He's drowning; falling deep, deep under the murky, bottomless pit.
MURDERER, voice whispers in his ear, DECEIVER.
"Stop it!" he commands, but he has no power there and so the voice doesn't stop.
There's also faces, ghostlike and swelling like a mist. Some of them are familiar, he has seen those when looking at the mirror. Their face are angry, and so are their voices.
You stole our lives! they accuse him, those who once served as his vessels.
"I had no choice!" he pleads, but they pay him no heed as they continue haunting him.
Rest of the faces aren't as familiar, but they're multiple; dozens, maybe hundreds of anguished souls, all reaching out for him, calling, You deceived us! You promised so much, and see what has come of us? You sent your hounds after us, you dragged us in the racks! Memories of his past customers, men, women, even children, reaching out their hands, pleading for release from the rusty, bloody chains around their wrists, ankles, necks…
"You made that by yourself! Nothing's free, you know that you would need to pay it back at one point!"
You played with our hopes and dreams, used our misfortunes for your own gain!
"I only did what was necessary for me to survive!" he replied weakly.
DID YOU? DID YOU REALLY? WERE THERE EVER NO ENJOYMENT IN IT FOR YOU… HOW YOU PLAYED THOSE POOR FOOLS TO FOLLOW YOUR WHIMS?
He wants to deny that, but words wont come out; he's lies are useless here. "I-I…"
DID YOU NOT LAUGH AT THEIR MISERY? DID YOU NEVER VISIT THEM LATER, DOWN IN HELL, JUST TO BRAG, FLAUNT THEIR FOOLISHNESS AT THEM?
"Shut up! Please, shut up!"
Give us back our lives! demand his past vessels.
You doomed us! accused those who sold their souls to him.
"It's not my fault! You had your chances; it's not my fault!"
YOU HAD YOUR OWN CHANCES, TOO, the first voice reminds him. IT WAS YOUR CHOICE THAT CONDEMNED THEM ALL.
"Chance?!" he cries out. "I never had any chances to the begin with…"
REALLY?
"My mother abandoned me! I had no-one to rely on! I learned to take care of myself, since that was only way to survive!"
This time, no-one answered.
"It was the only way…"
"Anthony and Aziraphale are coming", Castiel said as he walked back to the library where Winchesters had waited him. "They should be here any moment now."
"Yeah; Bobby's on his way, too", Dean grumbled.
Castiel frowned. "I wasn't aware that you were planning to contact him."
"Neither was I!"
"Bobby called us", Sam told him. "Apparently… Well, it seemed like Crowley left his Hellhounds to live with him, and they went restless at the same time when Crowley lost his consciousness."
Castiel nodded. "The bond between Hellhound and it's owner can be strong."
"AND then there's a Hellhound coming running over here, and Bobby told us to let her in", Dean continued.
"Ah." After seeing dark look on Dean's face, Castiel asked, "Is there problem with that?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Only that there is a Hellhound coming over here and it probably won't be happy considering that it's owner was under our care once he… well, was un-demonized, I suppose."
"I'm sure that Juliet wouldn't –" Castiel started, but was interrupted by an urgent knocking coming from bunker's front doors. "…That must be his father", the angel said, and went to open the door, not being any heed of Dean and Sam who rushed after him, asking him to make sure who it was before letting anybody in.
Castiel let the door swung open and Anthony stormed in, Aziraphale on his heels. "Where is he?" the demon demanded with wide, panicked eyes, "Where is my son? Has he woken yet?" He didn't seem to even notice the soothing hand that Aziraphale had placed over his shoulder.
Castiel shook his head. "Still unconscious; I'll take you to his room."
Sam coughed. "We'll bring you chairs; I mean, if you would like to sit with him…"
Aziraphale turned to give him a tired smile. "Thank you, dear", he said, before following Castiel and the anxious demon in the bunker.
