Late at night, Crowley was sleeping soundly—or at least, it seemed like that. You were busy reading a book in bed, quiet as he lay next to you. He was always so smug, so sarcastic, forever teasing you with temptations.

So when you saw him tossing and turning, you thought nothing of it.

But inside his mind, he was scared. Frightened.

There he was again—in Heaven. With his beautiful white wings, his innocent questions, his small demands, and subtle rebellions of others. Among angels who were against the idea of Earth. He wasn’t necessarily against it; he just wanted his project to be used—not just admired like wallpaper.

All the stars and nebulae he had created… It was only fair that they be more than just a pretty sight. But no one heard him out. No, they grouped him with the rebels. And there he stood, at the edge of Heaven, being driven out by the other angels—led by Michael.

He was scared.

"How you have fallen from Heaven," echoed around him, a voice laced with poison. A hand cast judgment, and his wings began to burn. White turned to black. His cries echoed with the others as, one by one, they fell from the edge.

Falling.

Falling toward punishment, toward a boiling pit of sulfur.

His hand reached out to someone—anyone—to help him, but Heaven's clouds grew smaller and smaller, vanishing with the stars. And then something strange happened.

His eyes changed.

He could no longer see his creation. The bright stars. The cold, distant suns he had crafted—gone. His eyes transformed into those of a snake, forever cursed to never see his stars again.

Then—splash.

A gasp.

Crowley sat up in bed, cold sweat clinging to his skin, chest heaving. He swallowed hard and looked over at you. You were staring at him, worried, panicked.

He hesitated.

"Did I wake you?" he murmured, eyes flicking back to the wall. One hand reached behind him, as if trying to soothe the burning sensation still lingering across his back.