A/N1—Critique of the Week (i.e. what I thought of the novel version of Constantine): Constantine makes a good book, definitely, but as it was no doubt based off of the original script without knowledge of how the actors would portray the final cut, it comes off as your Happy, Kind, Neighborhood Constantine and No-Longer-Religious Angela O.o All in all, though, it IS pretty good. Really good. Just not for personalities really. o.O And some parts are definitely off and could have been done better, like the dialogue. Still, it's a pretty good resource, and a good read. :P I've just chosen to not go by it and have my own interpretation for how the psychic abilities are used.

A/N2: La, here's the latest chappie, part 2 of the Club. It's LONG, uber long, so it should last y'all. I'm uber glad you all enjoyed the first installment, so here it is, the second, and… get ready for this… the last chapter up on me site! After this, it's all new material for you guys! XD But it's also a longer update waiting time, especially since this is probably the last update for a week,maybe longer,partially because I won't be anywhere near a computer until Sunday night and then I'll have homework, partially because next week is MCAS week (Massachusetts standardized test), partially because I'll have so much makeup work because I'll be missing school the next three days, and partially because I need to edit and proofread now that I've reached the new stuff. When I get back, I'll be uber happy to see lots and lots of reviews. :P ;) Remember guys, R&R! Critique and rambling encouraged!

John: You're abandoning the fic for a week, eh?
Me: I'm not abandoning it! I'm just... er...
John: Abandoning it.
Me: NO!
John: (smirks) Then what?
Me: ... Oh, go be a fly on a wall and get swatted!

Mistakes

John sat across from Midnite, a stick of nicotine gum in his mouth. While he was in a plain wooden chair, Midnite sat on a red imitation-leather sofa that was several feet long and rounded so that it sat across both ends of the corner. It was about half a foot in front of the wall, or, technically, the burgundy curtain and thin, wooden stilts that made up this section of the wall, and its color matched the other walls of the room. Its smooth surface, however, did not. Instead, the walls were made up of a repeating diamond design. Thin, crisscrossing wooden boards lined the ceiling, and the lighting for the room was provided by bulbs placed in some of the open squares created by this layout, a lamp located behind Midnite's head, another lamp on the crowded, oval tabletop between the two of them, a long, fluorescent bulb on the ceiling above the table, and other lamps of varying styles that were placed sporadically about.

"It's authentic, Midnite. How many times do I have to tell you?" John said. On this table before him, other than the round, off-white shaded lamp, were also well-crafted and small, polished Aztec statues, a half-full wine glass with accompanying bottle, an ashtray, a crystal vase, a round, raspberry red container, and the figurine of the Virgin Mary John had been examining several days earlier. It was to this last object that he was referring.

"Show me proof," Midnite told him, motioning at John with his cigar. He sat with dignity, the proprietor of this establishment, wearing a pinstriped black suit and underneath that, a dress shirt that was dark blue, maroon, and green, a tucked-in striped purple tie, and a plush, fuzzy orange scarf that basically acted as the collar of his overcoat. On his head was the hat of a blue's musician, and all of his clothing was expensive and stylish. His dark brown face and eyes radiated seriousness. And danger. "I do not need another forgery."

"Come on, Midnite. Have I ever cheated you before?" Constantine asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes," Midnite answered without delay.

"On purpose," John elaborated.

"It's more than likely."

"Jesus, Midnite, you make me sound like a con man."

"Maybe because you are."

Midnite blew a stream of air and smoke from his lips, and the smell of his cigar stirred within John a tremendous need for a coffin nail. He didn't have lung cancer anymore, after all, and it had taken him how many years to develop a malignant form? Around twenty? Couldn't he just pick the habit up again?

The answer, of course, was no.

John sat up straighter. "Look, as far as I know, it's authentic. I examined the thing myself. The Mother of God, dating all the way back to the 400's AD."

The ex Good Witch Doctor looked at the idol; he picked it up, held it in his hand and looked it over.

"This better be the real thing, John," he said at last, and placed it standing up on the table before him. It didn't even stand out among the jade and obsidian Native American figurines he had there already. He'd examine it more carefully later.

Constantine said nothing.

"What do you want for it? How much?"

"Actually," Constantine began, his fingertips on the table as he leaned in, "I was hoping you might find me something else."

"John-"

"Listen. Nothing big, nothing that would disturb the Balance. But I need a new Beeman, a new bookworm with a supply line. Someone I can trust."

"John, I don't run for good anymore. I'm neutral. I can't help you."

"I'm not asking you to." He sat up, reached into his coat pocket and took out a gum wrapper, spitting his gum into it. There was a wastebasket in the far corner of the room, and he threw it in. John turned back to Midnite. "It's just a business deal, the kind you make every day. I just need human goods."

Midnite paused to think it over.

"Come back tomorrow. I'll have an answer for you then."

Had there ever been any doubt? Making to get up, he spoke. "A pleasure doing business with you, Midnite."

Assuming their meeting was over, Constantine stood and turned, moving past the extra, cream-colored chair beside the couch, past the glass-protected, crammed shelves inside the wall, past the old, wise-looking man sitting to the right of the exit. He had to get back to Angela, anyway. He was worried about her, worried about how she was doing out there by herself.