Dean shook his head, bemusedly. "I still don't understand what it is in Crowley that makes them care for him so much, but damn, with people like that in his corner, he really should get better soon."
Sam nodded. "I agree. Now, let's go get those chairs…"
What were his first memories? Scent of milk, gentle touch of a muzzle, moist tongue licking his cheek…?
Rowena wasn't devoted mother. She didn't care to nurse her own baby, and since she had no money to hire a wet-nurse for him, she decided that an animal would do the same as human, for cheaper and, most important thing, without gossiping. So she bought a dog, a bitch with a litter of four on its own, and laid her son beside them. The dam accepted him as if he was one of its puppies, and it gave him all the care and love that Rowena either didn't want or was unable to offer.
Maybe it could count on her favor that she at least didn't abandon him or left him die on malnourishment, though her later actions often made him think why had she made even that much effort in the first place.
As soon as he was old enough to eat solid food, the dam had to go. That was first time he broke his heart, and he spent many nights awake in his bed, crying for fear and loneliness while missing the first mother he'd ever known.
Rowena started first time to pay attention for him when he was old enough to walk, talk and help her in daily works. After seeing that her son was unusually bright for his age, she started to teach him witchcraft, hoping to train him into her assistant. He was a fast learner, and driven by the need to please his mother, in hopes that she would then start to love him as he craved to be loved.
He understood pretty early that Rowena didn't much care about other witches; she made her thoughts about them clear, calling them "old-fashioned" and "unable to realize true vision and skill". What he didn't know before it was too let was that Rowena herself wasn't exactly liked among other witches, either.
To this day, he still had no clear knowledge of what it was that finally turned the rest of witch community against Rowena, but he had little to no doubt that at least part of it was to do with who his father was (even though Rowena had repeatedly told him that she'd no clue who he were, she'd also revealed that he was not a practitioner of witchcraft). The consequences on the other hand were all too familiar to him: Rowena decided to flee, and she also came to the result that dragging eight-years old boy behind her would slow her down too much for her liking.
First she tried to sell him, but since no-one was interested to take witch-child on their burden, finally she just left him. He was old enough to know that following her or pleading her to change her mind would make him no good; Rowena had washed her hands. He was now all alone in the world.
The bunker was silent; the angels (two real deals and one fallen) were staying at Crowley's room, and the Winchesters tried to be cool with the fact that they now felt themselves outsiders in their own home.
Loud barking noises raised them on their feet; something was jumping against their door, in clear purpose to come in, trough the door if not any any other way.
"Do you think…?" Sam whispered.
"The hellhound", Dean admitted.
Now what should they do? Bobby had asked (told) them to let the thing – Juliet – in, but to actually open the door to a Hellhound…?
"It could maim us", Dean worded out what they both were thinking.
"Ah, so Juliet has arrived!" said cheerful voice, and Aziraphale stepped past them, walking towards the front door.
"Wait!" Sam cried, and Dean tried to catch angel's arm, but somehow he missed. Aziraphale stopped in front of the door, talking through it, "Calm down, dear! Good girl. I'm opening the door now, stay put."
As soon as the door was open, they could all hear pitiful whining that sounded so much like a scared puppy that Dean actually lowered the gun he had pointed towards the door once realized that Aziraphale wasn't going to stop, and Sam's fingers twitched like he'd wanted to go and scratch the poor animal like the angel seemed to be doing.
"You poor dear… Now follow me. A-hah! No running."
The Winchesters moved quickly aside and let Aziraphale and the Hellhound walk past them. They couldn't see the creature, put they smelled something that reminded wet dog odor with sulfur mixed into it, and heard its nails clipping against the floor. They could also see its collar, and considering of how high in the air it was hanging, the thing was at least a size of a pony.
"Holy shit…" Dean muttered. "And Bobby has been living with two of these? Must have been comfy…"
"Speaking of Bobby… maybe we should call him and inform that… Juliet… has safely arrived here?"
