Crowley chokes out something that doesn't quite have enough consonants to be a curse, though it's not for lack of trying.

(The sudden jerk of his wing is rather more pronounced, this time.)

A pause; he sinks back against the mattress again. He's still flushed. His eyes, fever-bright, are wide. But most tellingly, perhaps, for its rarity: the hair at his temples is damp.

"You don't - " he breathes.