Angel, John thinks to himself as he digs, and wonders exactly at the relationship between these two. Not that a good friend would not be desperate to rescue another from such a fate. But a good friend would not, in his experience, refer to another by such a name. No, in his experience, such a nickname comes from a much different relationship.

John renews his efforts in his digging, ignoring the protests his injured arm is making on the matter. Working to uncover what appears to be more rocks -- is it some sort of chamber created out of them, he wonders?

It is not that Lord John had not wanted to believe this was indeed Mr Crowley's friend down there. Just that the cynic in him was attempting to safeguard against the possibility that this too was something dangerous that he was going to need to protect him from. He thinks that perhaps more so than the demons down near that hellish tree, that would be a crueler twist of fate. To use their own friends against them in such a way.

But it's hard to remain so cynical when the next spadeful of rocks and dirt he shifts reveals what appears to be a man's fingers, forced through a small opening in the rocks below. Followed by the somewhat louder (and somewhat more desperate) cries of the man himself.

"Mr Crowley," John says, tossing the dirt aside, careful not to undo the progress that they have just made, "I think we've found him!"