a/n: thanks for the lengthy reviews of last chapter, they were very encouraging and Nako-chan – didn't mean to steal your idea, sorry! Write your fic anyway, I'd love to read it. Forgot to mention that this is movieverse, pre movie meaning no Angela. Ever. This chapter is quite short, sorry, but it all picks up after this, and it seemed a good place to break it. Enjoy and review!

"It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss." –The Killers

It was either really late or very early, Constantine decided, the street lamps streaming in through the shutters making the difference indiscernible. The night had dissolved into a blur of lust, passion and pain, as had most nights over the last two weeks.

He had thought he was helping Chas that night, he thought he could snap him back into consciousness by yelling at him, it seemed to work, at the time.

He was a fool, he realised. Nothing had changed. Chas still slept all day, sat awake all night. He still barely ate and barely talked. The circles around his eyes were still growing bigger.

The only difference now was the sex.

On the table, in the bed, in the bath, against the window.

They did it everywhere, at every possible opportunity, and although John knew, deep inside, it was very wrong, and only making things worse, not better, he couldn't stop.

He couldn't bring himself to stop, because sometimes, in the midst of it all, he would see something, just a flash, in Chas's eyes. A hint of recognition, perhaps? He wasn't sure, he just knew that in that split second the dead, unresponsive person he was living with was gone, and Chas -the real, warm, funny Chas- was in his place.

And that's why he would continue to give it, as long as Chas continued to ask.

He sighed, running his fingers lightly up and down Chas's spine, aware that Chas wasn't asleep, because Chas never slept at night anymore.

The sheets felt dirty, sticky. The whole place stank of sex.

It made him feel sick.

But when Chas began to rub his hands warmly over his chest, he found himself responding, almost against his will, his hands moving from Chas's back to cup his ass, a loan moan of pleasure escaping as Chas ground himself against him.

It was wrong. It was so very, very wrong.

But he couldn't stop.

Chas's hand was twisted in the sheets, mouth open in soundless pleasure and John bent to kiss it, capturing his lips, feeling the desperate tangle of his tongue.

Chas's fingernails dug into his skin, breathless moans urging him on, a whispered word "John…"

John stilled, keenly aware of the sound, terrified in case it was his imagination.

Chas had never said his name before.

Then he said it again "John", and John knew he wasn't imagining it, nor the look in Chas's eyes as they moved together, that look of surprised pleasure, smoky lust, recognition.

"John," he gasped again. "It's not me."

John blinked, and for a second thought he could see something else, something that looked almost like fear, and then Chas's expression changed, the lips twisting into a snarl, eyes clouding over as he growled and bit hard into John's collarbone.

The mixture of pleasure and pain sent him over the edge, and he collapsed, boneless, Chas on top of him, a thin trickle of blood sliding slowly down his chest.

For long moments neither of them moved, then Chas lifted his head, his tongue sliding along the streak of blood, lapping it up before he transferred to John's lips, forcing it inside, the taste sharp and bitter.

Constantine pulled away roughly, pushing Chas back, unable to hide the disgust on his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he hissed.

Chas smiled his cold, deadly smiled that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Silently, he got up and walked, naked, to the bathroom, the door sliding closed behind him.

Constantine felt an icy shiver race across his arms that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

He wished he knew what to do.

He hadn't felt so out of control for a long time, not since he was fifteen years old. He was used to solving the problems, banishing the demons, knowing how to make it right.

He wished a bit of Chas's nose really had been left in his brain, because then they could take him back to the hospital, he could have surgery to make it right. He wished Chas was just depressed because then he could take some anti depressants and go back to normal. He wished Chas had amnesia and couldn't remember a thing about who he was, because then the old Chas would still be there, somewhere.

He watched him sleeping, curled up on the air mattress, blankets pulled over his head despite the midday heat.

Mostly, he wished he didn't care quite so much, because John Constantine wasn't supposed to care, wasn't supposed to feel so helpless.

John Constantine was supposed to toss the kid out on the street without a second thought.

And if John Constantine did anything else, the very sky might fall down around them.

He sighed, running a hand across the stubble that was gathering on his chin. He needed a bath, to change his clothes, hell he needed a decent night's sleep.

He took out a cigarette.

He was on his third before he made the decision.

Nothing was going to change, and they couldn't keep on living like this.

He was going to find some answers.

He took a taxi to the hospital, rolling the window down on the way, ignoring the polluted city air, and concentrating on the familiar feeling of being in control.

He would get the old Chas back. He would make it right again.

