So I've been writing this fanfic since November and it's about time that I finished it and posted it. I think I did a good job with this one, went into a more different range than I'm used to. Also, this is my first ever "# times" thing fic. And yes, I'm going to mention Gary Lester in my fics as much as I want because goddamn it, A Feast of Friends was GREAT. Also forgive me for any bad research on the apocalypses. It has been a very, very long week. And it's 2 AM where I'm at so, Jesus, I am TIRED.

Like I said before, Perfectionist!Esme is canon, so that's another reason why it took a long time for me to post it. Edits and edits and edits. Yikes. Nearly drove myself into a tunnel of eternal frustration of not getting a certain sentence down. And I did spend over two hours with my beta Kat on Google Docs, working it out as well as I could.

And there is a sex. There is a bit of smut in the very beginning. Credit to that goes to consultingstarkofmischief aka Kat, who knows how to write porn [even if it's kinda brief] better than I ever will. Thanks sis!

Disclaimer: I evidently don't own John Constantine. Trigger warnings for alcoholism, chain smoking, trauma, nightmares and mentions of dead characters.

Enjoy!

It had started off as a one night stand after a shoddy gig in London.

John and Gary were both a little drunk, both still running on a post concert high. They left the pub earlier to head to the gritty motel room that they were sharing, for economic purposes of course.

John had noticed a strange sort of admiration from Gary since the beginning of their friendship. Caught him gazing a few times, heard a small stammer when he talked with him. Whenever he praised him, he'd blush redder than a teenage girl with her crush. There was an attraction, no denying that. Even when John taught him how to pickpocket, how to properly chant an exorcism, Gary was fully concentrating on him and him only. Gary was still a little bit flustered.

Truth be told, it wasn't a one sided attraction.

Yes, John was jealous of Gary. He had money, power and a car. But at the same time, Gary irritated him to no end. He had tossed away so many missed opportunities that John would have easily jumped at. And then there were the drugs. John did have his own vices, smoking and drinking, but the drugs were something Gary had grown an interest in. And John did admit to smoking a few joints, but Gary didn't just lean on that. And to make it worse, his interest in it was still growing.

And while his bitterness against him still stood, Gary was still a fun person to be around with. It was contradicting. His admiration stood out the most, but so did his sense of humor, his taste of good music, his smiles. And even though John would never admit it out loud, his laugh made John's heart flutter.

John did feel some sort of attraction to him, as did Gary to John. It was more noticeable than ever when Gary kept on looking at him that night with some sort of lustful desire. And John wasn't going to say no to that.

So when Gary touched John's neck and leaned in to kiss him, John let him and kissed him back. It was innocent, which was strange coming from them, but it was still enough to make both of their faces flush. John's hands ran through Gary's still sweaty hair and Gary pulled John closer by his waist. After they broke apart, they leaned their foreheads together, catching their breath.

Gently, John brushed Gary's cheek with his hand, a tenderness passing through the gesture. John cared, goddamn it, he cared. And it was really going to happen. They looked into each other's eyes, and like magnets, were on each others lips again with a new intensity as a rough kiss led to another.

Gary broke away and looked up at John with the unspoken question. John nodded, and Gary smiled. It proved how different they both were. John was all smirks and cocky upfront attitude, Gary was shy smiles and being in the background.

However, that shyness was gone. Gary went back to it and kissed down John's neck until he found a spot and began biting, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark. John let out a groan, hands grabbing at Gary's still clothed arse.

Then John was shoved onto the bed on his back and Gary tugged off his own shirt. The brunette straddled John, one hand unbuckling the blond's belt along with his own, throwing them off and hearing them land with a thud on the floor. Gary drew John's head up by his hair and gave him another hungry, passionate kiss. John's hands ran up Gary's torso, stopping at his nipples and brought them to stiffness with tight pinches that caused Gary to moan against his lips, a sound that went straight to his dick.

