Dark clouds coalesce quickly. The heavens seem to open with a crack of lightning, releasing torrents of rain in a downpour not predicted by meteorologists. Chas, however, knew the rain was coming. Early that morning, when the skies were clear and calm, he had been awakened from a dream by a boom of thunder not heard by anyone else.
Restless energy stirs in his bedroom, a promise of the coming storm. Tired eyes stare up into the darkness, finding shapes in the obscure pattern of the water stained ceiling. It's hours before his alarm is set to go off, and yet Chas finds himself unable to return to sleep. Heaving a sigh he clicks on his bedside lamp, half expecting to see shadowy critters skittering across uneven floorboards, seeking refuge in holes rotted into mould streaked drywall.
Light floods the room, revealing no traces of truth to his imaginings.
The young man dresses and shoves his keys into his jacket pocket. As he walks out the door, he doubles back for the umbrella he'd bought on an impulse the previous day, much to the amusement of the cashier. It had been over one hundred degrees, the heat smothering and thick. Yesterday, rain was a fools dream.
Outside the cool air licks at his face. Above him is a vast expanse of wine colored sky, speckled with stars peeking through the light pollution. Somehow he knows that storm clouds will form soon, unexpectedly and seemingly out of nothing. To most of the people below, looking up with pleasant surprise, the rain will be a treat. Only a select few will sense what it truly is; a harbinger of the end of days.
His dreams, muddled and fragmented, are the reason he senses the foreboding the rain brings. He dreamt about a hospital, shattering glass. A body plunging through water and into a desert hellscape, hands reaching up from within a woman's stomach and spreading veiny skin. He dreamt about eyes so dark they were almost obsidian, bearing into his soul and all his shortcomings.
He can't know it now, but these are glimpses into the battle that is to come. Most of the premonitious had been lost in wakefulness. One lingers, somewhere between consciousness and the haze of sleep. It's a grief-stricken face looking down at him. Rage tries to pull thin lips into a sneer. There's a hand, broad and warm, clutching at his shoulder.
And then-nothing. This phantom memory is vivid as he wakes, and as he adjusts his cap and starts the short walk to his cab, idly swinging the collapsed umbrella by the looped string on its handle, it evaporates away.
The engine sputters, threatening to quit on him, and then rumbles to life. Foggy headlights cut weakly through the darkness. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he forgoes his usual route and drives aimlessly. His wanderings take him into a seedy part of the city, where drunkards are stumbling home and drug dealers are hawking their wares. The dark street glows with light cast from neon signs adorning strip-clubs that offer more than just dances.
More than once, when he'd been fresh meat, he stopped to pick up the people who worked at the clubs. One had shot up in the backseat and nearly died, another had invited him up to her apartment to get out of paying the fair. He let her go without paying, and his heart hadn't stopped hammering in his chest until he was out of the borough.
The worst experience, the one that had made him stop coming to these parts altogether, was a shoeless girl with a black eye and bruised lip who cried the entire drive. She was barely able to give him an address, and refused to let him take her to a hospital.
He hadn't known what to do, and instead of calling the police he let her disappear into an apartment building.
That had been months ago, and cruising the familiar streets makes the hairs on his nape rise. Or maybe he just senses the change of pressure in the air. Because minutes later rain patters on the pavement gently, for just a moment, before the floodgates open. Chas sits at a stop sign for an extra moment, watching the dust on his windshield be swept away.
Maybe the downpour will cleanse more than just buildings and cars. If he steps outside, spreads his arms wide and looks up at the dismal sky, will his sins be washed away? Will the memory of bruises and an angry step-dad slide off his skin? Will the smell of vodka on his mother's breath disappear, the same way he did at sixteen, running away to sleep on friends couches-anything to avoid the din of his parents fighting.
It's a silly notion, he knows, and he drives on. The Saint Christopher medallion hanging from his rearview mirror jangles. The necklace is a stolen relic from his mothers jewelry box, and, if her word from his childhood is true, the only thing his father left behind. As he was walking out the front door of his mother's apartment for the last time, his belongings stuffed into a backpack, he was possessed with the need to go into his mothers room.
