Disclaimer: I own nothing but a hoard of occult books, some sketchy plants, and vast quantities of Satanic literature. I'm not making any money from this; I simply wanted to bring some darker Chastine fic into the world. Rated M for language, violence, and sexual content.

There is both consensual and non-consensual sexual content in this chapter, although we're not at the really awful parts yet. I know this fic hasn't really dealt with sexual orientation/preference all that much, but if you're wondering where I'm coming from… 1) John Constantine in the Hellblazer comics is openly bisexual. 2) Chas (Chandler) in the comics is ostensibly heterosexual and married to a woman, but he doesn't seem to love her, and she is jealous of his love for John. Comics!John once states that he knows Chas is in love with him, but he'll never call him on it 'cause Chas would kick his ass. But anyway…

I am the slowest updater ever, and for that I am sorry.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed (Malty, shadowelf144, BlackRoseOfTheGrave, smiles2go, pacochico11, aisarete, hazeleyes, suicidalmadmen, blackbullet, unluckymustang, Jackie, HoTaGaiNsTaWaLL, bowlfullofcherries, and anonymous)! Your comments are greatly appreciated.


Chapter Nine

He's not underground
He's not in the air
He's not in that book
You take everywhere
The devil wears a suit
He lives in our town
He lives on our street
In your home, in your bed
- Kate Miller-Heidke ("The Devil Wears a Suit")

Chas made it back to John's flat well before 10 pm, leaving his small assortment of possessions in the cab. He climbed the stairs slowly, his stomach beginning to tie itself into knots, and dawdled along the dusty, nicotine-stained hallway. It was strange, he decided, that he'd never felt more apprehensive approaching John's living-space than now, when he meant to stay there. He wasn't quite sure how to inform John of his intentions, but he honestly didn't have another place to stay, and he was certain the exorcist wouldn't make him live in his car. Well, pretty sure, anyway.

He almost hadn't bothered returning. Sitting on the train, staring out the windows at the dark tunnel encasing him, Chas had sincerely contemplated leaving. He'd left his family without any tears; it wouldn't be that difficult to leave London, leave John and Balthazar and Beeman and Midnite and everyone else he'd met in the occult scene. He could head south to the continent; end up someplace warm and interesting like Barcelona or Marseille, hell, even Rome. Or he could head out to Oxford or Cambridge and convince them to let him enroll. And he could convince them, Chas was certain.

But it didn't matter. He knew John wouldn't chase after him if he left, even if the man was well enough to do so. He wouldn't have to. He'd know that Chas would come back, sooner or later, like a curse or a stray. And Chas knew it too. Not simply because magic was like a drug that he couldn't get enough of and John was both a supplier and fellow addict. Not just because he was John's apprentice, and that sort of bond was deeper and more complicated than anyone could comprehend. And certainly not only because Chas was too compassionate to leave a dying man to his hard fate.

It was because John belonged to him as much as he belonged to John, only John was too stubborn to admit it. Chas had to admit it. John was all he had.

Chas touched the door-handle and waited while the wards responded to his presence, drawing their power from his life-force, deciding whether or not to allow him access. They knew, as much as non-sentient creations could know anything, that he wasn't John, but he could usually convince them to let him in anyway. Chas wasn't quite sure how he'd managed this, as John surely intended to lock him out as much as anyone else, but he figured that, as John's apprentice, he was given some privileges, even if they were subconscious on John's part.

He felt the wards coil up around the door frame, undulating as gracefully as venomous serpents, considering whether or not to strike. A heartbeat later everything clicked into place, and Chas stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, spine pressed to the frame, determined to plan out his next move. He knew when he was out of his depth, and the entire day had been a shining example of that. Chas shut his eyes and winced, his bruises starting to throb again. Sliding to the floor and hyperventilating till he passed out didn't really seem like a bad option at this point.

"I can hear you out there, Chas. Stop trying to be sneaky." John's voice jerked him back to reality, and Chas stumbled forward into the living room, dropping onto the sofa like a tossed ragdoll. John remained seated in his chair, listlessly holding a lit cigarette. Chas watched him tiredly. The memory of John, white with rage, shooting down Balthazar, twined with the following one of John losing it and screaming at him. Different kinds of fury, Chas decided, feeling resentment beginning to saturate his insides. He glared at the exorcist until John deigned to look in his direction.

