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Aziraphale doesn’t answer.
Crowley drives faster and hopes. Though hope, he thinks, is only for the angels. Not for him. The shop is aflame. He walks into the fire and locks the doors behind him. He is the only one allowed to walk this ground, here at what he knows is (hopes isn’t) the end. He cannot feel the flames licking his boots, but he understands, for the first time, what they must be like to a mortal flayed alive by that all-consuming pain. He falls to the ground, and screams.
Which side he is cursing he no longer knows.