A/N: It's crossover time! Good Omens x Sandman, in which Dream pays Crowley a visit one night.

It was a picturesque scene. In the garden of a small cottage, fragrant with fruit-tree flowers and bursting the colors of their wilder cousins, Crowley and Aziraphale sat at a sturdy, weathered oak table; the kind of table that held as many stories as it had rings, and could bear up under as many plates of cake and dishes of pudding as one could load it with. They were laughing together, Aziraphale chucking behind his serviette so as not to spew crumbs, and Crowley guffawing at his own wit. His eyes were golden-brown and unshaded, and met the tinkling blue of Aziraphale's without any worry that someone might interrupt them. The weather was perfect: warm and fine, with enough of a soft breeze to stir their many plants gently now and then. A ginger cat was curled up in a vacant chair at the table, but now it yawned, stretched, and leaped lightly into Crowley's lap. He dropped his hand to stroke the cat, which made its biscuits against his leg as he watched Aziraphale select one from the plate in front of him, and sighed with content.

"Leave me alone, Dream."

The Crowley standing outside the garden watching the pastoral events within unfold muttered darkly. Next to him, the tall, slight figure all cloaked in black, who had just silently appeared, looked at him mildly.

"This again, Crowley?"

"I said, leave. me. alone." But Crowley was familiar enough with Morpheus's silences to know that the Endless wouldn't vanish just because he said so. He inhaled exasperatedly. "Yes, this again. What, are my dreams not creative enough for you? Not enough variety? Why don't you go visit Muriel, I'm sure there's plenty of nonsense there to entertain you." The faintest of laugh-like sounds escaped Morpheus through his nose, and he shook his head.

"No. Muriel has no need to me tonight."

"Oh, and I do?"

"Yes."

Crowley turned away from Morpheus, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His shoulders hunched of their own accord, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard. I don't need you you stupid daydream idiot- was the beginning of the stream of profane thought that churned inside Crowley's mind, but he kept it behind his lips. He did not want to rage. He did not want to fight. And Dream was not stupid. All he wanted was—

"What about this idea occupies you so, angel?"

Like a spooked animal, Crowley jerked around. His face impassive as ever, Morpheus was still watching the scene in the garden. The cat had gone to sleep, and another biscuit had disappeared from the plate.

"Don't call me that," Crowley snarled, his fists balling up inside their pockets, "I am not an angel."

"You were when we met."

"That was a long time ago, Dream. A lot's happened since then." For the first time, Morpheus turned his head to look at Crowley, and meet his eyes.

"I don't think you ever stopped, really."

Crowley glowered, but held his counterpart's void-like gaze. The flickering lights within it reminded him of the stars. They stood like that for a long time, until at last Crowley asked,

"You know what happened to Aziraphale?"

It wasn't really a question, but Morpheus nodded anyway. Crowley turned to look back at the garden, and its blissfully unaware occupants. It was shortly after Aziraphale had returned to Heaven that Morpheus had begun to appear in his dreams. Not every night, and not every dream, but despite the two beings having known each other since Morpheus had emerged in the Universe, he had never visited Crowley so often before. He was too subtle for it to be a coincidence.

"Well," Crowley returned uncomfortably to Morpheus's question, "when I think about what might've happened if he hadn't— if it hadn't all gone wrong— when I think about what could be, if he came back— …this is what I dream."

Morpheus was silent again, and this time, it did provoke Crowley.

"Do you even know what this means?!" He burst out, gesturing wildly with an arm at the garden, the cottage, and the cat. The uninterrupted idyll was punctuated by another chorus of laughter from below, followed by the indistinguishable conversation of two voices. "'Course you do," Crowley subsided, pushing his hands back into his pockets with a slump, "you've been around long enough."

"I have." Morpheus replied. "I understand."

Crowley glanced sideways at his companion.

"Yeah, I s'pose you do."

Silence stretched out again, as they watched the garden together. The wind stirred hair scarlet and black, birds sang, and now and then Morpheus brushed away a fuzzy bee that had become too interested in him. Neither paid any attention to the passage of time, but time did pass in the dream. The air took on a slight chill as the sun began to go down, and below in the garden a lamp was lit, bathing the table in its warmth and light. Glasses were raised, and the ting of glass on glass was unnaturally loud in the twilight. When Crowley spoke, his voice was cracked, and his question encompassed all the questions he yearned to ask, and contained all the multitudes of his joy, pain, and every defiant feeling he had ever felt in the existence he had shared with his lost angel.

"Why?"

Dream of the Endless raised one hand, and laid it on Crowley's shoulder with the sort of firm, gentle kindness that requires no explanation, and answered.

"Love."