"You came back," John stated, sounding mildly surprised, as though he'd thought Chas would've been gone longer. He took a drag, and Chas could hear the wheeze of his protesting lungs.

"I returned my mother's keys," Chas said flatly. He waited, but the magician didn't respond. The silence stretched, and Chas thought that if they both died this very instant, this might be their hell, sitting across from each other in the same room for all eternity. Or at least, it would be his hell; John seemed to be expecting something much more horrifically and unbearably awful than this awkward quietude, and Chas figured that John knew what to expect, if anyone did. And since he knows, why is he acting like it's gonna be alright?

If Chas had been drinking, he would've blurted that thought right out at John, consequences be damned. As it was, he bit his lip and frowned, trying to sort through the whirling mess in his brain. I need sleep, he mused blearily. I need to sleep, and maybe when I wake up I'll have a better handle on… all of this.

He didn't notice that he was studying the floor with an intense fascination until John blocked his view, reaching down to grip his arms and pull him to his feet. He staggered against the man, caught a whiff of sulfur from the match that John had used to light his cigarette, and nearly threw up.

"You're in shock." John's voice echoed sternly above him.

"Rough day," Chas heard himself mutter. He almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of the statement. John's arm slid around his waist, steadying him, and he felt the force of the magician's will quiet his reeling thoughts. It calmed him almost immediately, and he pressed close to John's side, allowing the man to guide him down the hallway. He found himself in John's bedroom before he knew it, and he stared in bewilderment as John gestured towards his bed.

"It's safer for you to sleep in here, given the state you're in. The walls have extra wards, so nothing will bother you, and you won't bother anyone else." John plucked a pillow from the bed and tucked it under his arm. "Go to sleep," he ordered, heading back towards the living room. Chas felt the force of the suggestion slide over him like an ocean wave, and, too exhausted to resist, he curled up in John's sheets.


John could barely see; heat seared his eyes, and the air reeked of sulphur and fumitory. Chas hid his face from him, turning away in a vain attempt at self-protection. Blood smeared his back, oozing from dozens of elegant, intricate wounds. John pressed harder against the lithe body, forcing Chas' legs further apart, sneering when he heard a small, choked gasp. He licked at the sigils, sliding his tongue into the cuts to open them further, murmuring the incantations that would ensure the incisions would scar deeper than mere skin.

Chas sobbed, scrabbling desperately at the cement or blankets or earth beneath him, trying to gain enough purchase to get away. John tightened his grip, arms locked around Chas' waist, keeping their hips flush together. Chas kicked at him, and John responded by taking his arm and twisting it until Chas let out a muffled scream.

"I… I can't do this John, please. Don't do this… I can't. Constantine, please," Chas begged. John smirked cruelly, felt Chas trembling beneath him, and sank his teeth into the muscle over the shoulder. Blood filled his mouth, nearly choking him, and Chas wasn't whispering soft pleas for mercy anymore but instead screamed and wept like a wounded animal. Hideous, shrieking laughter surrounded them, and John thought that maybe it was coming from him.

He shoved Chas' face down to quiet him, then trailed his hands down the boy's back, pausing at each wound to offer a sharp scratch. He lifted his head to look around, and felt his fingernails tear the flesh at Chas' hips. The scent of blood mixed with smoke and tar and burned into his lungs. Wherever he was, there were mirrors, and he and Chas were replicated from all angles, his sins reflected and refracted outwards to the edges of eternity. His dead friends, Gary and Emma and Anne Marie, Zed and Ritchie and Brendan, a multitude of ghosts, leered from the shadows, whispering. Chas moaned under him, and John heard himself echo the sound, over and over and over.


"What the hell, John?"

