Crowley's ears are ringing so loudly that he cannot hear the shocked silence that surrounds him as he staggers into the shelter. Propping himself against the wall, he starts to pick the shrapnel from his left side, letting his clothes reform seamlessly over swiftly-healing blast wounds. All Crowley can hear is the explosion that caused them, and when he looks up at his watching team, the only face he can make out is Abigar's.

Abigar. Abigar, who took the initiative and got the aid convoy sent away, at a time when all the team desperately needed proper food. Abigar, who took the initiatve and wasted tons of explosives in small, ineffectual bombings. Abigar, who...

Crowley - Crowley, who is Fajer, who is Crowley - turns to look out the door of the shelter. Another bomb, detonated a full quarter-hour early, with Crowley coincidentally in the blast area. Three dead of an intended twenty-four, and the front half of a shrapnel-studded cat up against the outside wall.

In gold behind glasses, something snaps.

Ears still ringing, the demon turns back to his team. A disarming smile and a beckoning wave, and Abigar steps forward, slick, nervous, mouthing an apology. Crowley slings a comradely arm around the man's shoulders, pats him on the back. And then he fists his hand in Abigar's hair and slams his face into the wall. And again. And again.

If the blows are punctuated by shrieks of pain, or his own of rage, Crowley cannot hear them.

The demon stops when the brick begins to crumble, and the hair beneath his hands begins to pulp. He uses the end of his sleeve to wipe the blood-spatters from his face, and straightens his clothes before he turns to leave. He is stopped at the door by another team member, nameless and frightened. Crowley cannot hear his question, but it is clear enough. What will they do with the body? Crowley shrugs. Leave it for the dogs. Leave it for the cats. Crowley doesn't care.