Aziraphale wakes up and finds himself in the driver's seat of the Bentley. No, he's in the passenger's seat, but it's on the wrong side. No, he hasn't woken up at all. This must be a dream. Confused, he looks outside the window and sees a blur of cliffs and a gorgeous coastline. It's so hot here, and when he looks down, he's wearing one of those tee-shirts and an awful looking pair of shorts. He lifts the shirt to read the design. "Crowley, are we in California?" he asks, looking over at the dash and seeing little trinkets, souvenirs of a trip all across the States. There are maps, menus, and even a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses.

He looks over and smiles at his friend, who takes his eyes off the road and slams on the pedal. "Crowley," he starts, eyes widening. "Crowley, slow down--" he tries, as Freddie Mercury's dulcet tones fill the interior singing about how he's traveling at the speed of light. And then they are, too, taking off from the highway, flying through the clouds.

"Crowley--!"

--Aziraphale's eyes open wide to find that it's pitch dark, that somehow in his sleep he's rolled over onto his side and is holding Crowley into his chest. He involuntarily spits out a mouthful of red hair, moving his jaw to try and get the one or two strands that managed to stay in his mouth. Oh, dear, Crowley is not going to like his new hair product.

He runs his hand through it to try and get out all the spittle, while also trying so hard not to wake him.