The necklace was under the jewelry boxes false bottom, along with a small bundle of cash in a plastic baggie labeled "Chas' College Fund." It wasn't much, but he fled into the darkness of the night with both items, the money hidden and the pendant around his neck.
When he miraculously got the job driving cabs, the medallion found a home on his mirror. And although he's never been particularly religious, it's presence is a comfort. So many of his co-workers have horror stories about thugs and druggies pulling guns on them, but Chas hasn't ever had to deal with that.
He wonders if today will be the day to change that. On the sidewalk is a black clad figure who immediately intrigues Chas. The man doesn't scramble for shelter under shop awnings, nor does he duck into any of the buildings. He simply walks through the storm as if it didn't exist. His posture is slack, exhausted, but somehow there's a swagger in his step. The way he walks speaks of self-assurance, arrogance. Something intangible about the man screams danger.
He doesn't hail him, but Chas stops anyway and the stranger gets in. Tempting fate, Chas thinks, glancing at Saint Christopher.
The mysterious man, who will still be a mystery after months of driving for him, lights a cigarette and tells him an address. He sucks on the cigarette, eyes fluttering shut in an almost reverent appreciation. Smoke curls out of his nostrils, dragon-esque. Yellowed fingertips, discolored from years of nicotine, tap the seat impatiently and Chas looks to the road, face burning.
He's never been to the church the man specified, but he doesn't ask for landmarks. One way or another, he always gets to where he needs to be. As a child he had a knack for finding lost trinkets, a misplaced set of keys or a remote control absentmindedly put in the freezer. On the first day of school, he navigated the hallways like he'd walked them a dozen times before. At seventeen a cab company hired him simply because he was the only applicant who wasn't strung out on crack.
His intuition continues to prove especially useful.
So transfixed by his passenger, Chas pays little attention to the road. The man is ravaged, war-weary for reasons Chas doesn't know about yet. A pale face is pulled into a dark expression, bruise-like bags under his eyes. Shaggy hair doesn't suit the formal shirt and tie the man wears. He looks young, and at the same time his slumped posture is a testament to a lifetime of burden. Something about him is ethereal, a quality that inexplicably draws people in and then shoves them away, although Chas can't figure out what it is.
He thinks of a rose, beautiful and protected by its thorns. The thought makes his mouth twitch into a smile, and he imagines how well sharing this insight would go over.
"Watch the fucking road." The man snaps, not looking away from the window he's staring out of.
Chas keeps his musings to himself.
A phone rings, and the man scowls.
"Constantine." He answers.
The voice that comes through is frantic and garbled, and Constantine's reaction to it is not concern but annoyance. "Hennessy-Hennessy," he repeats sternly. "I'm going to see Gabriel, you have the amulet, you're fine. Remember the prayer, in Latin."
Chas can hear the man on the other end yelling, "John, John!" But John, as he was apparently named, hangs up abruptly.
His curiosity skyrockets.
By the grace of God they get to the imposing cathedral safely, and Chas is jumping out of the car before John can open his door. He hurriedly opens his umbrella and holds it over him. His legs turn to jelly under the unnerving stare his efforts receive.
"Really working for a tip," John says in the dry, snarking tone Chas will come to know well.
"I'll wait for you here." He replies, unprompted. He hadn't been asked to idle, and he had no idea how long the other intended to be inside. Still, John nods.
He drums along to the radio and watches the rain fall while he waits. Wind rocks the car, rips leaves from shaking tree branches.
Thick wooden doors slam behind John and he leans against the wall, a sour frown twisting his mouth. His lighter sparks and he inhales smoke deep into his lungs. Chas returns with the umbrella and walks him to the curb. John gets into the passenger's seat and once inside the cabbie assaults him with questions.
John answers tersely, glaring out the window as if he were angry at the world. And Chas will find that is just the reason behind those brown eyes being narrowed with ever present bitterness.
He, stupidly, believes every word out of John's mouth.
"Do you need an apprentice?" He asks eagerly.
John smiles mirthlessly.
"No." He opens his door, halfway out of the car before he speaks again. "I could use a driver. Noon, tomorrow."
He gives no other details, and at noon tomorrow Chas is parked outside the bowling alley. He continues to be there, faithful and enthusiastic, each day since the first.