They broke apart briefly to remove John's own shirt, and Gary pulled his trousers off, his arousal clear. The clothes were tossed onto the floor. John slid his own trousers down, and palmed his erection through his pants. Gary moved back to straddling the blond, John pulled Gary towards him to kiss again, teeth clacking ungracefully and tongues touching. Their hands went down each other's pants, pride long forgotten as they both fucked each other senseless.

And the sex was absolutely great.

After that, they had agreed to the occasional shag. They both enjoyed it, both wanted more, where was the fault in that? It wouldn't be a bad thing. Getting laid, no strings attached. Nothing more, nothing less.

Right.

It started off so simple. In the heat of the moment, John agreed to the arrangement of casual sex. But now, John knew it was a rubbish idea to become involved with Gary sexually. One way or another, the relationship would no longer be just casual fucking. Like nearly every friends-with-benefits arrangement, feelings would eventually get involved at one point. That's just how it works. And he knew that there wasn't enough booze to stop that without killing his liver.

Yet he still went along with it.

It wasn't that Gary was a bad lover. Hell, he was far from it. Gary knew the rules they set down, knew his boundaries. Consent was no issue between them. And John had his own limits considering sex, as did Gary. John respected Gary's, Gary respected his. It was mutual arrangement. They could see or sleep with other people, but the minute one of them got in a relationship or lost interest, it was off.

It used to be simple enough.

John knew he was terrible with the people he slept with. It wasn't a big secret. Getting to know them, he was good at that, but what came after is where it all went downhill. He had the songs and strings of heartbroken exes to prove it.

And Gary was terrible with people in general. He already was a manipulative, people-using bastard. And with the drugs, he was only getting worse. No one had to say it out loud, but it was only a matter a time that the recreational joint and needle would be a daily thing.

It was just a random hook up and fuck arrangement done on a reckless whim, and they knew it. Sometimes, it would be a late night call. Some were done unexpectedly, like being pulled into a closet for a quick one in between rehearsal breaks or in the back seat of Gary's car during a late night stakeout.

Yet, John couldn't get enough of it.

They worked in damn good harmony. A sync that John hadn't felt with someone else for a long time. Gary was a pain in the ass, and he knew it. John knew it. Yet, he was the jackass who started having feelings for Gary.

So much for the casual fucking.

He couldn't help it. His passion for the occult, his enthusiasm. A fun bloke to have around. A good lay also.

Yet, it shouldn't work.

But there was something about the way Gary moaned John's name, begging for it. Asking John to hurry, that he needed it. It was like he was Gary's newest addiction.

And of course, there were the marks. John didn't mind them, part of his kinks. It was a turn on knowing that he would get dressed and feel those marks underneath his clothes and continue to present himself to the world. It was animalistic, the way those marks showed up the next morning. Long red scratches on John's back. Hickeys down his neck, bite marks alongside his shoulder. All of them were never hard enough to draw blood, but they did last for a good while.

John would lay in bed, sore, utterly debauched and well fucked. He couldn't say that about most people he had sex with. But then again, he wasn't having sex with many people. Sure, there were a few skirts and blokes he did sleep with, but none of them came close to Gary.

But there was also something deeper than that. The way Gary smiled. The way Gary laughed too loudly at a crude joke. So many more things that were just simply him.

Like how absolutely innocent Gary looked in John's arms right now.

Fuck.

It was another weekend full of sex. They'd usually wake up at the same time, but Gary kept on sleeping.

He should feel guilty, using Gary for sex. But then again, he was a con man. He knew he used people left and right to get what he wanted. They were both at fault here. John be damned if he didn't feel those stupid butterflies that he thought were left back in primary school. Before John knew it, he had a drawer dedicated for Gary's things in his apartment.

Fucking Christ, John was whipped.

Gary began stirring in John's arms.

"G'mornin' luv," John greeted.

Gary stirred and yawned, stretching his arms and blinking into the light. "Mornin'," he greeted, his throat sore of disuse. He leaned his head into John's neck and closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his arms went around John's bare torso. His hair brushed against John's cheek, soft to the touch and bringing back those damned butterflies.

