John knows angry sex when he has it.

It's not the hateful throwdown from a couple of months ago which had left both him and Chas covered in bruises. This is not a bitchslap-turned-make-up-sex they sometimes have when John proves to be particularly stubborn and Chas usually being the one to suffer for his moods (he has died twice no thanks to John).

This is a different anger. An anger that turns something animalistic, passionate, and intimate into something perfunctory and almost mechanical.

After casting the evil spirit out of the little boy and back to its rightful owner, John has spent some time watching the kids trick or treating, dwelling in their playful innocence. Having them run around him dressed up as his less dangerous nightmares is a delight. Of sorts. It reminds him why he keeps doing this, why he keeps fighting. For them.

When he returns to the mill, he finds Chas on the couch, a bottle of beer in hand. It's not his first.

"Home sweet home, darlin'." John says it more to himself than to Chas. His senses are still tingling from the evocation and he immediately picks up on the other man's mood. "Ya miss me?"

"You could have called," Chas grumbles into his beard. "Let me know you're okay."

"You die on random occasions and when do you ever bother to give me a ring." John skips the beer and goes straight for the bourbon. When Chas doesn't reply and only runs a hand haphazardly over his stomach, he knows he's said the wrong thing at the worst time.

For a moment, John contemplates drinking straight from the bottle but opts for a glass instead. Maybe he fills it a little higher than usual. Then he walks over to Chas and sits opposite him on the coffee table, clinking his glass against the other man's bottle.

"Talk."

Chas remains quiet. Of course he does.

"Shall I bring out the sword again? Loosen your tongue."

It's meant to be a joke but Chas only looks at him with a mixture of annoyance and... No, just annoyance.

"Knifeplay isn't your thing, I reckon. Guess being taken out by sewing shears (among other things) can do that to a man," John rambles. "Listen, I know I..."

"John."

"Finally, he speaks."

"John, will you shut up?!"

John looks at him. That tone is new. Of course, they have been angry, screaming and throwing things at each other but this is unexpected. This sounds... tired.

"Sorry." Chas looks away from him and there is the hint of a blush buried in that beard. "Been a long day."

"Don't apologize. Not to me." A heartbeat passes between them. Then John leans forward and kisses him. It's just a peck, no pressure and almost no intention.

"John..."

"Now who's doing all the talking?" John colours the words with a smirk and it is reflected back at him. He is too close to take a look at Chas' face, but he can feel it against his own face.

Chas hooks his free hand into the noose of John's tie, twists his wrist once and tightens the loop as he does, effectively drawing John even closer to him. "I told you to shut up," Chas growls. It's not a threatening line but John follows suit.

Their kiss is lazy and drawn out, making John feel almost every hair in Chas' beard rubbing against his chin.

John can taste something in the kiss, something that isn't the local microbrew, something he doesn't like.

So he pushes, pushes for more, pushes himself between Chas and that something until the other man gives in, let's him in. With his fingers still curled into John's tie, Chas pulls him along, forcing him into his lap.

This is odd with John still in his coat. The fabric has gained an involuntary sturdiness with the blood and whatnot soaked into the fibers. Their detergent isn't a magic potion after all.

Obviously Chas does not appreciate the extra layer of clothing either. He sets the bottle aside and tugs the coat off John's shoulders.

John's shirt goes next which is a struggle with all the buttons and cuffs. It certainly interferes with the kissing. He is rewarded with the fabric of his tie biting into his skin just beneath his Adam's apple. It's not meant to choke but as a leash; a leash on him, handing Chas the control John so desperately claims for himself sometimes. Okay, most of the time.

Without breaking the kiss (much), John clambers to his feet again, undoing his fly in the process. His pants barely make it down over his knees when Chas pulls him back, wrapping an arm around his waist.

He won't admit it but John likes feeling Chas like this, how the other man is all warmth and texture. He enjoys the friction of woolen sweaters (when has he stopped saying jumper?) against his chest, the scratch of denim against his bare thighs. This is what home feels like to him.

John worms his hands beneath Chas' sweater and t-shirt, fingers seeking warm skin because knowing Chas is alive and breathing beneath him is always good.

Chas winces when John finds the now invisible bruise along his stomach. Being crushed between two cars isn't fun, having supernatural survival skills or not. Maybe it didn't kill Chas (this time - or had it and he just didn't say?) but it sure left its mark, if only inside.

"You alright?" John asks against Chas' mouth.

"Will be."

