Crowley listened intently to Zatanna's story, giving her his complete attention. He looked almost wistfully at the photos of the younger John; the one who sometimes let the smile reach his eyes.

Nodding all his newfound understanding at how two people can care deeply for one another and have it still not be enough, the demon stared blankly at the newspaper articles.

When he spoke, his voice sounded far away. "I- don't really. Those people have no free will. I can't... but I remember... I was there. No, I was him but I wasn't there." Crowley sighed. "English is no good for this kind of thing. I could tell you in ancient Mayan. Those people knew something about the flexibility of the soul. They had the vocabulary for these kinds of things. I guess you could say that I didn't see his actual memories of the place but how he felt about them entwined with everything else. It's all very subjective." He knew he'd never be able to explain what he'd seen, nor did he have the right to do so; the aching black pit of guilt twisted up in colours of the mind, and the crushing fear spiking in reds and yellows and disinfectant.

Wondering if Zatanna shared this oddly warm, protective feeling for the battered man, Crowley just said, "Never mind. I'd like to hear the rest."