Winter nods, then plugs them in, and the string of lights comes on with a flicker.

There it is, all right. That sense of being stared at. His shoulders hunch automatically. He hates being stared at. For a beat he wars between the magical urge to blurt something, anything, and the ingrained training to keep silent and not draw attention to himself when he's under observation, teeth clenched tight.

Want to fill the silence first, Crowley? Or can you resist longer than Winter can?