John paused momentarily, watching as the inflamed lacerations on Crowley's hand magically sealed themselves up and faded. Mostly. "Looks a bit nasty," he noted, nodding toward the injury before he handed over the bottle. "Might want to put something on it if it doesn't want to heal up." Even if it were perfectly innocuous (which, as a general rule, such things weren't, but John had no intention of asking) it was likely to make people speculate. And there was more than enough of that going on already.

He seated himself on the edge of the bed a comfortable distance from Crowley, and started to reach for his cigarettes, only to remember that they were once again in his trench--which he'd left hanging in the surgery. "Well, dammit. Gotta stop doing that," he sighed. "Or quit smoking, one of the two...so, congratulations, you've accomplished the nigh-impossible. What are you gonna do now?"