Chas had leaned over the back of the sofa to shake him awake, apparently having learned not to get within swinging range when John was having a nightmare. John ignored him in favour of focusing on not vomiting up his lungs. The dream was vivid, stamped into his brain, and John was glad the room was mostly dark because he certainly did not want to look at Chas right now. The teen walked around the couch and sat down beside him, far too close for his reeling senses.

"Go back to bed, Chas," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was trembling like a fucking coward, his heart pounding in his aching chest. John heaved a shaky sigh, cursing under his breath. He knew Chas could sense his distress on a deeper level than just his physical symptoms, and he tried to shuffle further away from him, out of range of his touch. John had no idea if psychometry could be practiced on the human body the way it was done with objects, but he fervently wished such a thing was beyond Chas' abilities.

"Bad dreams?" Chas asked softly. John couldn't see well in the dark, but the odd bits of light that spilled into the flat from the streetlamps outside glinted off Chas' face, his bare shoulders, his clavicle. The teen followed John as he tried to move away, persistently insisting on remaining in his space. As usual. John glowered at him, but the effect was lost in the night. Chas wasn't as easily chased off as he'd used to be, either.

"Nothing for you to think about," he growled, carding his fingers through his hair. Chas huddled closer, a warm sleepy presence that seemed to reach out and envelope him, and John tried not to flinch. He failed, and Chas noticed, and they spent about a minute just sitting side by side, afraid to move. Chas seemed to recover first, one arm resting on the back of the sofa, leaving John trapped in the corner. He put you where he wanted you pretty quick; wonder who he got that trick from?

"I mean it, Chas. Piss off. If you're done with my bed, I'll take it back."

He was clearly being ignored, because he felt Chas' fingers slide up his throat and then trace his jawline. Before he could ask just what the fuck Chas thought he was doing, soft lips pressed against his own. John jerked his head back, his hands curling into fists. He wanted to scream at the boy, to shake some sense into him, to hit him until his knuckles were bruised and Chas was bloody.

Chas was on his feet a second later and John had the uncanny impression that his apprentice knew what he'd been thinking. He leaned to his right and groped for the lamp-switch but the small amount of illumination only accentuated the shadows in the room. Chas' eyes looked nearly obsidian in this light, his lips slightly parted. Sometime during the night he'd lost his shirt but kept his jeans, and he stood barefoot in front of John, studying the man with the sort of intensity he very rarely revealed.

"You don't want to be doing that, Chas," John snarled, not sure whether he meant the kiss or the scrutiny. He didn't want to stare, but if he didn't see the boy fairly whole and mostly healthy before him, his mind provided dozens of images from his dreams instead. So he scowled at Chas, and Chas glared (as much as he could manage) back, and John was willing to guess that at least three minutes passed this way. Eventually, he leaned back in the sofa, relaxing ever so slightly.

"I'm not gonna hit you," he heard himself say, and wasn't sure he believed it. Chas didn't seem to have any faith left in him either, judging by the look sent his way. The teen appeared perplexed, as though he couldn't decide whether to pick a fight or to run away, and thus was stranded like a deer in the headlights. If, of course, said deer was an irritated, psychic teenager, John thought, knowing a smirk had reached his lips when Chas' frown deepened.

"What I am supposed to do, John?" Chas blurted. No pretext, no forethought. He stepped closer, back into the pool of light, looking exhausted, exasperated, and utterly lost. Despair flickered in his eyes, and that chilled John to the very marrow of his bones. "What am I supposed to do when you're dead, John?"

John opened his mouth to respond but couldn't force out the words. He watched in silence as Chas knelt in front of him, hands held outward in the ritual gesture of supplication. He couldn't say no, but he managed to shake his head curtly as Chas moved to offer the sign of a novitiate's submission to the initiatory rite. The teen stopped immediately in a rare show of obedience, and John leaned forward, feeling as though one of them should be explaining themselves.

"None of that, now," he managed to mutter. Chas refused to look at him, dark lashes shadowing his eyes.

"I don't want you to die." The words were clipped and pointed. Chas licked his lips, hands twisting nervously.

"Chas," John began, but the boy interrupted.

"Let me help," he demanded in a whisper. "Please."

