"Which prophecy?" Crowley says. "Oh---Oh, right, the one you said. Mind your faces."

He applies the burn cream to his leg and it stings, but then it feels cooling. He begins to wrap the wound slowly. It's not perfect, Crowley is no healer by any stretch of the imagination, but he can tend himself all right.

"I'm not sending you into Hell," he says, firmly. "It's----not like what you're expecting, and I wouldn't want to put you through it."

He doesn't want to imagine what they'd do to him, but he thinks that boiling lava and beating with crowbars wouldn't be out of the question.