"Yeah, that would be sensible… I mean, he lost Crowley's dog, he must be worried of what happens to him if the guy wakes up and the thing isn't all fine and dandy."
It was left unsaid that Bobby had actually seemed to care about the Hellhound of its own sake; it was little too bizarre for them to think about right now.
After Rowena left, he had no many options: he needed to find job, and fast, since even though the summer had just began, the autumn would eventually arrive and he has no place to live. Rowena had sold their house, and everything else that she could, to earn some money for her escape, and now all he owned was the clothes he wore.
He was persistent, and managed finally get himself a job from a local cattle farm. He wasn't paid, not with money, but at least he was allowed to have one warm meal per day and could sleep in the shed. Workdays were long and hard, and it wasn't always safe, either: pasture was far from any settlement, and the men there lonely and without any diversion. And for a boy, he was pretty and plump… Let's just say that after few close calls he learned to keep his distance and started to spent his night among the cattle. One cow particularly seemed to have a soft spot towards him, and let him sleep against its side, safe and warm.
The autumn came, cattle was returned to the farm and most of it them sent ahead to the market. He was among the men accompanying the farmer, and got a change to prove him that he was rather fluent both in arithmetic's and accounting, which raised his status in the farmer's eyes. After that, he was allowed to stay the farm, and he was even paid – he didn't earn much, less than anyone else, actually, as was expected since he was so young and had no family looking after him. Still he didn't complain; he was already having a plan how to get most out of his small salary.
He spared every coin he earned, and after few years, he had enough money to buy enough fabric to make himself a suit, like those he'd seen rich men using in a market. Of course, their clothes had been made from much better textiles, but he had learned from Rowena that when you looked neat, people were more inclined to believe that you were efficient and decent person.
And was that true: next Sunday he went to the church – as he did every week, no matter how silly he thought it all was – and for the first time, people seemed to actually pay attention to him. And when he then was asked where he'd gotten his clothes, he answered that he'd made them by himself, and then waited patiently for his plan to bear fruits.
Finally it did, and the tailor from the town nearby came to ask if he would like to become his apprentice. He of course answered "yes".
He was now twelve years old.
"Should we ask if they would like something to eat?" Dean asked nervously, once just another hour had went by with no changes in Crowley's condition.
Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Does angel's require food? Cass clearly doesn't."
"I don't know if they require it, but I've gotten the idea that those two like to eat."
"I see what we have", Sam offered and went to the kitchen. He soon returned and shook his head. "Okay, so… We have some bread, cup noodles, one tomato, and few cans of beer. Should I go and do some groceries? It's not like we both are needed here. Even if they wont need food, we would do for some… and Bobby too, once he arrives."
Dean stood up immediately. "I'll come with you."
"One of us needs to stay and wait for Bobby", Sam reminded.
"Well, why don't you do that, and I go for the groceries?"
Sam sighed. "Because from the two of us, I am less likely to get any troubles on my way."
Dean huffed but sat down again. "Fine. Should you go ask if there's something they would like?"
Sam nodded. "I was just going to do that."
"And bring me some pie!" Dean shouted after him. "And hamburgers – I'm not going to survive this day otherwise!"
Sam shook his head of amusement as he walked to Crowley's door but then sobered a bit before knocking.
Castiel was the one who opened. "Sam", he greeted.
"Hey. No changes?" he asked as he peeked inside past the angel's shoulder.
Crowley's father was sitting beside his son's bed, holding one of his hand between both of his owns, and Aziraphale rubbed calming circles over the fallen angel's back. On the other side of the bed, there was a dib on the mattress near Crowley's pillow; Juliet the Hellhound was probably resting its head near of it's master's face.
"None", Castiel answered. "Is there a problems?"
"Ah – no. I just came to ask if any of you needed something? I'm going to the market."