As expected, he dozed off again. He wasn't fond of Sunday mornings anyways.

John looked down at Gary and pulled the sheets closer around them. He ran his fingers through Gary's hair and kissed his forehead, a gesture he knew that was far too intimate and far too gentle for an arrangement like theirs.

Shit. He was catching feelings. Bad, bad, idea.

John wished that every morning were like this, with that sense of peace and warmth of having someone in his arms. He wished that he could enjoy that sense of normality with someone, to truly feel the pleasure and love from both sides. He's had that before, and it felt great. Lasted for a few weeks, but still great nonetheless.

He didn't want to fall for an addict.

But he couldn't have that. Not when he was John Constantine, master (more of a petty dabbler) of the dark arts, a famously talented occultist. His name was among the top mages in the United Kingdom on skill, and also a name on many big bads's hitlists. He still managed to impress himself on just how many people he has pissed off over the years.

For now, he laid in silence with his arms around Gary. He listened to his lover's soft breathing and the sounds of the city awakening down his window, all with that sinking feeling of knowing that none of this was going to last.

There was silence in theory regarding the atmosphere. After all, it was only John in the tiny, crudding excuse for his apartment. A bottle of Scotch, only halfway full, laid next to him. The city outside his window was silent, only a few cars driving by the street.

But the screaming in John's head didn't stop.

It was three weeks after the death of Astra Logue. She had been a little innocent girl in Newcastle possessed by a very powerful demon. In an attempt to save her, he got some of his friends to help out, all experts on the occult as he was. But it all went horribly wrong.

End result? Damning a little girl and his soul to Hell. The crew that handled the situation? All fled in fear, forever traumatized of the events they went through that night. Gary, Anne-Marie, Ben, Judith, Frank, Ritchie, all gone to God knows where.

He didn't blame any of them.

John dropped communication with everyone. He turned off his cellphone, turned off his laptop, turned off the television. A moment to go off the grid. He let the bills and mail pile up. The news were all the same thing, still looking for Astra's murderer. Not that they would find it anyways, since it was currently in hell.

No doubt that Chas was probably calling away, trying to get in touch. Only Chas would call anyways.

It was already heartwrenching enough to hear a kid cry in pain. But this was Astra, the daughter of a friend that trusted John and his crew enough with her life. And she would scream in pain, over and over. Her anguished cries, pleading for John to save her. John's attempts to reassure her, to keep her safe. Only to have Nergal drag her down screaming.

It would continue for days, and nights. Long enough for John to lose sleep over it. He resorted to the bottle of Scotch to somehow numb it, even if he had to deal with he pounding headache in his head the next morning. Cigarettes remained but drugs were out of the question.

John knew that considering his health, it was declining. He lost his appetite. He rarely ate, didn't see anything appealing to him.

It was around two in the morning when he woke up from another nightmare. The shock from the dream left him gasping, eyes watering, coughing and choking for air. For those few moments, he would hear his heart beat rapidly in fear and the reality would settle in that he was still alive.

But nothing prevented him from desperately turning his lamp on and feeling relief of seeing his flesh arms not being burned to a crisp with the flames of Hell. Just to make sure, he felt his face too, sighing in relief when he felt his growing stubble rather than burn charred bones.

Everything was still intact around him. No flames, no darkness, no screaming.

Same bloody nightmare. Him burning alive in hell. Filled with his screaming and Astra's.

John sat up in the bed of too many springs and resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight. The burning felt too real.

He spent most evenings like this. Sitting in the bed with too many springs next to the open window. Cigarette in one hand, half empty bottle in the other. Sheets tangled around his legs, the lamp laying a dim overtone on his bed. Silence hanging in the air along with the smoke, with insides screaming from the burning, from Astra.

John knew he had eventually get up and get out of his room. Take a shower, do his laundry, shave. Eat something. Go to Chas, hope the bloke forgave him for dropping communication like that. And try to figure out how to get all of Newcastle behind him.

There was an asylum he could look into. But now, he didn't have the strength to do so. Not when the guilt ate him alive.