It's impossible not to admire Constantine, he finds. The man is a hero, a legend. Chas wants to be just like him.
John exorcises demons and Chas waits in the car.
After one job John leaves a well-read, freying book in the backseat of the cab where he'd flung it absentmindedly. By lamplight Chas reads the entire book before morning comes.
His questions must pester John, because he gives him a pile of books to keep him busy.
They do. And once he's read all of them, twice, he asks for more. It takes a year for him to read his way through the books John's willing to share, and it's then his itch for more really takes ahold of him. Being privy to the aftermath of exorcisms had been enough to dissuade him before.
He sees John dragging himself to the car, beaten and worn down by a bone deep tiredness from a lifetime of knowing things not meant to be known to man. It's him who is allowed to see these moments of weakness and tread the fragile landscape of John's ego. He drives them to twenty-four hour diners and orders foods he knows John likes. Then he loops his arm around John's waist and guides him to his apartment, passes easily through the runes carved into the door-frame. Their spells ripple around him, grant him entrance even if their caster does not.
He dumps the man onto an unmade bed. And if a part of him wants badly to stay, to sweep mused hair from John's forehead and press flush against him on the mattress, well, he ignores that part.
His mentor would let his body hurt before his pride, and Chas learned early on not to worry about the smattering of bruises and minor injuries John had at any given time. It isn't his place to dote, anyway.
Chas knows what he cannot have, what John is unwilling to give. So he diverts his wants to more constructive things. If he can't soothe the aftermath of a bad exorcism, he should be there to help keep things from going bad to begin with. He can practically speak fluent Latin, not just memorized incantations. He's studied harder than he ever did in school.
Sitting useless in the car is a waste of his time. He wants to be in the fire, fighting the forces of evil with John. A year ago, he wasn't prepared for the physical and psychological toll that came with the territory. Things are different now.
He's ready.
"Start the car!"
Chas pokes his head out the window to see John ducking back inside off the balcony of the mansion-like house today's job took them to.
The man limps down the porch steps, ignoring the sobbing, grateful family that follows him. He falls into the car, clutching at his side, and Chas doesn't wait to peel out. John's usually pristine, ridiculously expensive shirt is stained red. Chas speeds all the way to his apartment and hauls the man up the stairs, sits him down on the toilet and examines the wound.
"Where's the kit?" He asks, already standing to search for it. They both know trying to get John to a hospital is a hopeless endeavor.
Like he's done many times, he cleans the wound, and then he cleanses it. Latin blessings slide past his lips, and John rolls his eyes.
"You only need to do that for half-breeds or full blooded demons, it's a waste of time on possessions."
Chas does it anyway, and once the gash no longer reeks of demon he uncaps a container of special balm Beeman swears by. He smears it on the mess of torn skin and John inhales sharply, air hissing through his teeth. Chas sits back on his haunches. "You need stitches." He declares.
"The balm will accelerate the healing." John says, moving to stand.
" As will the stitches." Chas says defiantly, and his mentor is too tired to argue tonight.
Chas' admiration doesn't wane, and unlike everyone else John's terrible attitude doesn't push the boy away. Maybe that's why he doesn't want him to get too close, doesn't want Chas to look up to him. John Constantine is not a role model. The last place he should be is on a pedestal, revered by someone as impressionable and eager to please as Chas.
He works alone, always has, and having a bright-eyed kid tailing him is a nuisance.
Still, he lets Chas drive him around. Gives him books to read, begrudgingly answers his questions. When his temper flares, Chas refuses to run for the door. He stays, and John comes to suspect he'll never be able to rid himself of the boy.
For all he tries to keep a distance between them, Chas worms his way into his heart. He's stupidly endearing, and his nimble fingers have a knack for stitching him back together after a half-breed has torn him apart. There's a softness about him, and it reminds John of something he hasn't had for a long time. Innocence-some semblance of it, at least.
The boy isn't hardened by years of toil and despair. He can't fathom what Hell looks like, and John doesn't want him to. He wants to protect him, to keep him from seeing the horrors of the divine and unholy. But his time is running out, and every time he lifts a cigarette to his lips it's another step towards his grave.
