Crowley rocks his weight back on his heels, taking a step back and then shifting the direction of the movement - letting it take him a few steps closer to the couch, instead; closer to the fire.

"Looks good," he says, dragging a hand back through his hair. "For a value of 'good', I mean. Nothing - caved in while I was gone?"

It might not have been intended as a question, despite the change in pitch at the end. In that small distance, the heat of the low fire has doubled, tripled in intensity, branding prickling patterns of light and shadow across the skin of Crowley's face.

It's sucking all the air from the room.