The pain was unbelievable. White hot knives pierced his lungs, his skin was boiling, and every nerve ending shrieked in agony. Crowley stopped breathing.

He felt himself being lifted from the ground and cried out again before being enveloped in softness. His clothes, which had fortunately blocked the worst of the holy water from coming in direct contact with his skin were ripped off and tossed aside revealing red, inflamed skin on his chest and back. The palms of his hands were melted, blistered, and bleeding from their contact with the carpet when he had used them to break his fall. Curling up into a fetal position, Crowley began to shake violently and fall into his own pain.

Then he heard his name. Someone was calling him. Someone important. He followed the sound of the voice back to the surface of his consciousness and pried one eye open to look. Aziraphale's halo was blindingly bright and he squeezed his eyes shut again. In a broken whisper, he managed to say, "Angel, help!" before he passed out.