"It's not up to you, Chas," the magician started once more, resigned to the fact that they'd probably have this conversation over again each day until he died or Chas gave up, whichever came first. John was betting his death would, and couldn't decide whether to be encouraged or annoyed.

"Let me help." Chas moistened his lips again, looking as though he fervently wished for his hat to pull down over his eyes. "Or help me, John. You're all I have." He laughed briefly, sounding bitter and broken, the strangeness of it not lost on the exorcist. It was probably the closest thing to a confession of love he would ever receive, from anyone.

"For fuck's sake," John breathed. He managed to catch Chas under the chin and force him to lift his eyes. "There's more to you than this."

Chas looked doubtful, and John slid his hands behind Chas' neck to tug him closer. He leaned forward until his mouth was against Chas' ear. "I will not initiate you, or make a sacrifice of you, or anything else like that. You will not make me this offer again. Understand?" John could feel Chas press closer, deft hands settling on his knees. The boy nodded, and John firmly resisted the urge to lick Chas' earlobe. "You're my one good deed, Chas," he whispered, more to himself than to the lanky youth kneeling before him. It took all of his willpower to force the images of his dreams from his mind.

He cupped Chas' face to keep his hands from shaking, and when his apprentice stood just long enough to descend onto his lap, he allowed it. You shouldn't. You just had a nightmare about hurting him. He nearly got raped by a demon this afternoon. Send him back to bed by himself right now. Chas kissed him hard enough to bruise, and John found himself returning the kiss, his fingertips trailing over the warm smooth skin of Chas' sides. He's seventeen. You're a monster, John Constantine. Stop this at once.


John pressed him down into the sofa, and Chas stretched out underneath the man as best he could, sighing shakily. He wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling him closer, terrified that the exorcist would change his mind and kick him out. He didn't know what John dreamed about, but the whirl of horror and rage and hopelessness surrounding him made it obvious that it'd been dreadful, whatever it was. At least John only had nightmares though; the awfulness in Chas' life seemed to play out in the daytime, while he was wide-awake.

A gentle bite at his throat made his breath hitch, and he threaded his fingers into John's hair. He'd gotten hard so fast it was almost embarrassing, and now that it seemed like he was getting what he wanted, he was beginning to wonder why John was indulging him at all. John certainly had no qualms about hurting his feelings, and Chas had expected to get turned down yet again, but something had made John change his mind. Not about initiation, or any kind of ritual, but about his response when Chas tried getting close to him. Did I say something right for once? Or did he just get tired of having to kick me away all the time?

The weight of John's body on his own was slightly uncomfortable, but Chas relished the closeness. It was comforting to know sometimes that John was real and solid, made of flesh and bone, and not yet some ephemeral bit of smoke that would drift away on the breeze. He craved this intimacy, startled by his own responsiveness, unable to repress a shiver as John's teeth grazed his collarbone. Chas squirmed to stretch out further, wishing he'd thought to lose his jeans before beginning this, and kind of hoping that maybe John would take care of that for him.

He murmured his appreciation as John's hands slid lower, pausing to highlight each of his ribs, tracing over his abs. A finger gently trailed over one of the scratches that Balthazar had left, and Chas flinched away before he could stop himself. Shit. Now he's going to think…

"Chas?" John's eyes were darker than usual, Chas noted hopefully, meeting the man's gaze. The fear that John would push him away, out of his flat and out of his life, engulfed him in a panicked intensity. Chas plucked open a few of the buttons on John's shirt, wondering if he looked desperate or slutty or both.

"Chas. Listen. I shouldn't be doing this to you."

"With me," Chas corrected. "And don't act like you have morals, John," he rasped. He brought his knees up to press their bodies together more firmly, arching his back so that John got the hint. It sounded like John mumbled 'I do have morals' half-heartedly, but the words were lost against Chas' throat.


Morals. Right. Surely they'll kick in any time now. John had a feeling he'd lost the war. He'd honestly only meant to offer Chas a bit of an apology for his earlier violence, but once they'd started, well… It was difficult to keep his hands off the teen. Chas was warm and supple and practically wrapped around him, and it was much easier to remain sprawled on the sofa than to unweave himself from this whole situation. He pushed all thoughts of his dreams from his mind again: this Chas wasn't panicked or hurting; this Chas was looking at him with self-satisfied smirk. This Chas is also your apprentice, and underage, and emotionally exhausted. You're taking advantage of him. What's wrong with you?