Castiel turned to look at the other occupants in the room. The fallen shared them no attention, but Aziraphale smile tiredly. "How considerable, dear boy. Tea would be lovely, and some water to Juliet, if it's not too much bother."
"No… no bother at all. I could bring the water right away… or would you come to get it, Cass?"
The angel nodded. "Sure."
At the kitchen, they spent some time for looking a suitable container. Dean also joined their company.
"You're really worried for his sake, aren't you?" he asked from Castiel.
The angel looked at him, his blue eyes tired and sad. "Wouldn't you be, if it was Sam laying there instead of him?"
Dean was tactful enough to not point out that unlike Cass and Crowley, Sam was his actual brother, who he'd know and taken care of ever since he was born. But he understood what Castiel meant, and that's why he stepped closer and hugged the angel. "It's okay, Cass. He'll wake up, bitch around for a while and bemoan how it's somehow our fault that things went how they did, but he'll be okay. I promise."
Castiel shook his head that was pressed against Dean's neck. "The thing I'm most afraid of is that once he wakes up, he's forgotten all that happened after he originally lost that part of his soul… including his father, Aziraphale, Bobby… and me."
Dean gulped and patted his head. "That won't happen", he assured. "I mean, after all we have went trough? Preventing apocalypse, fighting against Leviathans… Nah, there's no way he can forgot all that!"
Castiel sighed and let go of the hunter, stepping back while smiling a bit. "I hope you're right, Dean. I really do."
Later he would say – if anyone asked – that his time as tailor's apprentice was the happiest time of his life. His master was a severe and demanding man, who used quickly rod if detected any slacking, but he was also fair man and knew when to give praises. And now he no longer needed to sleep in the shed, but inside the house with other apprentices, he'd enough to eat and he even get to spent every other Sunday as he pleased, with no work in his hands.
Time went by, and he became a rather attractive young man. He started to notice girls… and they, of course, noticed him.
It was the irony that he eventually had to leave the town because of a one woman he never laid with – his master daughter.
Once the tailor saw how infatuated his daughter was with his young apprentice, he had to work quickly. It wasn't that he didn't like the boy – quite the opposite – but he'd already decided to give his daughters hand to the oldest of apprentices and have him continue his venture. That gave him no choises than sent his youngest apprentice away, to the bigger town where he hopefully would find himself a new master.
The apprentice himself wasn't overly shaken by that; he took his few belongings – and the purse that he'd nicked from the older apprentice – and was ready to start a new chapter in his life. He was now nineteen-years-old and full of self-confidence.
And for a quite some time, things seemed to be going just well: he found a new master who was very taken by of the skills of his apprentice, and met a girl from a good family whose parents were, if not delighted, at least ready to consider him as a future son-in-law. She wasn't extremely bright or beautiful, but she'd kindness in her that called that part of his heart where the little boy still hoped for his mother's acceptance.
He was twenty-five years old when he opened his own vendor, and only year later he went married.
All could have been fine if the Jacobite rising hadn't came to Scotland.
He's father-in-law was a zealous Jacobite, and so he either had no other choises than join the rebellion in 1689.
That war… changed him, and not for the better.
Bobby finally arrived.
"Let me see him first", the old hunter grunted. "Then you can start to explain how in hell this happened."
Dean accompanied Bobby in Crowley's room, trying to not think too closely about the massive Hellhound walking behind them. Bobby saw his fidgeting and huffed, "Get over it! Growley won't attack on anybody, at least as long as no-one tries to harm either Fergus or me. Right, boy?"
The bark he was given for answer did nothing to ease Dean down.
As soon as they stepped in the Crowley's room, Bobby sat on the bed beside the demon and reached out a hand to carefully caress his cheek, as if Crowley was suddenly made of glass. The look on his face was so desperately gentle that it very nearly broke Dean's heart.
Aziraphale stood up and helped his partner on his feet. "Come on, dear – let's give them some privacy."
"You don't need to –" Bobby started, but the angel shook his head.
