There seems little point anymore in pretending that they're not more or less on the same side, so Crowley doesn't even bother needling him. Instead, he smirks, and lifts his refilled glass in appreciative recognition of the toast, and follows Aziraphale's example, emptying it with a practiced sort of swallow and depositing it back in the boat so he can lean back in the water.

'Fairly sure dreams don't usually have a purpose,' he says, his tail coiling beneath him, flexing in a lazy arc to send him in a slow circle around the boat, disturbing the bioluminescent plankton as he goes. 'Unless they're prophetic, which, this'd be a new level of enigmatic even for Him if it were.'