"Tell me to stop."

"Stop." It hangs between them for a second, betraying their short, panting breaths and matching hard-ons. "Talking."

Chas' sweater goes, exposing skin decorated in ink and scars. How some of the wounds stay while most just disappear is on John's "to be figured out"-list somewhere between "Rising Darkness" and "make scrambled eggs like Chas does so the hangover isn't so bad".

As John's hand goes inside Chas' jeans, the other man lets out a low moan that sounds more like a small engine rumbling to life than a human being. This is what home sounds like to him.

He strokes him slowly, building a lazy rhythm. Slow and lazy is not what they are going for, it definitely isn't. John himself is far too wired for anything short of hard and fast, and he'd be damned if he isn't able to read Chas enough to know that he feels the same. Well, he is damned already but that is beside the point.

"I want you," John mumbles against the side of Chas' mouth, defying orders again.

"Not about what you want," Chas retorts. The annoyance in his words is being replaced by impatience.

With only a light shove, Chas pushes John off his lap and onto the couch beside him. He still has his hand tangled in the Brit's necktie, effectively hampering his movements while keeping him close. It only takes a little jerk, silk against skin, to force John into position.

It's far from their first tangle like this (John somehow fears it might be the last), and with his pants still trapping his ankles, John knows their playbook. So he goes up onto his knees, elbows resting on the back of the couch. He runs a hand through his hair, over his face, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that settles into the pit of his stomach. There is something going on here tonight, something he isn't sure of and maybe even unable to handle, and that just doesn't sit right with him.

He has to clear his throat before he speaks. "In my coat pocket… Inside…"

There is a fumble behind him as Chas shifts his weight to reach for the discarded trenchcoat. A long time ago, he has made it a habit to keep a string of condoms in the inside pocket. You never know when or how they come in handy. They definitely serve their purpose now. Now that things are becoming too urgent to relocate to the bedroom. But this isn't entirely about urgency, this is about something else.

The tinfoil packages land on the couch next to John and he is about to pick it up, when Chas' free hand snakes around his waist to his stomach. He pulls him up and against his chest, his breath hot against John's neck. He doesn't say anything, just let's his fingers play across John's skin, sensual fire trailing in their wake. Chas always feels a little too hot, too alive which is part of why John is into this… into him. Especially on nights like this when push comes to shove comes to death, he craves this more than anything.

"Please…" John hardly ever begs. He has shelved that expression a long time ago, back in England, back in that shabby flat in Liverpool, back when he still believed that word to have any power. It had taken him a long time to redefine it for himself, to strip it of its past and to use it again - especially in this context.

The buckle of Chas' belt scratches along the small of John's back as the taller man shifts against him, setting his senses ablaze. He wants more, needs more, needs Chas to want more from him so he can tell himself they'll be alright. John pushes back, fitting himself against Chas' frame until he finally gives in.

Chaslets go of him and John falls forward again, his tie cutting almost uncomfortably into his neck in this position. His breath hitches even more when Chas' hand cups his arse (he really only needs one hand to do so), one finger already inching along his crack.

Chas is never aggressive. He can be forceful, yes, even to the point where John ends up with a bruise, a welt or a scratch. Most of the time, it's John who pushes him, who challenges him, drawing out that side until it is the sheer physical force that is Chas Chandler which gets the better of them both.

Tonight, things are different. Tonight, there is something more to Chas' touch than usual. Tonight, there is intent.

John mumbles a curse riding on an expelled breath when he feels Chas' finger parting him, pushing in. It's not like he needs hours of foreplay but this goes a little too fast, even for this liking. And still, he feels his body pushing back on its own, seeking the friction, wanting more.

It doesn't take Chas long to comply, pushing in a second finger, only spit for lube, and not an awful lot of compassion. Again, John's body reacts with a 'fight or flight'-response, arching his back instead of pulling away, trying to ease the toe-curling burn rather than shying away from it.

Control is slipping away from him and John knows it. He's handing it off and that's the point of this whole thing. Even without talking about it, John knows Chas is hurting; not just physically but emotionally. So it's this little thing he can do right here, right now, that might help patch things up. It won't, John knows that, but it's all he can do.

The third finger makes him curse to a higher power he is sure doesn't appreciate it. For a second, he wants to slow things down, wants to end this even because of the semi-expected turn for the rough and nasty this has taken. But it's too late now. If he breaks this off now, it will not only leave them both unsatisfied but it won't have done a bloody thing to mend things.