John couldn't help himself. His fingers swiftly explored Chas' lean frame, searching out every sensitive or ticklish place and mapping it in his memory. Chas was achingly responsive, and it wasn't any hardship to pin him down on the cushions and kiss him breathless. Hands scrabbled against his back, un-tucking his shirt and trying to pull him closer. John propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring his burning lungs, and looked directly at Chas. The youth was breathing heavily, a slight flush on his cheeks, his breath hitching each time he lifted his hips to grind against John.

Each touch Chas offered felt good, soothing even, and John seriously contemplated ushering him back to his room, stripping him completely, and then fucking him senseless. Absolutely not. Are you out of your goddamned mind? You should stop this right now. This isn't fair to him.

"C'mere Chas," he muttered instead, rolling onto his side and pulling the teen with him. He put Chas between his body and the back of the sofa, leaving them pressed together in the narrow space. It was difficult to rearrange themselves, but Chas seemed to catch on quickly enough, his fists clenched in the front of John's shirt. He startled a bit when John reached down to unbutton his jeans, watching warily, biting his lip. John drew him into a kiss, feeling the last of his resolve drain away.

Chas pulled back a moment later, gasping for breath, and John finished tugging open his jeans. He wrapped his hand around Chas' hard cock, wondering if this was just one more sin he'd go to hell for. He knew Chas wasn't any sort of virgin -he couldn't have been, growing up where he did- but still there had to be some sort of punishment for the corruption of youth, or the tarnishing of metaphorical innocence, or something. Chas crooned incoherently against John's shoulder, and John felt a kiss turn into a licking, sucking bite. His own touch roughened in response, and Chas pressed harder into his grip, exhaling shakily.

"John, fuck, I mean…" Chas panted, reaching clumsily for John's zipper. John brushed him away, staving off the inevitable argument by forcing Chas into a deep kiss. He explored the teen's mouth with his tongue, letting Chas rock his hips against him, savouring every little sound or gasp. Precum slicked his palm, and Chas keened helplessly with every stroke. A sheen of sweat covered Chas' skin, and he appeared flushed with fever. Darkened hazel eyes met John's own, and it took all of John's remaining self-discipline to keep himself from simply fucking his willing and pliant apprentice until neither of them could remember their own names.

He managed to restrain himself, thinking that maybe it would make him an excellent candidate for sainthood or something, and nearly lost all resolve in an instant when Chas moaned his name.

"C'mon, Chas," John muttered, sliding his tongue up Chas' throat and trying to ignore the way the resulting sigh sent an ache through his whole body. He pressed his mouth to Chas', gently this time, and the youth tilted his head back to drink in the kiss. They shared breath for nearly a minute, Chas' hands clutching desperately at John, as though determined to keep him by his side.

A few more deft strokes and Chas lost it all at once, arching against John with a groan. John held him close because he didn't know what else to do; the feeling that he shouldn't have allowed any of this to happen at all reappeared almost immediately. Chas wasn't his lover, he didn't treat the boy as his equal, and simply wanting to touch him wasn't a good enough reason to jerk off a seventeen-year-old. John let him catch his breath, then attempted to untangle himself.

Chas refused to let go. He buried his face in John's shirt, trembling.


So… I have the epilogue written, and now I just need to finish ch10, and maybe a ch11 depending on how many tangents I go off on. I chose a random selection of John's friends from the comics; not sure if they're all dead yet (I think Zed's still alive), but it's honestly only a matter of time.

My apologies for taking so long with this; I really couldn't get into it for the longest time. Please review and let me know what you think. I dislike this chapter, I feel like I've forgotten something important, so please, pick it apart and tell me what needs fixing. I'm okay with re-writing stuff if it needs it. And I'm doped up on valerian and skullcap while doing my final edits, so hopefully there aren't too many typos, haha. :D