It's too much. It's still nearly too much: the wall of noise, and the glaring mist, and the scratch of a million coarse, tiny fibres, and the clammy seep of the mud, and the thick smell of feathers and of another living body, and every millimetre of every tiny trickle running down his temples from his bedraggled hair, and the cold air in his nostrils, and the sheer overpowering thereness of his arms and his legs and his skin and his lungs hurting and his heart beating terrifyingly fast and his stomach roiling in panicked protest.

But something's certainly got his attention, fraying as it is - and gradually, a few more thin scraps of reality manage to force their way through and begin to knit together. Visibly, between one moment and the next, Crowley stops looking through Raguel and starts looking at him.