After the whole ordeal with the three trials, Crowley was left in a strange state—still the King of Hell, but with remnants of human emotions he hadn’t been able to shake. The addiction to human blood had left a mark on him, deeper than he’d ever admit. He despised needing anything, especially something that made him feel vulnerable. But somehow, you had become a constant in his life, providing him with the blood he needed to maintain his strength, all while those strange human feelings continued to creep in.

It wasn’t just the blood, though. It was you.

The more time Crowley spent around you, the more he noticed himself becoming… attached. At first, it was subtle—he found himself lingering in your presence longer than necessary, making sarcastic remarks just to get a rise out of you, and feeling an unfamiliar pull whenever you weren’t around.

He was a demon. He shouldn’t feel anything—let alone this.

One evening, Crowley sat on the edge of a worn-out chair in an abandoned safehouse you had taken him to. He watched as you carefully prepared the blood, a routine the two of you had fallen into. You hadn’t said much that night, but there was something about the silence that felt heavier than usual.

As you handed him the blood, Crowley’s fingers brushed yours. Normally, he’d make a biting remark or a smug comment about your clumsiness, but this time, he didn’t. Instead, he looked up at you, his eyes flickering with something softer than his usual snark.

“You keep doing this,” Crowley muttered, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “Helping me. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why.”

You gave a small shrug, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I see something in you that you don’t.”

Crowley scoffed, trying to cover up the way his heart unexpectedly tightened at your words. “You should know better than to trust a demon. Especially me.”

You tilted your head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Maybe. But you’re not just a demon anymore, are you?”