Because he didn't have an appointment, he had to wait for over an hour to see the doctor that had treated Chas, the hard, plastic chair digging into his back a reminder of exactly why he was here, why he couldn't just leave. When, finally, there was time, the doctor only seemed harassed and annoyed.

"Mr Constantine, I'm not exactly sure what you want me to tell you. There was nothing wrong with Chas. Had there been, we would never have released him."

"But he's not the same. He's quiet, withdrawn. He doesn't eat, sleeps all day, then can't at night."

The doctor sighed.

"What you are describing are common side effects after a severe accident. You can't expect Chas just to bounce back."

Constantine was trying really hard not to let his temper get the best of him.

"It's been three weeks. He's had plenty of time. And it's not like that. There is something wrong. He's a different person."

"He was fine when you brought him in to have his stitches removed."

"That's what I'm talking about! He seems fine to you, but when we're alone he's…different."

The doctor eyed him suspiciously.

"Perhaps it isn't a problem related to the accident."

Constantine frowned, uncomprehending.

"Perhaps the two of you are having…issues."

He felt his jaw tighten.

"That has nothing to do with this."

The doctor hesitated, as if about to disagree, then nodded.

"If you say so. And I'm sorry, but I really cannot discuss this with you at this very moment. I do not believe there is anything physically wrong with Chas, but if you would prefer we can make an appointment and discuss it at a later date."

Constantine scowled.

"Forget it."

He didn't bother to thank the doctor as he left.

Standing outside the hospital, he wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want to go back, didn't want to have to watch Chas wake up only interested in one thing, didn't want to have to look into those bored, impersonal eyes.

He decided to go and see the one person who was bound to know something, loathe as he was to admit it.

He went to see Gabriel.

The church was quiet, his footsteps echoing against the stone, bouncing off the high arches. Gabriel was standing by the ever present fire, oblivious to the heat.

"Get out of here, Constantine."

Well, this was obviously going to go well.

"I need answers."

"I am giving you nothing."

She turned then, her eyes blazing a fiery gold. Her hair was slicked back from her face, her genderless features hard and unforgiving.

"You shouldn't be here. You reek of sin. Get out."

Oh yeah, there was that whole 'homosexuality' issue.

He took a step forward.

"I need answers."

"And I have already told you: I am giving you nothing. It is far more than you deserve."

He sneered. "Don't preach at me, half breed. Just tell me what I need to know."

Gabriel half turned away from him, studying the roaring flames before her.

"You know your problem, John?"

"Surprise me."

"Your arrogance stops you from seeing. Why, I do believe you think you could even take Him on."

Constantine's mouth hardened. Even he knew his limits.

"You love to flaunt the rules," Gabriel continued. "You love to push and push and push. You think they don't apply to you, you think you're special."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

She walked towards him, reaching up a hand stroke his cheek.

"And you are." Her thumb moved across his lips. "But no more so than any other soul on this planet." Her grip turned sharp, fingernails digging into his skin. He tried to pull away, but her hand was firm.

"You are playing a very dangerous game, John."

"I am trying to help him."

"Bullshit. You're trying to help yourself. Everything you do, everything you've ever done is for yourself."

He'd heard this spiel from her a thousand times before.

"This is different."

"No." She shook her head, eyes sad. "It isn't."

She let go, and he took a step back.

"Tell me what I need to know."

"I can't. I cannot be a part of it."

"God damn it, Gabriel!" he roared. "I need your help!"

She turned from him, eyes disgusted.

"Get out of here, Constantine."

He dampened the rage that threatened to flare inside of him.

"If he's hurt by all this, if he can't find his way back, if I am stuck with that miserable impersonation of him forever, then I will blame you. And I won't let you forget it."

"It's always about you, John, isn't it?" She didn't bother turning around.

As he left, he kicked over the hymn bookshelf.

It didn't do anything, but the angry cry that came from the priest made him feel a little better.

"What do you know about possession, Beeman?"

They were deep in the bowels of Bowl Bowl Bowl, hidden behind the lanes, the constant assaulting crash of ball against pins grating in Constantine's ears, although it didn't seem to bother Beeman. Constantine supposed he was used to it. Beeman's work space was practically where he lived, the floor to ceiling shelves covered with inventions, relics, books, you name it. It often gave Constantine the impression of stumbling into a very select jumble sale.

Halfway through stacking several large jars that were believed to hold flower pollen from the Garden of Eden, Beeman stopped, turning inquisitively.

