"Good," he says, still watching the moon climb slowly into view, the edges of the world start to take on a silvery cast. "I mean, you've built them up, now, so I expect to be shocked and awed."

His voice is a little quiet again, as other people might speak inside a church; again, the slight tone of something that - if you didn't know any better, if you didn't know that Crowley's seen six thousand years of what the world had to offer - you might call 'wonder'.

(As it is, it could be called 'respect'.)