It seems like this could be a not very subtle metaphor for something else, but after a moment spent contemplating his own performance, Crowley for once decides not to comment.

Instead, rolling the stick between his fingers, he looks up at the sky, a thoughtful expression on his face. He's adjusted to the cold, now, though the high spirits of the day's warmth are certainly not diminished. And if earlier - if earlier, a certain sense-memory had caught him unawares, the sudden clench of fear is gone, calmed away.

The adrenaline, however...