Crowley immediately twitched his fingers -- and a bucket appeared, near the couch. He wasn't having Castiel throw up on his carpet, thank you.

But Crowley, too, seemed to have wasted his energy on speaking, and he sunk lower into his chair, carefully focusing on his dog. It took a few long moments before he worked up the energy to speak again, but it was faint.

"It's not going to be you is -- "

There was a painful sensation in his chest as he inhaled deeply, to try to get out the next words -- and he looked irritated before he opened his mind to the angel, thinking -- he loathed the idea of praying -- instead.

It's not going to be you, is my point.