Aziraphale's hand going away is what rouses him a little. It's...it's a lovely touch, warm and comfortingly present, reassuring, as though to remind Crowley that he isn't about to be burned all up or otherwise blessed out of existence. He's not quite awake when Aziraphale strokes over his shoulder, but it makes sleep, perhaps, a little bit easier, without so much of the pain plaguing him, sapping what energy is left after he's healed himself, which is indeed very little.

Crowley's eyes open briefly and search around for Aziraphale before seeing that he hasn't left him, but has settled down beside him against the wall, with just the slightest bit of space between them. Without thinking about it, without really even being aware of what he's doing, he lets himself slump a little to the side and his head settles against Aziraphale's shoulder, locks of curling red hair brushing the angel's collar.

"Hurts," he mumbles aloud, the awful throbbing pain of his hands and arms making itself known vividly again.