Crowley wakes up after a few hours and regrets it immediately, because his head very much wants to kill him and trade him in for a new owner. He groans and buries his face in his pillow. That registers as something odd, but his head is pounding too furiously for him to put his fingers on why just yet.

It's a nice pillow, though. Cushiony. Soft. Smells nice. Everything smells nice at the moment, clean linen and soap, paper, and...

Crowley breathes out slowly. "Aziraphale." He feels the weight on the end of the bed now, recognizes the whiff of cologne and oil and wood smoke. The name is as much a croak as a word, but it still sounds like a prayer. To Crowley's mind it is one.