Sighing, he took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing out the smoke. The familiar burning in his lungs made him feel alive, in some sort of twisted way.

He could feel something wet trail down his cheeks, only to realize that they were tears. And they wouldn't stop coming.

Maybe it was punishment. All of it; the nightmares, the screaming, the haunting of Newcastle.

And if punishment was of John smoking his cigarettes down to a stub and having to reach for another bottle in the booze cabinet, so be it.

It had been three weeks since Liv had been scared off.

That's how John bluntly put it. Liv got scared and she went off to California. He didn't blame her. Good on her to get out before this life sucked her in too deep. The map Liv left was on the other table. Chas was out in the woods looking for ingredients to a new potion, for whatever reason he had in mind, so John had the mill house to himself.

The cab was still in repairs, so he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

He should be lucky that Jasper kept books in alphabetical order by culture. Made things more easier and accessible to do. The old man had enough free time to do so, and John couldn't have been more glad about that.

He laid out all the books on the table and providing more space to move about on the ground. And he got to work.

There had been many names to it. Armageddon, the end of days, Apocalypse, Judgement Day, Ragnarok, Three Days of Darkness, way too fucking many.

It didn't help that Manny was annoyingly vague. Was it Judeo-Christian he was dealing with? Norse? Roman Catholic lore coming around? Hell if he knew, because the bloody angel didn't specify. Manny just said Rising Darkness, and there wasn't a single thing with that name in the books.

66 seals had to be broken for the Judeo-Christian apocalypse. He counted each dot in the map, not 66. There were no reports of rivers turning into blood, no sudden appearances of frogs, no hordes of dying livestock, no deaths of newborns. No raining grasshoppers, no red skies. He hadn't heard of any Greek gods dying lately.

John let out a frustrated groan and tried flipping back a few pages in a book. There were too many names for the end of the world.

It was overwhelming to think about it. The Rising Darkness was coming and he didn't have a single clue on what he could do to stop it. No objectives, no clues, no leads.

And it would save his and Astra's souls from Hell.

"C'mon Johnny boy, you've gotten out of situations like these before, think."

That was lie. He'd been in many types of situations, but never one where the fate of the world depended on him. This was a first. He couldn't save a little girl. How the hell is he supposed to save the entire world?

"Fucking bollocks," he whispered, leaning back in the chair, frustrated with himself. He massaged his temples and let out a shaky breath.

He felt like that lost child again in Liverpool. Not knowing what to do when Cheryl left, feeling absolutely hopeless and scared. When Anne-Marie offered her hand to introduce him into the world of the occult, he jumped at it and held it tightly, tighter than anything he's had before.

But now, the fate of the whole world? He was supposed to be the righteous man to save it?

Fate must be fucked if it meant that the side of the good saw him as their beacon of hope.

"John?"

A warm hand was on his shoulder. It was Chas. It had to be Chas. He was the only one who spoke to him with such patience, such warmth.

"Out of all the fucking….out of all the bloody people available, it had to be me to stop this mess."

He didn't understand. Why him? He damned a child to Hell for fuck's sake. He damned himself to Hell. He's the one at fault of the Newcastle trauma to his friends. Why him?

There were plenty of more qualified people in the world for this job. He surely wasn't the only one interested in the occult. But why him? Why someone who has done too many bad things that he could count on both of his hands and the ones affected by it?

John knows people that are far better qualified, both in who they are and in skill, than he is to stop the threat of the Rising Darkness.

So why him?

"I can't do it," John said.

"You have every right to be afraid, John."

John didn't know how to reply to that. Of course he was afraid. Not having to deal with it alone, not pulling it on himself. It was so foreign.

"I don't have time to be afraid," he said. "This takes years and years to prepare for. To prevent eternal damnation. I barely knew about it two weeks ago. I can't do it."

He was close to tearing up. Chas knew it. Of course he knew. Chas always knew. It's always been Chas who'd known John better than himself sometimes.

"Hey, I'm your best friend and I'm not going to let you go through this Rising Darkness bullshit on your own. We go in, we go in guns blazing."