"I insist, mister Singer. I'm sure that Fergus, too, would appreciate that."
Crowley's father nodded, even though he looked torn. "Just… If he wakes up –"
"- I'll call you back right away", Bobby assured.
"Right." The fallen angel allowed Aziraphale to lead him out of the room. The last thin Dean managed to see before Castiel closed the door was Bobby sitting on Crowley's bed, his one hand now holding the demon's while his other hand petted the air over his lap where one of the Hellhounds had probably rested it's head.
"I hate this", Crowley senior muttered.
"I know, dear."
The fallen sighed. "Well… If we had to wait… do you happen to have any wine in the house?" he asked while turned to look at Dean. He had taken away his sunglasses, and his golden eyes were little innerving, considering how much they reminded Dean of one certain yellow-eyed demon…
Get hold of yourself! Dean commanded himself. That bastard has been gone a long time already. Out of loud he said, "Yeah, sure. Let's get to the library, and I'll open a bottle…"
After he returned from the rebellion, he started to work again, but could no longer find any pleasure of it like he'd once done. He watched the customers and couldn't help but thinking, 'What would you do in the war? Would you be those who attack and die on the frontlines? Or those who hide beneath the corpses of the fallen ones, hoping that you go unnoticed?'
His trust on humans, that had always been fragile, was now shattered. He'd seen that underneath the thin layer of civilization, they were all brutal animals, ready to do whatever it takes to survive – he himself included.
He started to drink. He'd never been much of a drinker before, not by standards, but now he even went work as a drunk. That was the only way to shut down the wails of his fallen comrades.
The his wife gave birth to a son.
DID YOU HATE HIM? said the voice that had been silence for a so long time.
"I don't know."
YOU BELITTLED HIM, BEAT HIM, STARVED HIM, DENIED HIM AN EDUCATION; AND NOW YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT YOU DON'T KNOW IF YOU HATED HIM?
"I don't know!" Part of him hoped that he'd cared of his son at least a little bit; that his harshness towards him had been because he'd wanted him to grow strong, to be spared from that horrible weakness that had haunted him ever since his early childhood: his need to be loved.
YOU WERE JEALOUS. YOU SAW HOW MUCH YOUR WIFE LOVED YOUR SON, AND JUST COULDN'T HANDLE IT. SINCE WHY SHOULD HE BE LOVED BY HIS MOTHER, WHEN YOU WEREN'T BY YOURS? WHY SHOULD YOUR WIFE LOVE ANYONE ELSE BUT YOU?
"You know nothing about it!" he shouted.
YOU STARTED TO SEEK LOVE ELSEWHERE, FROM CHEAP WHOREHOUSES AND TAVERS; AND ONE NIGHT, YOU ENCOUNTERED A DEMON…
"I was drunk! I thought that she was joking!"
YOU SOLD YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL, AND FOR WHAT? THREE EXTRA INCHES BELOW THE WAIST.
"Double digits", he muttered his old catch-phrase.
WAS IT FORTH IT?
"I made a mistake! What do you want of me? I made a fucking mistake, okay?"
"MAKE A DEAL, KEEP IT." THAT'S WHAT YOU LIKED TO SAY. BUT I THINK WE ALL KNOW THAT YOU NEVER HELD YOUR OWN END OF YOUR OWN DEAL…
Once Bobby walked library, Crowley's father stood up and looked at him pleadingly; when the hunter simply shook his head, he sighed and crossed the room, Aziraphale straight on his heel, to return on his son's side. Castiel went to follow them, but Bobby stopped him. "Stay; I have a lot to ask, and I think you're all here once I do so."
Dean and Sam (who'd returned from the market) tried to keep their cool even though all their instincts, honed by childhood memories, were telling them to run before Bobby started yelling.
Bobby sat down on the sofa, and it was only after they saw him adjusting his position as if something big was coming to sit beside him, they realized that he'd brought one of the Hellhounds with him.
