*Crowley sits in his apartment, practicing. Not the practice of the blade that so fucked him up last night, but practice of a different sort.

Presently, practice done, he empties out his pocket, looking mournfully at the shards of his sunglasses that now litter the table. He picks one up and searches through the other pieces until he sees a likely match for its jagged edges. Holding the shards together, he runs a finger along the crack, smiling faintly as the two become one once more. He goes to make himself a cup of tea. Scent of apples rising from the mug beside him, he rummages for a third piece and sighs.

Some time later, Crowley exits his apartment, freshly bandaged, the angel's sword, as is now customary, at his hip, and sleek black sunglasses firmly in place*