finishing up a session with a client, bidding him adieu as you open the message. It’s from “Squirrel,” which means it’s the older brother — Dean Winchester. Need you at the bunker ASAP. You sigh. You’ve always detested hunters and had heard enough about the Winchesters to know that wherever they went, chaos and destruction always followed. You weren’t sure why Crowley fawned over them like he did. You’re an ancient and powerful demon, and he basically has you on babysitting duty.
You remind yourself that a favor is a favor. You honor your word — most of the time.
With a sigh, you snap your fingers, the world around you blurring and then coming into focus. You find yourself in some kind of strategy room, various gadgets and gizmos hugging the walls and a map table in the center.
“Who the hell are you?” you hear from behind you, and turn. Standing at the threshold of the strategy room and what looks like a library are two absolutely gorgeous men, both tall and broad and rugged. Your painted lips twist into a smile. The brothers look half-surprised, half-scandalized; you’re dressed in a black leather bustier, inky leather pants, and over-the-knee leather boots that are scandalously high.
You fold your hands in front of you expectantly. “I’m Y/N. I’m here in Crowley’s stead.”
Neither man says a thing as their eyes scrape you from head to toe, equal parts hungry and hesitant. After a few moments of silence, you roll your eyes. “I didn’t have time to change out of my work uniform when you buzzed.”
Dean coughs. “Where do you work dressed like that?”
You chuckle, taking a few steps closer to them. They eye you warily. You circle around them, conducting a survey of your own. It really is a shame that they’re hunters. You could have such fun with them.
You finish your perusal and stand less than a foot from them. They’re trying not to squirm.
“I’m a dominatrix,” you finally answer. Dean’s brows hit his hairline, and you see Sam’s throat bob as he swallows. “That is, when I’m not busy torturing souls and ruining lives.” You blink quickly, letting them see the pure blackness of your eyes. They both grimace a bit; apparently, they’re not too good to dabble with the King of Hell, but hold themselves high and mighty over other demonic entities. You’ll have to work on that.
“And you work for Crowley,” Sam states. You so desperately want to pull that gorgeous hair of his and make him beg for mercy.
“No. I serve no one but myself.”
“Then how—”
You sigh in exasperation. “Crowley did me a solid a long time ago, and I owed him a favor. So, while he’s away taking care of other matters, I get to be on Winchester duty. Apparently, he’s fond of you.” You flash a saccharine grin like you’re overwhelmed with delight at the prospect of serving them. “Now would you like to continue the interrogation, or shall I help you with whatever it is you called me here for?”
Sam and Dean share a look, then motion for you to follow them into the library. One of the tables has books, printed photos, and two laptops spread across it. You’re immediately drawn to a set of autopsy photos. A familiar symbol is carved into the chest of the victims and you have to suppress a gasp. You haven’t seen that symbol in a long, long time.
The brothers watch you pore over the photos. “We can’t find that symbol anywhere. We’ve never seen it before,” Sam explains.
“You wouldn’t have,” you murmur, rage starting to bubble up inside you. You’d thought you took care of this problem two centuries ago, but it turns out someone made an unwelcome comeback. You drop the photos onto the tabletop and look at Sam and Dean.
“I’ll handle this,” you growl. Before either brother can even open their mouths, you’ve disappeared. You have a score to settle.
You vanish before Dean or Sam can ask a single question. They stare at the empty spot where you’d been standing.
“So.” Dean breaks the silence. “She is…um.”
Sam exhales. “Yeah.”
“I mean, Jesus. Is Crowley rewarding us for something?”
Laughing on an exhale, Sam replies, “I guess we’ll find out.”
They sit back down, descending into silence as they ponder their newest development. Dean mulls over the whole “dominatrix” thing, curiosity getting the better of him. Tilting his screen away from Sam, he Googles. He tries not to like what he sees. He’d done some pretty kinky stuff, but never something like that. He likes control too much. But you — you literally took his breath away as soon as you’d turned around, demon or not.