"Fergus told him to watch over me, and Growley takes his duties seriously", he explained after seeing how the boys stared at him. "Don't you, boy?"
Happy bark, and then they could clearly see how Bobby's face got licked by an invisible but eager, most tongue.
Sam stared his eyes wide, but Dean, who had decided that he wasn't going to get any more surprised than he already was, just rolled his eyes and went to fetch few cans of beer.
They tried to explain all that happened to Bobby as detailed as possible. It took some time, and the old hunter truly did ask a lot od questions, but finally he'd clear overall picture of how things went.
"That stupid little…" he muttered, and Dean was sure that if Bobby was any lesser man, he would have started to cry. He really must love Crowley, he thought. Well, at least we now know that it goes on bother sides… considering how far Crowley was ready to go just to confirm himself the thing that for others was as clear as the day.
The Hellhound, Growley, whined, and Dean was sure that it was now either licking Bobby's chin or at least nuzzling it with its muzzle.
We're one crazy family, Dean thought, and rubbed absentmindedly Cass' knuckles – he'd no idea when he'd took then angel's hand into his own, but neither was he planning to let it go. Crazy family, indeed… But is it so bad if I like it as it is?
When his ten years came to an end, the Hellhounds were sent after him, and the first place he could think about – he, who hadn't taken apart any sacrament ever since returning from the war – who hadn't been there when his own son had been Christianized – was a church. There he did something that he hadn't ever done before, not even when he was still a kid and at least tried to act like a good Christian: he prayed.
What a sweet irony was it that the angel who arrived to him was one of the fallen ones, too?
"I'm just a substitute; the angel is busy elsewhere", the stranger said before even glancing at him. "I'm also sorry but we – or he – don't really have a power to interrupt any deals made with downstairs, as longs as there isn't any foul play on the board; that said, suck to be you, but –" and then the ex-angel looked at him – he'd a curiously golden eyes – and made a strange voice, as if someone was throttling him. "Oh. OH. Well, this is… unexpected. Really. I had no idea you existed…"
The angry howl of the Hellhounds just behind the church's door startled them both.
"This is not good… But I can't simply left you here to maimed, now that I… What would the angel say? What would my FATHER say?!"
He had no time to even shout before the fallen had grabbed him firmly around his wrist. "Hold on tight", the fallen said, and then shouted, "Angel! Come back to home! I need you!"
And the next thing he know, they were standing – in the rain – outside of a nice-looking house.
"Good old London", the fallen muttered with a voice that was anything but sincere, "How I have missed your mist and rains…"
"London?" he croaked. "But that can't be… We just were –"
"Hush now, child", the fallen said and knocked the door, "The angel's best to be back, or else we're soon both dog food…"
"Now listen, fellow! I'm sixty-three years old, not a –"
He was interrupted by the door opening; in the doorway stood a blond, plump man who looked at the fallen with strict look on his face. "Snake!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing – dragging this sinner to my doorstep?"
"Angel, let us in, this is –"
"I certainly won't do anything of the sort!" the angel answered. "What ever has he done, he has done from his own free will."
"Angel…"
"NO."
Suddenly the fallen fell onto its knees and lowered his head, pressing his forehead againt the ground. "Please, angel! I need your help. Please."
The angel was clearly taken aback. "Are you pleading from me?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm pleading; for G- Sa- for Someone's sake, I can even beg if you want, but please, let us in!" the fallen cried out without lifting his head.
The angel bite his lip, before shaking his head and stepping aside. "Come on in, then."
The fallen stood up and grabbed his arm, dragging him away from the rain and inside of the house.
"Well then, snake? Care to explain why this man's soul is so important, aside of all others?"
The fallen laughed nervously, rubbing his neck. "Yeah, a funny thing… Well, not joking-funny, more like peculiar-funny… That being, you see – And I have no idea how this has happened, but – he's my son…"
It took few minutes of what was said to sink into his liquor-mulled mind. The he bunched the fallen into his nose.