"You done dabblin', then?" John asks then, wishing it had come out as cheeky as it sounded in his head. Instead, his voice sounds strained and it gets even more so, when Chas reaches for his tie again, hoisting him up against him. He doesn't fight him, doesn't struggle against the makeshift restraint. Instead he reaches down (awkwardly, granted) for the condom and all but pushes it into Chas' face. "Get on with it."

With his shoulders still leaning against Chas' chest, John arches his back, giving the other man space to move. He aches to touch himself, to stroke himself through this but that way he won't last more than two minutes.

He feels Chas move behind him, hears the crinkle of tinfoil, the telltale hiss as Chas puts the condom on, of spit hitting skin. It's not pretty but it will do.

The first push is almost gentle as if Chas isn't really trying. The second one proves John wrong and his entire body tenses at the not entirely welcome intrusion. His toes curls in his boots and his hands reach blindly for leverage against the taller man behind him.

With one arm wrapped around his waist, Chas holds him upright and against him. His face is buried against John's shoulder and he can feel his scruffy beard against his skin. With a low rumbling moan, Chas pulls him back and onto him, burying himself inside of him as deep as he can.

"You okay?"

It takes John's mind a second to realize Chas is talking to him.

"Yeah, yeah," he slurs, his head rolling forward. And then, Chas' hand it at the base of his throat, fingers woven through his tie. He doesn't press down, and he doesn't need to. John understands, knows that he needs to hear the actual word. "Yes."

Chas releases him then, and he hits the back of the couch with a ridiculous thumb and screech of leather against bare skin. John barely has time to catch his bearings before the noose around his neck tightens again. Chas' hand presses down on the small of his back, making him arch his spine and open up to him.

John knows angry sex when he has it.

He knows when he is being punished. Not punished for a snide comment, for being disobedient, for something he has brought on himself. That, he can handle. This is different. This is punishment for something bigger.

It's nothing new. It's something that has stood between them for years now. And it's John' fault. He does listen but he doesn't like what he hears so he ignores it for the most part, telling himself there are bigger things at stake than a weekend spent watching Monster High. They've got Monster High all day long.

Chas doesn't see it what way. And who can blame him. It's his daughter. His family. His anger.

His anger he is taking out on John now. His anger that turns something animalistic, passionate, and intimate into something perfunctory and almost mechanical.

John doesn't mind that it hurts. It could feel less like his body is being set on fire, granted, especially after the last couple of days they've had, but it isn't the physical side that bothers him. It's the way Chas almost isn't there with him. This isn't them having sex to unwind or wind each other up. This is a fuck, in the worst sense of the word.

So John closes his eyes, fingers digging in the back of the couch hard enough for his nails to leave little crescent shaped dents. He concentrates on the way Chas fills him up (and sweet lord, he does), how despite his somewhat unconcentrated thrusts manages to hit John's sweet spot as if he wants to make up for something.

They are both aware this won't last. With the high of a recent incantation still tingling along his nerves, John never manages to hold out for long. His vision begins to blur a little when Chas shifts his hands, pulling the tie more tightly against John's throat. His grip on John tightened as well, he'll leave bruises along John's waist like so many times before.

His thrusts become more hurried, more frantic, rushing toward the edge.

John wants to say something, wants to urge him on not to worry about him and just get on with it, to just take him, but he doesn't need the words. They've done this often enough for Chas to be able to read him, despite this not being about their mutual pleasure. Chas might be angry, but he isn't cruel.

John curses - loudly - when Chas lets go of the tie and wraps the freed hand around his cock. He almost flies off the handle at the first stroke and definitely does after the seventh. Yeah, so that might be pathetic but try keeping it together when you've just cast an abused child's soul back into its headquarters.

Chas follows him shortly after. John can tell by the way his hips jerk against his arse until Chas' body goes completely still. There's a shudder and a twitch and Chas comes inside him. He can almost feel it, sometimes wishes that he could. John buries his face against his arm, tasting salt on his own skin, letting Chas ride out his release against him.

It's over too quickly to have been satisfying, and when Chas pulls out it leaves John with a sense of loss that is a tad more profound than usual.

Chas smooths a hand down John's spine before he moves way, belt buckle clinking as he walks over to the kitchen. John doesn't look up just yet. He can't watch him walk away, it feels too much like… something else.