"Thank you," John said. "Now get a book. Let's find out what evil bastard is behind this one."

Gary's burial had been a one man effort.

Zed had left to go to the town for a few days, probably to clear her head. Chas was out of town also, doing his own thing. After all, he had a family. God knew how Geraldine and Renee were doing.

The hunger demon lasted two and a half days, halfway shorter than the predicted five days. Showed just how powerful the demons were getting. The absence of Zed and Chas gave him some leverage. He didn't have to put up the defense mechanism of sarcasm and bitter jokes, one that he knew made him look like a careless, cynical arsehole in the worse situations. And he didn't have to explain why it was so difficult for him to let go of Gary's hand.

John had different ways of dealing with his guilt. He did talk about it, eventually, to Chas, but he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for that yet.

Manny had been there, watching the whole time in silence. Never started a conversation, didn't lecture John on why he fucked up. John knew it already. He didn't blame him. He didn't blame any of this mess on anyone but himself.

John still wasn't sure on how to tell Chas that Gary, "that bastard Gaz who was a damn good lay and a decent conjurer", was dead due to his manipulation and to having a demon consume him from within.

The screaming was so loud.

You were a good friend, Gaz. Ain't none of this your fault, and we both know it.

John didn't cry as he buried him. He didn't cry as he closed his friend's eyes. He didn't cry. Not anymore. He did his time of crying and apologizing and voicing his regret. All done the night before he woke up to a cold slack hand in his own.

Their friends with benefits arrangement ended abruptly as soon as the band broke up. They all went their separate ways. John and Gary had a mutual parting and John felt relieved. He got out when he could. The feelings didn't linger anymore, now that Gary was an ex. Good. It would have ended badly. It had been years ago, plenty of years ago. Before Newcastle, before John's life turned into a mess.

Burying Gary wasn't him trying to redeem himself, to make himself feel better over the things he did to lead to his fate. Burying him was an act of unspoken resignation. It was John crossing his own bridge and burning it down, swearing to not go back. Gary was gone.

John should've gone inside to get some rest. Shower, eat something too. But instead of doing any of that, he leaned against the tree and continued to stare at the freshly laid earth.

He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips and lit it up. An action he's been repeating for years, since he was a young, insecure brat in Liverpool and sneaking a few smokes behind his father's back.

He felt the heat of the lit cigarette between his fingers. A contrast of the increasingly cold chill as the sun started to set. He smoked it down to a stub and dropped it onto the dirt, grounding it with the sole of his shoe. And he pulled out another and lit it up. His lungs were going to pay for it later but for now, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat.

Around him, life continued. The stubs increased as the chatter of the cicadas faded into the chirps of crickets. The bright sunset turned into the into a cold, chilly twilight. From where John stood, he could see some stars appearing in the sky.

John felt the small cold breeze graze at his skin and he let out a small shiver. The air began getting bitter, even more colder. He regretted not bringing his coat but he made no move to go get it.

The grave lay there before him.

There was no fanfare, no noise, no settlement of the continuing guilt in his stomach. He felt that burying him was just another way of him trying to mend his guilt, to feel some relief. None of it came. He was still drowning in regret. After all, he just buried and old friend, an ex lover, thanks to his manipulation.

All that was left was the cold wind leaving goosebumps on his skin, the smoke hanging in the air and and another old friend six feet under the ground.

John briefly remembered the case. A chilling vision Zed had of screaming animals led to a dot on the map in a small swampy Louisiana town. Chas had checked out the news outlets and surely enough, a large amount of domestic pets were going missing. John did some more digging, and as it turned out, it was something that happened each year. It was a cult. Had to be.

They drove down to Louisiana. Animals going missing around a certain time per year always led to a cult. John knew of the cult, what they've done and what they're capable of. And while it was minor compared to others, it was still a threat. They didn't just use black magic, they set it loose upon others in their community.