HE DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT YOU, the voice said. IT WASN'T LIKE HE ABANDONED YOU ON PURPOSE; EVEN BACK THEN; AND AS SOON HE REALIZED THAT YOU WERE HIS OWN FLESH AND BLOOD, HE DID ALL HE COULD TO SAVE YOU.
"Do you think that I don't know that?" he spit out. "Cut me some credit, will you? I was in a shock, I wasn't thinking clear."
SO THE YOU THROWING BOOKS ON HIS HEAD, SWEARING AND ACTING LIKE A TRUE BRAT WHILE HE AND AZIRAPHALE WERE LOOKING A WAY TO SPARE YOU FROM THE HELLFIRE, WAS YOU THINKING CLEAR?
"NO; that came later!"
LITTLE CHILDISH, DON'T YOU THINK?
"Hey, who are you to judge me?" he shouted, now really irritated.
"WHO?" I THINK YOU SHOULD ALREADY KNOW…
Then there was a man standing in front of him; man in his early sixties, but looking older than his years, marks of hardships, letdowns and heavy drinking having drawn their lines in to the skin of his face. But his eyes were the most familiar part; those same eyes looked back to him every time he looked at the mirror, even if their colors and the faces they looked from were different. Those were eyes of a child who grow up without love, eyes full of suspicion and ire, and insatiable hunger that no food could ever satisfy; eyes that were carving for love, ruthless and unforgiving in their need; eyes that burned so fiercely that they would most likely to set on flames and burn down everyone who stepped too close.
"You… you're me", he said.
Man smirked dryly. OR YOU'RE ME.
"What is this? Am I… dreaming? Hallucinating?" he looked around himself, as if only now realizing something. "Where am I? What did those two idiots do?!"
THEY CURED YOU.
"Those -! I never asked them to go that far!"
THERE WERE NO OTHER CHOISES. DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED?
He tried to remember, but all he could recall was burning, white-hot agony. "What-?"
YOUR SOUL RETURNED TO YOU. GONCRATULATIONS, YOU'RE WHOLE AGAIN.
"But… I didn't mean that to happen! All I wanted was…"
TO KNOW IF YOU INDEED LOVE BOBBY SINGER. WELL, HERE*S YOUR ANSWER: YOU DO.
"And how do you know that so surely?"
The man – or, representative of at least one part of his soul – rolled his eyes. I AM YOU.
"Then why I don't know it?" he grouched.
YOU DO; YOU JUST DON'T TRUST YORSELF.
"Well, considering my track-record, that's not necessarily bad thing."
THEY'RE WAITING FOR YOU, his soul said.
"Who?"
YOUR FATHER AND AZIRAPHALE, CASTIEL, BOBBY, YOUR HELLHOUNDS… EVEN THE WINCHESTERS.
"Bobby is here?" he squeaked. "Or there… Or whatever."
YES.
"…Is he very angry?"
Again that dry smirk. WHY DON'T YOU GO AND SEE BY YOURSELF?
Was it childish to flip a bird towards one's own soul…?
The man shook his head. VERY ADULT. HOW OLD WE WERE AGAIN?
"You're intolerable!"
WELL, THAT GOES FOR YOU TOO, THEN; WE'RE SAME, REMEMBER?
"I try to forget… So, how am I supposed to get out of… here, wherever we are?"
SIMPLY, his soul said and took a step closer. YOU JUST NEED A… WAKE-UP CALL.
And then his soul pushed him on the chest, making him fall backwards; but instead tumbling down on the floor, he found himself falling into the nothingness – deep, deep nothingness.
The last thing he saw was his soul peeking down at him and waving his hand cheekily. HAVE A SAFE TRIP!
"You moron!" he screamed…
And in his bed, Fergus sponged up, shout "you moron" on his lips, and hit his head together with his father's.