In his bedroom, bandages unwound in a heap on the floor, Crowley sends up a silent thanks to... well, whoever for demonic regenerative abilities. He examines himself carefully, fingers gently prodding his torso, arms, and legs, inspecting his back in the mirror. Excepting the worst of them, his wounds have almost completely healed. He snorts at his reflection. With the jagged lines and silver-pink patches that decorate his body, Crowley thinks he looks like nothing so much as a patchwork doll; cobbled together from bits and pieces that have accumulated over the years. There are still a few patches to go, however, and so, slowly, he rewinds the bandages.

His one unbroken wing stretched around in front of him, Crowley cards carefully through the mostly-regrown feathers, probing gingerly at the site of wounds. His face holds a tenuous hope - most of the holes have completely closed over, skin and muscle regenerating apace. In the mirror, he can see that, where the wing was torn from his body, it has knitted itself back in place. His splinted wing, for all that he cannot move it, feels stronger as well. They might hold, if his luck does.

Stepping onto his balcony and staring at the sky, Crowley feels a thrill of nervousness. Fear, even. It won't be long before he'll find out.