The angel, for what it's worth, forgets to breathe. The level of trust in feeling what Crowley's doing, the way he lets the angel read him and see him in a way only they could, it's almost enough to knock him off his feet then.

But he reaches. He reaches and sees him and lets himself be seen too. Like no one else has, like no one else could.

He lets go of Crowley's hand, just so he can reach up and cup his face, carefully, faintly, as if asking permission to hold it.

Finally, a moment. Some quiet. Finally, this.