Gradually, far too gradually for his taste, demonic influence and sheer force of will begins to win out. With the pain lessened just that crucial degree, Crowey can focus better now, and eventually he feels the holiness like a tide ebbing from his body, leaving its painful mark in the raw, throbbing burns beneath the bandages. All the while he's aware of Aziraphale, his presence, his hand on his shoulder and the soothing nonsense he murmurs, aware of an intimacy in being touched by him that has never been present between them before, and it gives him the will to continue: he's not about to let his angel witness him succumb to blessedness. What would that do for his reputation?

At some point he lets out a long hissing breath, and his body relaxes, slumping back against the wall. It might almost appear as though he's passed out, though it's certain by now that he isn't going anywhere. His eyes are closed and his still-trembling hands are laid in his lap. They hurt a great deal, pain returning now that all his concentration isn't thrown saving himself, and it would be rather nice to pass out for a while.