It's been a long time since I last worked for the story. To those who are being my very few readers, thank you, for your patience and tolerance. I still think I'm far from those excellent fanfic writers, so again, if you have any comments and idea, please just let me now.

By the way, does anyone know the name of the hospital that Constantine went to?

And oh, happy New Year, guys!

Chapter Two

Bobby was making sandwich for lunch when his cellphone rang.

"Yup?" He picked up the phone and took a sip of his coffee.

"Bobby, d'you know any hunter around this area?" It was Dean; he was more like demanding for answer than questioning.

"Easy, boy, what's going on and where are you?" Bobby knew Dean wouldn't be so mad if something wasn't wrong. Dean sighed on the other end; Bobby could almost see the fidgety expression on his face.

"Sam and I were investigating a case in LA, a local hospital," Dean began, "A man was attacked, and we were talking about what our target was this time. A man obviously overheard our conversation, but he didn't act like taking us as nuts but more like—like he knew what we were doing and he even told us that we should be careful with—what, half demons?"

Half demons, Bobby sighed inwardly. He did remember hearing other hunters talking about people who dealt with half breeds, but that at least a year ago and he wasn't even sure. "What did the man look like, Dean?" Bobby was sure he wouldn't be glad if he got the person right, though.

"A slim guy in black coat," Dean described, "I don't quite remember his face…but hell he was smoking in the hospital!"

There it is, smoking in the hospital. Bobby now remembered what the other hunters said about that guy: the only man who dared to smoke in the hospital without hesitating and feeling guilty. Indeed the man knew loads about half breeds, only he was not a hunter…

"I think I've heard of that guy," Bobby admitted, who now was no longer in the mood of having sandwich; he never expected this kind of thing would actually happen. "He's John Constantine."

"A hunter?"

"Not exactly," Bobby closed his eyes, the last thing he wished to do was explain who Constantine was. "He's known as…an exorcist."

Dean paused for seconds, and then tried his best to speak in a calm voice. "An exorcist, eh? How do you know him?"

"Look, I don't really know him, just sort of heard of him before. It's just…I don't know, the way he works is different from ours…you won't go to him, will you?"

Dean didn't answer. Instead of making promise, he'd rather keep on questioning. "What's the half demons, then?"

It was the second time that Bobby hoped he didn't have to answer the question, why did I even pick the phone up?

"I don't know, Dean, I really don't."

The rain in the night was frustrating, especially for the one who had terminal disease.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John Constantine was holding his lighter firmly, ignoring his young fellow, Chas Kramer shouting at him back in the car. He didn't care much about walking in the rain alone with nothing but only the black coat he'd been wearing for a long time; he had got too many things to worry about, and the rain became less important naturally. He was just being informed that he had lung cancer, for he smoked thirty cigarettes a day since he was fifteen. Knowing a fearless exorcist who even had experienced the life in hell was going to be killed by cigarettes sure upset him, but what bothered him more were the men he saw in the hospital. He had been aware of the two people ever since they entered the hospital and introduced themselves as federal agents. Constantine knew FBI wouldn't spend their precious time visiting the local hospital all in sudden, let alone investigating a normal animal attack case—indeed, demons got involved in this case—the truth was that the half breeds lured the mortals easily and made them lose their mind. What happened to that Raven guy was only a normal animal attack which the victim happened to be the one who lost his judgment because of the demon affect. Though the so-called FBI men had got the wrong target, why were they looking for the signs of paranormal creatures?

He randomly passed through a gas station and squinted at the advert board—"Your time is running our—to buy a new Chevy."

"Hmm," a snort was all he gave for response; those words on the board seemed particularly sarcastic to him at the moment.

Constantine rummaged the cough mixture in his pocket as a light cough began. It soon turned into awful hacking coughs and made him sink to his knees. He panted for air, but the continual cough did not give him a break to fill his lungs with enough oxygen; as if it hadn't tricked him enough, a black Impala suddenly appeared in front of him and caught his attention.

"You've gotta be joking," he muttered, surprised and confused.

The doors swung open, leading the two men he saw in the afternoon.