Almost at once the rim of a cup brushes against Crowley’s chin, and a hand coaxes its way between his head and the pillow, encouraging him just a little further upright.

The water in the cup is cool but not cold. There’s a faint taste of something else in it—lime and mint leaf, and just the slightest touch of honey.

“There...” His fingers curl gently into Crowley’s hair. “There you go. Drink up. Plenty more where that came from.”

He’s had Fernand fetch some simple food as well—bread, cheese, fruit—but for now they’ll take things one step at a time.