"Not as much as you," he replied simply.

Constantine didn't respond, reaching for a jar and staring idly at the bright red petals, traces of yellow pollen smeared across their surface.

"I think Chas is possessed," he said finally.

Beeman laughed.

"You can't be serious," he said.

Constantine raised an eyebrow.

"You are serious."

"He's different, since the accident."

Beeman shrugged.

"Kid's in shock."

"For three weeks?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know. I'm not a doctor. Why don't you go and see one of them, if you're so worried."

"I did."

"And?"

"He said it was normal."

"Well, there you go then." Apparently satisfied, Beeman turned back to his jars, plucking the one from John's hands.

"I'm not convinced."

Beeman dropped the jar in obvious annoyance.

"Then talk to him. There's no point in asking me."

"I've tried that." Constantine reached for a bottle of yellow liquid. Beeman took it from him.

"Acid rain, from Calvary."

"What does it do?" Constantine was curious, despite himself.

"Bloody burns, that's what. Look John, if you're really that concerned, perform an exorcism."

Constantine shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure it's quite like that. He's not snarling, he doesn't have any veins popping out of him. He walks and talks and acts like Chas, but it's not quite right. As if he's missing the mark each time and not realising it."

He remembered, vividly, the night before. The way Chas had looked, what he'd said.

"He told me it wasn't him."

"Huh?"

Beeman, distracted by several small matchboxes, glanced up.

"Last night. We were…talking and he suddenly said "It's not me."."

"And?"

"And it was strange. Because the next second he had totally changed, almost become violent."

"Violent?"

"Sort of. It's hard to explain."

Beeman frowned.

"Doesn't sound like he's possessed. If he was possessed, he wouldn't know who he was, let alone tell you that, would he?"

"No," John agreed softly. "He wouldn't."

Beeman was looking at him with an expectant air. Constantine had the feeling he'd outstayed his welcome.

"I'll get those things to you by next week," Beeman said, his back already turned, tinkering with whatever new toy he had found.

"Fine," Constantine said. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what he was waiting for.

When Beeman didn't respond, he left.

Wearily climbing the stairs at the back of the bowling alley, Constantine wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. Beeman had said talk to Chas. Could he talk to Chas? If he tried, would Chas listen?

Reaching his apartment, he dug his keys from his pocket and opened the door.

Chas's bed was empty.

He stilled, fighting the sudden panic that flooded him. Where could Chas have gone? He didn't even have a key. Had he left a note?

As he took a few steps into the apartment he realised that no, Chas hadn't left a note, Chas hadn't left anything.

The few things he'd acquired since living with Constantine were gone, the clothes, the books. The bedding was neatly folded on top of the air mattress.

Shit.

John ran to the bathroom, looking for something, anything that might give him a clue.

There was nothing.

He turned, not sure where he was going, only knowing he had to go somewhere, had to find him, and froze.

Chas was standing in the doorway.

John's eyes travelled down to the large rucksack at his feet.

"What are you doing?"

Leaving," Chas replied.

He made no move to come in, only stood, staring at John.

"Don't be an asshole. Where are you gonna go?"

Chas shrugged, looking slightly evasive. "I have somewhere."

"Where?"

He shrugged again.

"Look," John began uncomfortably. "If this is about what…happened…between us-"

"It was just sex."

The words, icy and unfeeling, were like a slap in the face.

Chas seemed to think there was nothing left to say. He turned to leave, but John reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"There's something I need to ask you."

Chas waited, expression bored.

John studied him for a moment. He looked good, better than he had in weeks, even before the accident. The shadows around his eyes were gone, his hair clean and healthy, his cheeks held a slight glow. His new nose, slightly smaller than his previous one, had lost the swollen look it had been sporting over the last week.

"What's happened to you?" he whispered.

Chas extracted himself from John's grip.

"Goodbye, John."

"Wait!" John reached for him again, holding his shoulder this time.

"Last night, what you said. What did you mean?"

Chas raised an eyebrow.

"About not being you."

His face wrinkled in the slightest perplexity.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

John tightened his grip. "Stop fucking around. This is no time for games."

"And I'm not playing one."

Chas pulled away again.

"Let it go, Constantine."

He turned and walked away.

John watched him leave, made no move to stop him.

Outside, he heard the distinct sound of a car starting, and darted to the window, despite himself, where Chas was climbing into the back of an expensive looking Mercedes. He squinted, tried to make out the number plate, but the engine roared and the car shot down the street and out of sight.

Chas was gone.