Are You There God? It's Me, Alex Gaskarth.

Alex Gaskarth loves his bandmates. He loves everything about the lifestyle he has chosen for himself. He loves the way the stage vibrates under his feet as the music swells, and the sound of his fans singing back lyrics he wrote. He loves seeing them line up outside of their tour bus and trying to make sure he can get to as many as possible before the security guard makes him stop. He absolutely adores the smiles on their faces when he goes in to hug them.
He likes the feeling of waking up in uncomfortably tight quarters with all of his closest friends. He likes being on the road, and everything that comes with it. It was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t have too much fame; he had just enough to let the world know he was there. And that’s all he ever wanted—to travel the world and make music.

He couldn’t have made a better deal that night. On that dirt crossroad with nothing but an old acoustic guitar and the dream of sold out shows.

I know what you’re thinking. Alex Gaskarth sold his soul to a piss-poor excuse of a crossroads demon? Well, I may have been the low man on the totem pole when All Time Low was just an idea in his little, matted head. But, now Gaskarth owes his soul to someone a little bit more... Prestigious.
When I met him, standing alone under a blinking light pole with his girl pants and an awful haircut, I didn’t think anything of him. His deal was simple—a little bit of fame with his best friends and a voice that would melt the panties off any twat-waffle in a thirty mile radius. So, I gave it to him. I told him 10 years was all I was giving him to get his shit-pot of a band together and I’d be coming for him personally.
He didn’t seem worried—he puckered up his lips faster than a Winchester with a dead brother and his soul was mine.

You know who I am. I’m the only demon that has ever worked next to Sam and Dean Winchester and lived to share the gory details.
I walk around in a devilishly handsome, British meat suit and now hold the stable title of: Crowley, king of Hell.
It looks nice on my resume.

But besides that, you’re probably wondering what the King of Hell could possibly need with a b-side rockstar wearing tight, American flag pants and tank tops.
It’s pretty simple. I need him. He has something I need and it’s not just his soul. No, I couldn’t give two flying farts about that egotistical, whiney, emo boy soul starving inside of him.

No, it’s much more important than that.

And, if it’s the last thing I do—I’m going to rip him apart.