Obviously It's Crowley's
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15 Aug 2019
Crowley had been out for what he presumed to be 9 hours or so, peacefully drifting in darkness, enjoying the nothingness of sleep, when a dream began to take shape. It wasn’t visual as much as it was entirely sensory: a palpable presence, warm weight at his back. The smell of vanilla cream and mahogany and old books, deeply comforting, devoid of the loathed night terror’s trademark fear. Crowley sighed in contentment. Aziraphale. For as utterly horrifying as his subconscious could be, it could be just as lovely.
Alternatively: Aziraphale takes advantage of Crowley while he's sleeping. Crowley is flattered.