Water dripping and soaking and splashing.
Darkness. So much darkness.
A growl. Definitely not human. Not from this Earth either.
"John..."
That's from this Earth. He knows this. Or at least he should.
"JOHN..."
He definitely knows this. Or doesn't he?
He lifts a hand - at least he believes he does - and calls out for help. Well, he doesn't so much call out for help as he soaks in a puddle of murky water and his own blood.
It's getting a bit nippy down here.
"Christ, John..."
Christ has nothing to do with this. Just a nun.
More darkness next to him. Darkness in the shape of something he knows.
Warmth against his cheek, his throat.
"I'm alright. Just a scratch."
"John, can you hear me?"
"Yeah, I am telling you, mate, I'm fine."
"John..."
The world around him shifts and wobbles and writhes and it's getting even colder. Something is tugging at him, at his coat to be precise, and then pain lances up from his abdomen to...everywhere.
The pressure against his ripped midsection makes him throw up at a little and it's getting worse when his body stops being his from the waist down. At least it's not so cold anymore.
Again, the world shifts and this time, gravity does too and all of a sudden, he is hanging up down. The upper half of his body does, that is. Maybe his legs are still down in the muck. That is just as well. He was never one for hiking anyway.
He watches water and blood and worse drip from where he assumes his own head. He can see something now, now that he is flying.
His fingers curl into something, something soft on the surface and warm and fleshy underneath.
Another shift.
Stars.
Gravity has him back. So does the dirty ground beneath him.
He can see now and he looks at the most beautiful thing his eyes have ever fallen upon. Having encountered sirens, that's saying something.
"John, do you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can."
He hopes it is fingers slipping into his hand otherwise his attempt to do as he is told would be a little embarrassing.
"Alright, alright. I got you. You'll be okay."
He'd like to believe that. That'd be good.
The pressure against his stomach lessens for a second and he catches a breath. It feels like the first one in hours and maybe it is. And then the pain is back and the world turns black.
They say at a certain point, you'll pass out from the pain. Self-preservation or something.
They don't say that beyond that point, you'll be too busy being in pain to pass out.
He is in the "beyond that point"-stage of things right now. Darkness has spit him back out again and the light above him is too bright. Everything is.
Something weighs down on him, and when he tries to move against it, his hands and feet find their limit in padded shackles.
"Hold still, John. It'll be over soon. Almost done." The words rumble over him, setting a low vibration to his nerve endings. "You have to hold still."
He feels things moving around him. Hopefully they are human things. He can feel them tearing at his flesh and he would throw up if he had anything left. They are stirring his insides, giving them a nice and proper whirl, ready for a tasting.
"Bueno, ya lo arreglo."
The weight from his chest lifts and fingers rake through his hair. They feel like they are burning through his scalp.
"Solamente necesita un par de puntos. No va tardar mucho."
Darkness takes another bite.
The world has context again.
John is lying a bed, all starched to the point of bristle. A bed at the convent, of all places. Where there is nuns, nuns with guns.
The shackles are gone and if he wasn't so tired John might actually be able to lift a finger. His entire body feels heavy and it's only in part due to the thick bandages around his stomach. The blanket feels like woven lead around him but it's warm so who is complaining.
There is a sound. A lot rumbly sound. For a second, the image of a jungle cat flits through his mind.
Slowly, as if wrapped in cotton candy, his head rolls to one side, towards the source of the sound.
Chas is asleep in a chair he has pulled up to the bed, his long legs a trip wire for everyone trying to get too close. He has his arms crossed over his chest, his cap is hiding half his face. He snores.
It takes four attempts and a painful cough to rouse Chas but once he is, he is six foot something of high alert.
"You're awake," he states the obvious.
John curls his wrist to the best of his abilities, making a vague gesture toward his mouth. He wants to say "water" but all he manages is warbled vowels.
"I'll get you something to drink." Chas disappears from his field of vision and for a second, John panics. Then Chas is back and with him his warm and calloused hand in the back of John's neck and a bottle of water.
It tastes like heaven even though he barely manages a few sips.
"Easy, easy. Go slow."
Chas takes the bottle, caps it and puts it next to the bowie knife he has placed within reach on the bed.
"Anne-Marie?" Again, it's barely more than vowels but at least they are in the right order this time.
"She's save. The babies, too."
"Don't... She..." John twists his hand again to where he thinks the bullet went in.
Chas' brow furrows for a moment, then he understands. "She did this? She shot you?"
John manages a nod.
It's mostly reflex when Chas reaches for the knife, ready for action. Sometimes John wonders if he has always been like that, on this red alert virtually all the time, or if being John's wheel- and wingman has brought that out in him.
"Don't." John reaches out for Chas' arm and everything hurts.
"Why?"
"I understand."
"I don't."
"Don't matter." John's words take more form now. "Babies are safe. I live." He coughs and there is more pain. "I do, don't I?"
"Yeah. Thankfully she is a worse shot than you are. Missed the major artery. Or your head."
"Don't make me laugh." Even the smirk that went along with it hurts.
"You'll be okay. A few days rest and…"
"We don't have days, Chas. Tonight, we have to…"
Chas puts a hand on John's shoulder and a full stop to the argument. "Tonight, you have to rest. You stay in bed or I'll shoot you myself. And I won't miss."
"I love it when you're being bossy."
Chas gives him a tired smile, then he leans down and kisses him on the forehead. When he pulls away to sit down in his chair again, John grabs a hold of his shirt. "Stay." His hand falls limp again but he manages to pad the spot next to him. "Here."
"You sure?"
"I got shot."
Chas' chuckle sounds like a small engine. "I got shot three times and died twice. You don't hear me complaining."
"That's 'cause you're a bloody yeti."
John hates it when Chas talks about dying. He tries to make it sound so casual, like it's not more of a deal than changing a dirty shirt. They both try to ignore that it is a big deal, that John frets the one time that Chas doesn't return from the dead, that John knows that Chas knows it and that their jokes and quips are just made in fear and helplessness.
So when Chas climbs into bed with him - fully dressed because you never know when they need to hit the ground running - the fear lessens a little bit. Just by a fraction. The bowie knife helps.
Carefully, Chas worms his arm beneath John's head, trying to make the narrow bed comfortable for them both without John ripping his stitches.
John can feel Chas' breath, feels the rise and fall of the other man's chest, and it's the most glorious thing, especially tonight.
They lay in silence for a long while. John is exhausted, having a bullet removed and all that, but he can't sleep yet. There's something he needs to say first, something important.
"I did it to Gaz."
Chas doesn't reply but John knows he has his attention.
"Sacrificed him." He swallows and it hurts. "Killed him."
"You didn't kill him. The demon did."
"I helped. I watched my friend die and did nothing."
Chas moves in a little closer. "You saved innocent lives."
"Anne-Marie did, too."
"That's why you forgive her?"
"I understand her." John remains quiet for a long while. "I owe her."
John knows Chas isn't that compassionate even if he and Anne-Marie are something close to friends; he doesn't expect him to be. He can be unforgiving for the both of them.
"You're a good man, John."
"Debateable."
"No, it's not. Now sleep."
"Yes, daddy."
Chas huffs a laugh. He shifts and his body makes this perfect fit against John's smaller frame.
"Chas…" John says when he is already half asleep.
"Hm?"
"Getting shot sucks."