To Sleep is to Dream

They say that evil never sleeps. This is really not the case. Evil, like any other thing, must sleep occasionally but no being, evil or otherwise, enjoys sleep more than Anthony J. Crowley.

Crowley had slept a lot since the 'Apocalypse-that-wasn't' simply stretching out on his always neatly made bed or large white leather couch and taking cat-naps. It seemed to him that if the Powers That Be ever got it into their minds to try and destroy the earth and it's inhabitants again that he'd be happier having been well rested. It also helped that ever since thwarting the End of All that Crowley had been having some extremely odd and vivid dreams.

Oddly enough, most of these dreams starred Crowley's Enemy turned friend, the angel Aziraphale. Maybe not so odd, seeing as the angel and demon spent more time together in the years leading up to that Saturday than they had for centuries beforehand. They also spent a lot of that time worrying together over the end of their beloved world and sharing a worry that large no doubt leads to a closeness in relationships. So maybe it wasn't so odd Aziraphale being cast in his dreams. The odd part was what exactly Aziraphale was doing in those dreams.

Take Crowley's current dream for instance, as he lays most comfortably on top of his bed, completely clothed and still above the pristine duvet(?). In his dream he is walking down a familiar street in Soho, hands in pockets and sunglasses covering his golden eyes. He pushes open the door of the bookstore where Aziraphale, for a lack of better word, lives. The bell above the door tinkles softly, echoing through the shop in the way that sounds do in dreams.

Crowley walks straight past the rows of shelving. The books meticulously clean whereas a layer of dust covers the shelves, one of the strange ways the angel had to keep people from staying too long in the shop. Past the desk where a stack of books lay in a neat pile next to an account book. Through the darkened doorway and into the backroom which is faintly lit by a dozen candles strewn around the small space. Straight into the arms of the angel himself, standing in front of a desk cleared of the normal cup of cocoa and books.

Without any words or recognizable preemptive thought they begin to kiss. The kiss is hot and frenzied, lips rough against each other and fingers clutching. After long suspended minutes they pull apart, Crowley slightly flushed and the angel smiling serenely.

"My dear." He says softly before he spins Crowley around so that he is resting against the desk. The angel slides to his knees before the demon and his fingers deftly undo the buttons of his sleek pants. He reaches up and smoothly pulls the fabric down Crowley's hips. The smile he gives Crowley before his lips enclose the tip of the demon's member is cherubic and sweet.

Crowley's eyes close to golden slits and the sound of a hiss fills the room. The fingers of one hand clutch at the desk, seeming to press into the wood itself. The other hand entwines itself into the golden locks of the angel who is bobbing his head smoothly.

Crowley knows that the angel is not breathing, not with the way his mouth sheathes him entirely. He also knows that he does not need to be breathing either but harsh breaths tear through his chest regardless. Soft moans and loud hissing escapes his mouth in a rough pattern.

"Azzzzzssss." He groans, feeling that familiar yet undefinable heat in his groin.

The angel doesn't, can't, answer him other than to continue his ministrations. Instead the angel begins to hum and Crowley's hips buck instinctively in response.

He thinks that he recognizes the tune 'Amazing Grace' before distraction came in the form of his orgasm. Smooth fingers grip his hips softly but firmly as he releases his seed in the angel's mouth.

The next long moments follow in silence, marred only by the sound of Crowley uselessly sucking in air. He opens his eyes finally to find the angel standing in front of him with a smile on his perfect lips, a silk handkerchief wiping a white spot from his chin.

Aziraphale leans forward and presses his lips chastely to the demon's.

"Back to bed my darling." He whispers, a finger tracing the line of Crowley's jaw reverently.

In his sleep the demon rolls over on his bed, mussing his immaculate blankets the tiniest amount. The cotton immediately fixes itself, lest Crowley awake to find it out of order.
A sweet and almost angelic smile slowly appears on the demon's face. Yes, nobody enjoys their sleep more than he.

a/n: Reread Good Omens for the umpteenth time and needed to rid myself of a baby plot bunny. ^^; Yes, it's quite short but if I get the time than I will be working on a longer story about our favorite angel and demon.