Crowley cracks his knuckles uncertainly, the snapping noise absurdly loud in the desert silence. Raguel could mean anything, of course, but if there's one thing that -

"Er, well. If it was after the Nephilim, um, thing, then it definitely wasn't your fault. If it was before, then - you got lucky."

In more ways than one, perhaps - but that's not something Crowley thinks he could say. Nor something he's sure he could say and mean.