Meanwhile, Sam tries to think about the symbol and what it means, but his thoughts keep getting pulled back to the dark, deep red of your lips; the swell of your breasts above your top; the cut of your thighs in your skin-tight pants. He shifts awkwardly in his chair. Crowley couldn’t have found some frumpy dude to help out? It would be much less distracting.
Twenty minutes pass before the brothers feel a shift in energy and you reappear. You’re misted in blood; the side of your face, your neck, and your chest are splattered, and some is caked into your hair and the leather of your top and pants. Blood drips from your fingertips, which they realize are tipped with deadly-looking claws.
You have a crazed look in your eyes — fiery fury and victory. It’s stunning and terrifying. Both Dean and Sam gape at you, riveted.
“It’s been taken care of.” Your claws retract, leaving your manicured fingernails in their place. You drag a finger through the blood dripping between your breasts and Dean grunts. You look between them. “Looking forward to your next plea for help, boys.”
Then you’re gone again, leaving the brothers reeling, with more questions than they had before you’d arrived.
Six weeks later, you’re cleaning up your playroom when you feel an uncomfortable tug in your gut. The sensation is distantly familiar. The tugging gets more and more intense until you realize with a start what’s happening — you’re being summoned.
You really, really hate being summoned.
You tighten your grip around the whip you’re holding, knowing you don’t need it to take someone down but it could be handy to have anyway — it sure is good for throttling. Your surroundings fade and then new ones appear. You’re in some kind of dungeon, standing in the center of a devil’s trap. A couple feet from the edge of the circle stands Dean, holding an open book and standing next to a pedestal with a burning bowl atop it.
You black your eyes out and stare him down. “You couldn’t call?”
Dean sets the book down beside the bowl and douses the flames. Then, as if he’s finally seeing the details of your presence, his eyes go wide and he clears his throat. Today you’re wearing a glittering black balconette bra, a leather mini skirt, fishnet thigh-highs held up by garter straps, and platform heels. Then he sees the coiled whip in your hand and his eyes go even wider.
You bare your teeth at him. “What the fuck is this, hunter?”
He snaps out of it and stares you down. “Crowley might trust you, but we don’t.”
Your eyes narrow. “Shocking.”
“We just have some questions.”
“What a conducive way to get information, taking someone hostage.” You glance around. “Where’s your other half?”
Dean grinds his teeth. “Out.”
Delighted surprise fills you and you laugh. “He doesn’t know you’re doing this, does he?”
Dean’s silence is all the answer you need.
“So what, you thought you’d summon me here, trap me, and ply me for information and I’d just…what, comply?”
Dean rolls his shoulders. “Something like that.”
The hubris. The absolute balls on this man. You’re almost — almost — impressed. Most of all, you’re intrigued. You decide to play along with his little scheme and see how it plays out.
You motion with your hand for him to continue. He crosses his arms across his chest in a power stance, totally oblivious to the fact that you could end him without so much as a snap of your fingers.
“How do you know Crowley?”
You toy with the braided leather of your whip as you pace the circumference of the circle. You explain, “I met him 98 years ago when a group of us staged a coup against the King of Hell at the time. He became quite taken with me. We stayed in contact and, throughout the decades, he has come to me for my services. Plus a little extra.” You wink, and Dean’s brows raise.
“You…and Crowley? ” he asks disbelievingly.
You throw your head back and laugh. You stop pacing, standing directly in front of him, as close to the edge of the trap as you can. Cocking your head to the side, you study Dean. He squirms a bit under your attention, but otherwise remains curious and rapt.
“Do you really want to know about my history? Or is your curiosity killing you? You want to know about what I do.” You dare him with your eyes to tell you you’re wrong. He clenches his jaw, looking away and then back at you. The way his green eyes blaze brightly tells you everything you need to know.
He stays silent. You flash a wicked grin. “Well, everyone is different. I cater to many needs. Crowley has always had to be so assertive, so icy and aloof. That can get heavy. Sometimes, he needs somewhere where he can just…surrender. Relinquish. Give himself over.”
Something like longing flashes across Dean’s face. He blinks several times, quickly, before composing himself. “So you’d, what, chain him up? Hit him with things?”
You wave your hand flippantly. “If that’s what he wanted. There’s a lot more to it than that.”
Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to ask. You know he does. You shouldn’t feel this gleeful. Dean Winchester, esteemed hunter — proud to have trapped you, but completely at your mercy.
“So what was this favor he did for you that he cashed in on to babysit us?” You’re surprised he pivots. It’s not nearly as fun a topic of conversation, but maybe you can steer it back.
“That’s not your business. Crowley trusts me. I trust him. His only two rules were to answer when you call and keep you both alive. I have no intention of burning my bridge with Crowley by harming you. Or letting harm come to you. So if that’s all…”
Dean squints at you, perplexed. “Are you in love with him or something?”
You smirk, amused. “Why would you ask me that?”
“You’re awful loyal to him, that’s all.”
“And you’re not?”
He blinks and frowns. You’ve got him there.
You inch a little closer, toeing the line he thinks is trapping you. He eyes it warily. “Dean, if you’re so curious, why don’t you just ask me to show you?”
He visibly gulps. His eyes dash between yours, brain processing hard, completely at war with himself. He scrapes gaze from the top of your head to your toes and back up.
“I can’t,” he grinds out. He turns away as if looking elsewhere in the room will overcome his desires.
You widen your stance and blacken your eyes again. “Poor Dean Winchester. Drowning in his own murky morals. Too chicken shit to surrender control to one of the monsters he is lifesworn to vanquish. Doesn’t think he’s tough enough to survive it.”
He cuts you an irritated look. “Watch your mouth.”
You smile. He took the bait. “Or what? You gonna go crying to Crowley? Like you always do when you can’t pull your weight?”
Dean steps right up to the line, eyes blazing like he wants to kill you—or fuck you—right there. You stare him down, daring him to do something. Conveniently, that’s also when you hear the screech and slam of a heavy door, stomping down some stairs, and a rough voice call, “Dean?”
You flash a wicked grin at Dean. “Uh oh. The wifey’s home.”
Dean shoots you a mean glare and storms from the room, leaving you alone in this measly scribbled circle. You tap your toe impatiently as you hear the men engage in discussion; one raises his voice and then the other raises his in response. The yelling travels, growing closer until Sam strides in, Dean hot on his heels. Both men look pissed. Sam stops a few inches from the edge of the devil’s trap, eyes flashing just a little darker as he takes in your getup.
His big chest heaves with angry breaths, and you clench your thighs a little and suppress a smile.
“You have direct, specific orders from Crowley not to hurt us and to help us when we call, right?” Sam asks.
You smile sweetly at him. “‘Orders’ is a generous term. I have a very long and very mutually advantageous relationship with Crowley. One might even say we were friends, if we were capable of such a thing. And like I’ve stated before, he’s strangely obsessed with the two of you. I owed him a favor, and he’s trusting me with it. I may be an asshole, but I don’t betray people that stay loyal to me.”
Sam looks at Dean, raising his brows as if to say, See? She’s legit.
Dean chokes, exasperated. “You believe her? You trust her?”
Sam spreads his arms and shrugs. “Yeah, Dean. I’m pretty sure if she wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now. And what does she have to gain by killing us?”
Dean looks at you for the answer to Sam’s question. You roll your eyes. “Besides street cred? Absolutely nothing. Honestly, you’re worth much more to me alive than dead.” That doesn’t seem to soothe Dean. You tilt your head, flashing your gaze between the brothers. “And to be even more honest, I’d only hurt you if you asked me to.”
You stifle a laugh at the way Sam’s throat bobs and Dean’s jaw works as he grinds his teeth. As if to prove a point, Sam takes a step inside the devil’s trap and looks pointedly at Dean. “I trust her, man. If anything, it’s an upgrade from Crowley. Much nicer to look at.” He shoots a look over his shoulder at you and you aren’t sure if he’s flirting or not.
You guess that the fact you didn’t immediately tear out Sam’s throat calms Dean a bit. He still looks at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t figure out, and you know it’s for some reasons more than others. You shake your head and laugh.
“Sam, do you actually trust me?”
He rotates to face you. He eyes you warily, but nods. “Yeah.”