After he's gone all Hell will break loose. And his legacy only means that the mess he leaves for Chas will be all the worse. He needs to prepare the teenager for what's to come, but he makes him wait in the car. Tells himself, next time I'll bring him. Let him help, watch.
Next time never seems to come.
Really, it's Chas' fault for being so damn likable. If his hazel eyes didn't shine like honey in the sunlight, didn't sparkle when he laughed, then maybe it would be easier to accept the inevitability that he'll come to harm because he follows John with the willingness of a puppy.
Chas falls in line behind him easily, happily, and it's terrifying. When the boy gets hurt, it will be his fault for letting him wait outside the cathedral. His fault for telling him to come back, for filling his mind with demonology and occult nonsense. Chas shouldn't spend his time learning about those things. He should be out living a safer, more predictable life. Not chauffeuring him to places where demons dwell in the flesh of unsuspecting people.
It's only a matter of time until Chas gets hurt.
The kid impresses him and Papa Midnite. This, John knows, is the moment Chas has been waiting for. The moment to prove himself. He does. John can't show Chas how proud he is because there isn't the time.
One moment things are in their favor and the next Chas is dying.
Emotions rise up beneath the surface of John's surley exterior. Words catch in his throat. Chas' spirit is gone before he can muster the courage to say a heartfelt goodbye.
There isn't time to grieve. Hell is almost upon them and he has to focus on everyone else he can save instead of the few he's failed. It's almost an out of body experience as he reaches for a hunk of glass, drags it across his wrists. The pain is a whisper. His head tips back and he stares at the ceiling. Time slows as he blinks and Lucifer himself comes to collect his sorry soul.
John is not a man devout. He knows God is real and he knows he is forsaken. Still, he thinks a prayer for Angela and Chas. Maybe God will hear him this time. Take pity on his damned soul and at least give him this last reassurance that his loved ones will be okay.
Silence answers him.
Lucifer grants his dying wish and Isabel's soul is released into the warmth of heaven.
God, it seems, still considers John his child and keeps him from Lucifer's grasp. The wicked, cast out angel does the only thing he can. He forces John to live. His fists bury in his chest, yank the tar and cancer from his lungs.
"You will live." He promises, "you will live."
John wakes up with a sharp inhale that doesn't cause a coughing fit.
The night is cool and a breeze slides through the leaves. Stars dot the sky, twinkling and chiming with their cosmic secrets. Beneath the expanse of velvety darkness John feels small. He feels smaller still as he walks across the grass up to a granite headstone. "Chas Kramer," it reads, "1986-2005". Nineteen years old. The kid had been nineteen years old.
Tears build behind his eyes. The do not fall.
He fingers the textured metal of his lighter and sets it atop the gravemarker. John does not linger, does not confess all of his unsaid feelings. He simply says, "you did good, kid."
And as he walks away, he hears the rustle of wings. He turns, sees Chas bestowed with a pair of angel wings. The boy looks skywards, eyes like liquid silver, and he jumps. His wings catch the air and propel him.
John smiles, bittersweet.
He thinks that will be the last time he sees Chas' face. But as in life, the boy proves hard to shake. He shows up a few months after his shell has been buried and scares the shit out of John while he's nursing a hangover and leftover Chinese.
"What's up, John?"
"Fuck!" John jolts, whirls to face Chas' smug smile.
"Miss me?"
Of course he has. Chas has been apart of his life since he was seventeen. Two years the kid was like a shadow to him.
"What are you doing here?"
Chas isn't swayed by his harsh tone and fiddles with a familiar object.
"Just keeping an eye on you." He answers casually. "After your last guardian angel quit no one wanted the job. So I took it." He winks. John's lighter in Chas' hands sparks. "Keep you out of the hellfire."
"Really?" John asks, and he hates how unphased he sounds.
"Well, I might have missed your cheerful disposition."
Chas looks around, sniffs the air. "You aren't smoking again, are you?"
John shakes his head. "Burnt toast."
The angel snorts. "Sit down." He guides him to a rickety kitchen chair. John hugs him instead. Neither man lets go for several moments. Chas withdraws first, and pushes John to sit. He tutts at the questionable rice and searches the refrigerator.
