It's been eighteen hours.

You've counted. It's a way to keep yourself sane. To keep your eyes off of the rotting girl in the corner. To pretend that Sam and Dean, the closest thing you have left to family, are going to white knight your ass out of what's shaping up to be an early death.

Of course, they thought you were on a hunt in a town over. Taking time for yourself to work one case on your own, since you all usually work together.

But this... thing caught you. And now you're tied up in a chair.

And soon, somewhere between hour sixteen and eighteen it becomes clear that they're not coming to save you. Not this time. That maybe they interpreted your frantic voice mail about finding something in the case "off" and asking for help as not urgent enough for them.

Somewhere between hour seventeen and eighteen you give up hope.

And then you hear that smug, British voice, over a background of inhuman screaming. And then the door opens, and Crowley is there.

"Hello, sweetheart. Quite the pickle you have yourself in."