You bat your lashes at him, simpering. “Care to help me with a little demonstration for Dean? Sometimes a curious mind just needs to be indulged to fully process one’s feelings.”
Sam gulps, looking partially terrified and excited. Mischief dashes through his eyes as he looks at Dean. You sense some brotherly antics at play here — Sam’s hoping to get a rise out of Dean by playing along.
Finally, Sam shrugs. “Okay.”
You grin victoriously, then deadpan at Sam. “You tell me yellow to slow down and red to stop. Understand?”
Sam’s eyes are wide and lust-blown. He nods.
You arch a brow. “I asked you a question, Sam.”
The authority in your voice has both Sam and Dean snapping to attention. Your gaze meets Dean’s for a few heavy moments before you pin Sam with a stare, still awaiting his verbal response. He clears his throat. “Yes.”
“Then get on your knees.”
Sam watches you reverently as he slowly drops to his knees before you. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he splays them on his jean-clad thighs. You step closer to him until the toes of your boots are less than an inch from his knees. You cross your arms over your chest.
“Hands on my thighs,” you command.
Heat zings to your cunt as his warm hands land on the outside of your thighs right above the tops of your stockings. You smile at him like you do at your clients, like no one else in the world even exists and he’ll never be safer with anyone than you. He blinks in surprise.
“Move your hands up slowly. Under my skirt. Until you feel my panties. Then, pull them down. Slowly . Don’t touch anything. Don’t speak. Give them to me.”
Sam’s hands are moving before you even finish speaking, coasting gently up your thighs and hips until he reaches the waistband. He hooks his fingers in, nails dragging just slightly on your skin as he pulls them down, down, eyes not straying from yours as he drops them, then grabs them as you step out and hands them to you.
You cup his chin in your hand and look at him adoringly. “Good job, baby. Turn around and face Dean for me.”
Sam’s face flashes hot at the praise and he complies, sliding around on his knees until he’s facing his brother. Dean’s eyes are on the sheer lace thong you now have in your hand along with your whip. You pull the thong taut and with lightning speed, band it around Sam’s throat and yank him back toward you. He gets his fingers between the fabric and the front of his throat, which is fine since you’re applying all the pressure at the sides. Restraining, not choking.
You crouch down so your lips are even with Sam’s ear. Planting a hand on his thigh, you drag it upward until you’re cupping the bulge in the front of his pants. You palm him roughly. “Sam Winchester. So pretty, completely at my mercy.” He groans pathetically, hips bucking into your touch.
You grip his cock hard through his jeans. “If I were of a weaker constitution, I’d ride this cock right now. But I don’t fuck hunters. I don’t even fuck my clients.”
“But you fuck Crowley.” Dean speaks for the first time since you and Sam began your demonstration. He sounds angry about it — jealous.
You stand, increasing the pressure on Sam’s throat just a little as you comb your fingers through his gorgeous hair, tugging lightly. He grunts.
“You seem to care an awful lot about me fucking Crowley, Dean.” Rotating slightly, you take Sam’s other hand that’s not at his throat and guide it up the side of your thigh again, beneath your skirt, up to your naked hip, splaying his fingers so they can feel how bare you are there. He doesn’t try to move it one way or the other, but clenches like he can’t help but get a handful of what you’re offering him. He bucks his hips helplessly.
Dean doesn’t respond to your quip. He watches you watch him as you drag two of Sam’s fingers through the wet warmth between your legs. Sam moans, then bites out a curse as you put those fingers in your mouth and clean you off of him.
“So good for me, Sam.” You move to stand directly behind him again, then move your whip to your right hand as you keep Sam restrained with your left. You look Dean dead in the eyes and let your whip uncoil to the ground.
“Next time you want to talk, or need your ass saved, or want to use my services , use the fucking phone. Summon me like this again and you won’t leave my dungeon for weeks, Crowley or no Crowley. It’s just fucking rude.” You tilt Sam’s head back so you can plant a rough kiss on his mouth, then release him totally, letting your thong fall into his lap. A little prize for being a willing volunteer. With a harsh crack of your whip, you disappear, relishing in the shock you see in the instant before on Dean’s face — the trap wasn’t holding you at all.