"How are you?" He asks casually, pulling things John doesn't remember buying from the pantry.
"I'm fine." He says, and Chas cocks an eyebrow at him.
"I don't need special angel powers to know you're lying."
His wince is subtle, and to anyone else it would simply look like an involuntary twitch. Not to Chas, though. Looking at the boy in that moment, John realizes Chas is one of the people he's allowed himself to get attached to. And there are so few he accepts fondness for. Father Hennessy, Beeman, Angela, and Chas. That was it. Angela is the only one who survived Mammon's and Gabriel's attempt to usurp Lucifer. She's it, the one person he managed to save.
"Isabel," Chas reminds.
"What?" John blinks, coming out of his thoughts.
"You saved Isabel."
"How-how do you know that?"
Chas' mouth quirks into a smile that is more knowing than the ones John remembers-the ones from when he was alive.
"I was there when she arrived." Chas elaborates, dumping haphazard measurements of pancake mix into a scratched plastic bowl.
"Chas-" John starts, and then he stops. He doesn't know what he wants to say.
The angel glances over his shoulder, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry." John settles for, his throat suddenly thick. "I'm sorry, Chas."
He hears the ruffling of feathers and arms encircle his shoulders from behind. The softness of Chas' wings teases his skin.
"I know." The other whispers. "I forgive you." John clutches at the angel's arms, and Chas rests his chin on top of his head. "I need you to forgive yourself, John."
It's impossible to reply and keep his tears at bay, and silence falls over them heavily. Chas sighs and kisses his forehead tenderly, the ghost of affection they hadn't shared in life. Maybe if he had protected his charge they would have had time to discover the longing they harbored for each other. John might have had time to accept what he ruthlessly denied.
"I'm always here," Chas mumbles into his unruly hair. "When you need me, I'm only a call away."
"Can you stay?" John asks, and he already knows the answer. The arms around him tighten.
"I'll wait for you." He says, and John nods. "I'm in your corner." Chas reminds, and then he withdraws. John's arms fall heavily to his sides.
He watches Chas cook and soon a stack of pancakes sits in front of him, steam rising invitingly. His stomach churns.
"Eat, Constantine." Chas orders, setting a bottle of syrup next to his plate.
"Where did all this stuff come from?"
The angel shrugs, crooked smile on his lips. John had never wanted to kiss them as badly as he wants to now. It's the folly of humans, he knows, to not admit their love for others while they're alive.
He had kept his desires to himself to protect Chas-and himself, if he was being honest. In the end he'd failed to protect Chas, so what had his rare act of chivalry accomplished? It isn't like he hadn't noticed the boy's interest. His awkward way of fluttering around him, his need to be just a step closer than necessary. Chas had wanted him, been quietly hurt when he didn't give any signs of reciprocation.
The angel's lips move.
"What?" He averts his eyes from Chas' mouth, which he'd been too focused on.
"I said," in an instant Chas is beside him. "A picture lasts longer."
Before John can reply with something sarcastic Chas' lips are on his. The boy tastes like sunlight and coffee. He tastes like forgiveness.
"See you soon, John." And then he's gone. The only proof of his presence are the pancakes waiting to be eaten and feeling of arousal tingling in his pelvis.
The next time Chas shows up is when darkness is threatening to swallow John whole.
The exorcist stares at an unopened pack of cigarettes on his kitchen table, a glass of scotch in one hand and the other aching for a cigarette. His lungs itch for the soothing burn.
"John," a dearly missed voice says.
"Chas." He scrubs his face with his hands, bloodshot eyes landing on the angel.
"You're better than this," Chas says disapprovingly, picking up the pack and tossing it into the air. He pockets the cigarettes and sits casually in the chair opposite John, like he was just showing up for a coffee date and not traveling from heaven to be here. "What's eating you, man?"
John doesn't reply.
"I talked to some of the higher ups. Archangels, y'know, the managers up there. They agree that you need a little bit of extra attention." He looks at John expectantly.
Hope stirs in his chest, and he knows better than to hope, but it steadily rises.
"What does that mean?" His voice is hard, doesn't betray his fragile hopefulness.
Chas grins. "Do you need an apprentice?"