So he busies himself with getting off the couch without tripping over his pants. His back aches and gives a satisfying crack when he stretches. He reaches for his shirt, contemplates putting it on, then uses it to wipe off sweat and cum from his body and the couch. Then he zip his pants, feeling entirely too sore to do so, and grabs Chas' sweater from where he has dropped it. The material is coarse but comfortable and it smells like Chas when he slips into it.

With an exhausted sigh, John slumps down on the couch. Pain shoots up his lower spine and he shifts awkwardly, trying to ease his discomfort - a discomfort that will stay with him for at least a day or two. He reaches for his half-emptied glass and finishes the drink.

"Talk to her," he says then. He sounds sad and he hates it.

Chas remains quiet for a long moment. There's the clap and thump of the trashcan and the clatter of the fridge opening and closing. "She won't take my call."

"Then you try again." Impatience is better than misery.

"Leave it, John… just… leave it."

"Sorry mate. Can't."

Silences stretches between them, a silence that is uncomfortable and stifling.

John twists and turns the empty glass in his palms, contemplating if he should say what he wants to say. Worst case scenario, Chas won't believe him. Best case…

"I do listen, you know." The words come quietly, almost not directed at the other man. "Don't think I take this… you for granted."

He can feel Chas' gaze resting on him. He is probably trying to determine whether or not John is serious. He can't blame him, really.

"I wouldn't be here if you did," Chas says then and it's oddly satisfying to hear.

John nods to himself, processing the words and sorting them out in his head. Then he rises, back aching even more than before, and joins Chas in the kitchen where he leans against one of the counters. Brushing past Chas more closely than he should, John goes to the fridge and gets himself a beer as well. He twists off the cap but before he can take a sip, Chas' hand closes around his wrist.

With the other, Chas tugs the necktie from where it disappears in the v-neck of his own sweater, revealing red marks along John's throat and collarbone.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, fingers tracing the soon-to-be bruises.

"Never." The gooseflesh erupting on John's skin betrays his words. He closes his eyes against the sensation that is almost too much for his sated system.

"I'm sorry."

"Told you… don't apologize to me." John takes a swig off his beer which definitely isn't potent enough, his gaze anywhere but on the other man. "Streets should be clear. You should make it to Brooklyn for the weekend."

"Why do you keep pushing this?" Chas' hand lands on John's shoulder, weighing him down, keeping him from walking away. "What is this, John?"

"This is just a pastime, yeah?" John tries to sound casual. He masters that as well as the dark arts. "That family almost lost their son today. Kid should be with the parents."

Chas puts a finger beneath John's chin, making him look up. He doesn't say anything, just looks. The bastard.

John shrugs. "How am I supposed to save the world if I can't save yours?"

The words hang between them. They are simple. They are the past (at least) two years rolled into one question.

Chas drops his hand and his gaze in something resembling defeat. The second he does, John misses his touch, misses…

"Go. Fix it," he says, and his voice is small.

They both know John is right. They must know. If not, all this is futile anyway and John is the stubborn and selfish dick everyone (Renee), thinks he is.

At last, Chas nods solemnly and pulls away from him, heading for the stairs to go and grab his bag.

"Say hi to Geraldine, will ya?"

Chas doesn't comment. His slow steps up the stairs speak loudly enough. They echo down the hall to the room he has picked for himself. Sometimes, John wonders if the millhouse does this on purpose, amplifying the sounds he doesn't want to hear. He wouldn't surprised if good ol' Jasper has something to do with that.

Soon after, he hears the front door fall shut and he is left standing in the kitchen, wearing Chas' sweater, looking pathetic. He feels pathetic, too, like someone's dirty little secret. Of course, this isn't something they talk about - not with others or with each other or ever - but John knows that for Chas, his family will always come first. Which is why he does all this, to make sure that at the end of the day Chas has a family to go home to.

Closing his eyes, John murmurs a few words in Sumerian and a chill runs down his spine, making the hair in the back of his neck stand on end. He feels even more pathetic, now that he has locked the doors until sunrise, making it impossible for anyone or anything to get in.

He downs the beer which already tastes stale. On his way to the couch, he reaches for the whiskey. That's better but still not enough. For a second, he contemplates brewing up something more potent but decides against it. When he tried that the last time, he'd been sick for days, much to Chas' dismay.

So instead, he stretches out on the couch which is still warm against his fingertips. He rests his head on his arm, staring up at the ceiling.

He can't bear looking at the mirror above the fireplace.

He can't bear seeing more friends slip away from him just because he did nothing.