Chapter Text
You wake up with a start, breath hitching in your throat like you've been drowning in something thick and invisible. Sweat clings to your back. The room stinks of mold and smoke, and the bed beneath you is lumpy, cold. It takes you a few seconds to register you're alone, and a few more to realize you don’t remember why.
You sit up too fast. Your vision blurs. Everything inside you screams wrong, like someone rearranged your insides and forgot to put a few pieces back.
No memories. Not your name. Not your age. Nothing.
Except for one word.
Crowley.
You say it out loud. It doesn't help. It just hangs there, useless and echoing, like a broken spell.
There’s a duffel bag on the floor, one you didn’t know you had. You rifle through it. Clothes. A cheap burner phone with no contacts. Crumpled motel receipts. And, at the very bottom, wrapped in what looks like a bloodstained napkin—
A stack of folded papers.
They reek of iron and something darker.
You open them slowly. Symbols, instructions. Latin, Enochian — names you somehow recognize even though you can't remember how. They feel familiar, etched into muscle memory rather than thought. Your hands move before your brain can catch up. You know this is a summoning ritual. You don’t know how. You just do.
You gather the salt from a packet near the coffee machine. You don’t draw a devil’s trap. You don’t even remember that you should.
The air thickens. Lights flicker. And then, with the sound of a flame sucking in oxygen, he’s there.
A man in a tailored suit, unimpressed. British. Charcoal eyes. Lips curled into a sneer that doesn't quite reach his gaze.
"Seriously?" he says. "This is how you spend your Saturday night?"
You stare.
"Are you Crowley?"
He rolls his eyes so hard you almost hear it. "No, darling, I’m the room service. Thought I’d drop in before your seance really kicked off."
You swallow. Your voice shakes. "I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know who I am."
That gets his attention. He stops mid-eye-roll. Arms cross. Head tilts.
You shove the bloody papers into his hand. "These were in my bag. All I remember is your name."
He flips through them, slow at first, then faster. The sneer fades, replaced by a faint twitch in his brow. Something between curiosity and concern. And calculation.
"You didn’t even trap me," he mutters. "Ballsy. Or suicidal. Hard to tell."
"Please," you say, more firmly now. "I don't know why, but I need your help. You're all I have."
He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You know, usually there's a deal involved. That's how this works. Tit for tat. Soul for service."
"What do you want from me then?" you whisper.
He chuckles. "Oh, sweetheart. That’s my line." He took a few steps, seeming to think. "You’ve got nothing to bargain with. No name. No clue. So why should I help you?"
And that’s when it hits.
The voices.
A thousand whispers scream through your skull, pure static laced with divine agony. You clutch your head, falling to your knees. Crowley doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he crouches beside you.
"What did you just hear?"
You can barely breathe. "I... I don’t know. Voices. In a language I don’t—"
His voice drops. "Angel radio."
You blink up at him, trembling.
He smiles. Not kindly.
"Well, well, well," he purrs. "Looks like you just got interesting."