Crowley slept. In his dream he was flying, white wings spread over a silver city. The Silver City. The air, cool and perfect, made each breath a pleasure, each exhale something like pain. Towering spires threw off the soft white light in ways that made no shadows, no dark places in the city below him. It extended, The Silver City, in a way that felt organic, like it had formed, full and perfect, from the clouds.
He flew for the joy of it, simply to feel the bunch and flex of angelic muscles. To see The City, never anything less than perfect, like a dream below him, to see the sky, so blue that it hurt, above him.
He landed easily, gracefully, in a courtyard so covered with pretty, flowering things that it smelled exceptional even in The City. He was not alone in the courtyard, it was not a place that he went to be alone. Another angel stood beneath a cherry tree, a perfect pink blossom caught in his curling blond hair.
“Hello,” he says softly, almost shyly.
When Crowley wakes it is slowly, so it is not for a few minutes that he notices the shadow in his bedroom corner, there is a face somewhere in that shadow, a man’s face pale as the light in the Silver City between the shadows of his hair and of his robe, both blacker than any human sin. A face with eyes like the night sky, with an expression older than history.
“Thank you,” he whispers, voice hoarse, to Morpheus, the Dream King.