With Chas and Zed backing him up, they devised a plan on how to intercept the cult members. The forecast had predicted a storm, but that didn't mean the cult stopped their actions. It was a simple enough interception, cutting them off their headquarters, which was an old warehouse with a scary looking altar made of different pets.

The plan was working, but like almost everything in John's life, it went sideways and bit him in the arse.

And by bit, it meant that the cult members found him alone and off guard during his final recon of the location. It had started raining then, the sound making it harder to distinguish the chased him for a good amount of roads and before he could conjure a way out, two bullets found home in his abdomen and he collapsed in pain.

The rain poured down mercilessly, cold water seeping through his coat and onto his skin. Shivering from the fear, blood loss and cold. Thunder rumbled above them, a few flashes of lightning. He screamed for Manny. Begged for help, yelled for Zed and Chas. Anyone. But he couldn't be heard. Not over the storm. He started crawling on the ground, trying to get somewhere but ultimately falling down in pain. Every movement stung

He wasn't sure how long it took until he saw Zed running to him and screaming his name. Chas sped alongside her, already pulling John into his arms. Zed said something about another vision, how she already called 911. Asking how hurt he was, until John choked out in pain and direct her attention to the wound.

Maybe he was crying, maybe it was the rain. John wasn't too sure. He just knew that the blood, his blood, going down his side, and suddenly, he felt the worst fear strike him now. He was gonna go into shock, how he was going to die, how everything hurt. A drop of water fell onto his lips, warm and salty. Noticing the direct contrast of the cold rain, it was when John realized that he was crying.

Zed took off her sweater and pressed it down onto the wound with one hand, trying to stop the bleeding. Through the pain, John's hand joined hers as they added pressure to control it. He hissed and Zed looked up. With her free hand, she cupped his cheek and soothed him down, saying that it was all going to be okay. John wanted to believe her.

He held on as long as he could. Talked some nonsense to Chas and Zed, how this was how he died. Chas pressed down harder on Zed and John's hand, saying that he wasn't going to die. Zed's arm was stained with blood, his blood, and she pleaded for him to hang on.

So for his own sake, he did. He knew they were only minutes that passed, but they felt like agonizing hours. He had been close to death before, but he never really know what it felt like. He fought to stay awake but the moment he saw the ambulance approach them in the corner of his eye, he passed out.

It was the last thing he remembered before waking up in a bed. As expected, he was in hospital. The room was quiet. Even. Rather than the white blinding lights, the lights were dimmed down. Surely enough, it was around midnight.

It was already past midnight when he was shot. He must have been out the whole day, or maybe even longer. He had no idea if he went through surgery or not. And he was currently too tired to look down his robes and check.

His abdomen still stung, but the pain was mostly gone. It wasn't his first bullet wound. Might not even be his last. But unfortunately, it would take him a few weeks out of commission, but that's better than death.

John looked down to see one of his hands intertwined tightly with Chas's. Next to the bed, Chas was asleep in the chair. His arm was around Zed, who used his shoulder as a pillow and had both of her arms around his waist. Despite their noticeable stiff and wrinkled clothes, they looked comfortable enough.

But then again, anyone could sleep comfortably if they had Chas as a pillow. John's done it plenty of times, when he was too broke to afford an extra motel bed, or simply when he was tired and Chas was willing to cuddle on the couch. It always felt great.

John gave Chas's hand a small squeeze and continued holding it.

For once, the silence felt okay. It wasn't suffocating, it wasn't overwhelming. It was realizing that things were okay. John was alive, so were Zed and Chas. They were okay and safe. He doubted any cult member would get them now.

He could sleep for a few more hours. He was in no rush to get out of here anyways.

John will deal with all of the hospital bills, the medications, and the possibility of a bloodthirsty violent cult still being on the loose, in the morning.

Finally got the damn thing posted. This is what happens when you're a perfectionist. I've done some serious editing to this one, so yeah. I hope you guys enjoyed me writing some sad fanfic yet again. :D Who knows, maybe I'll write some fluff for a change. But thank you guys so much for reading it! It means a lot to me! Reviews are welcome!