Aziraphale certainly wasn't the only one here who'd taken one hell of a beating. Crowley had held up surprisingly well despite his aversion to fights, but he really wasn't a fighter. All of the demonic and angelic forces in the world couldn't particularly help him when he got hit hard, plummeting to the ground for the second time in his life. It only took a drop of Holy Water from there to completely break the demon, burning through his skin and up his body until some force of Atlantis nature stopped it - but nobody here really knew what to do for him.
He'd been in and out of consciousness for the past few days since the fight had ended, vaguely aware of them attempting to give him drips and attempting to help his wounds, but nothing could really fix this - until it did.
Crowley awoke as the pain receded from his body, becoming bearable and then becoming next to nothing, just a dull ache in his invisible wings and the hint of something that had been there, but now wasn't, like a scar lit by the angelic powers that had healed him. He knew that feeling anywhere - the sense, the smell of cologne. Aziraphale. Sitting up abruptly in bed, he was disturbed to find himself in a stark white room with nothing on him but a papery blue gown, grimacing down at the article - and then over at the angel in the corner, looking like he'd just done something incredibly difficult but also like he'd been sat in that chair for hours. "...Aziraphale? What're- wh- how? Did you put me in this awful gown?"