It's the same house. Crowley spares a moment to wonder how Aziraphael managed to contact its owner, never mind persuade him to lend it out. But his thoughts are still hazy, still sleepy, and in the end he decides: he probably shouldn't be surprised. Aziraphael always has been just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.

It's the same house. The first thing he does, after he drops his bag carelessly on the kitchen tiles, is step out onto the whitewashed wood of the little veranda. It's just a tiny bit more faded, just a tiny bit more weathered, and where Crowley leans his hands on the railing, the paint is starting to peel.

It's the same beach. The sky is blue, and endless, and the waves hush softly in the silence.

The breeze ruffles his hair, as he turns his face up to the sun.