Could she really take care of herself?

The answer was obviously a yes, but still…

Damn it, why the hell did he care so much?

Midnite's words caught him completely off-guard, and he froze in mid-step, just as he was about to move past the long, red fluorescent light on the wall beside the sitting, African-American man and out the doors, one after another, both wooden with one side covered by the red imitation-leather, repeating diamond design. "You brought her with you here today."

John twisted his upper body around. "Brought who?"

"You know who, John. The girl, Angela."

John turned around fully. "What's it to you?" he asked.

"You're putting yourselves in unnecessary danger. The people in there have eyes and ears, and they don't like you. They'll use her to get to you."

Constantine walked back over, leaned in on the table, staring Midnite down from his superior position.

Midnite didn't blink. Instead, he merely took a drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke out calmly.

"I thought you couldn't help one side or the other anymore," Constantine said softly, firmly.

"I'm not. I'm merely giving you some advice." He now leaned in as well, so that his face was inches from that of his once-friend. "I suggest you follow it."

"Stick to bar keeping, Midnite." And with that, John left the room, the door that blended into the wall swinging shut behind him, music from the club leaking in from the crack between the wall and this door, left ajar.

"Why are you following me?" Angela demanded. That was what the bastard was doing, wasn't it? Why else would he be here, in this club, at the same time as her?

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just came in here for a drink and… here you are. You know, you did chase me down, Detective. Are you following me, perchance?" The half-breed flashed another winning smile that would work on most anyone who did not see shrunken, wrinkled flesh crinkling into said position. Even the loose, black t-shirt and tight, worn leather pants with straps and buckles—clothing that might otherwise have actually looked rather nice—looked despicable and out of place on him.

Angela chose to change the subject to a somewhat more important topic. "Who was it?" she demanded, leaning in, much like John would soon be doing in the very next room. "Who did you make kill that girl?"

"I didn't make anyone do anything," he replied, leaning back on his chair and putting his thick, black army boots atop the table. "There's still free will, you know. The biggest gift you guys received and all that."

Angela sat up straight again, her arms folded over each other atop the table.

Fine, if he wanted to play it that way. "Then who did you influence? Who killed Alicia Bennet?"

"That," he said, making a pointing motion into the air, "I can't tell you." His legs swung back down, and all four chair legs made contact with the floor once more. "Besides, if I did, how could you prove it, anyway? Figure it out yourself. You're a psychic and a cop, aren't you? You should be able to deduce it all out."

"You know who did it," Angela said, and stood, coming around the table and leaning in very close. "Why not just tell me? What could it hurt?"

Typical interrogation techniques, although in a very atypical spot.

The half-breed grinned again, a full-toothed grin, the teeth horribly malformed and crooked from Angela's perspective, and brought his decayed hand up to brush her cheek. She instantly jerked back; she blinked, and he appeared human, only the crimson shine from his pupils giving him away.

"Careful," he warned, his voice taunting yet menacing, "I might just take that as an invitation."

Her heart running a marathon in her chest, Angela leaned in again. "You don't scare me," she said very quietly, so quietly she wasn't even sure if he'd be able to hear her over the din of the music. She was barely able to hear herself.

But he did. She could tell from the way the corners of his lips crept even further upwards.

"Oh I will." He stood up, and she moved back so he would not brush up against her. She didn't want to touch him. She would have preferred to dive into a pit of poisonous snakes infected with the West Nile virus than to be any closer to him. Sensing this, he sneered, but didn't move any closer. "The name's Dameon, by the way. Tell Constantine I said hello."

After giving her a little salute, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Angela stared after him for a good long while, her eyes narrowing and scanning the multitude, just in case he was to return. How she was supposed to spot him in this, she didn't rightly know, but somehow, she had a feeling she'd be able to.

She didn't.

He was gone, at least as far as she could tell, although in reality, he stood just out of sight, watching her and sipping his drink, letting his hair obscure his features every time her gaze moved his way.

Oh yes, this would be fun.

She sat down, still looking around cautiously, twiddling her fingers on the table and doing her best to keep from resting a hand on her gun, as she was prone to do. She preferred it hidden at the moment, not that it would do her much good.

Soon, John returned, and both could tell there was something not quite right with the other. Both seemed slightly off, her more so than him.

"How'd you do?" he asked first, sitting down in the chair that Dameon had only moments ago occupied.

"What?" she said, not quite understanding. At first, she thought he meant, how'd she'd done in terms of dealing with—what was his name, Dameon? But of course not, how could he know? "Oh. Fine, it went… fine, I guess. You know, as well as can be expected." Nervously, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then another lock behind the other ear.

The fact that Dameon had asked her to say "Hello" to Constantine for him did bother her, though, although she knew the half-demon had probably only made this request for two reasons: one, to worry her, and two, because John was so well known.

But no, that was an understatement. John Constantine was not just well known; the half-breeds knew him and hated him.

Yet it did nevertheless bother her.

Angela was certainly not going to extend that greeting.

"How did your business with Midnite go?"

Constantine knew she wasn't telling him the whole truth, it was obvious. Yet he just assumed she needed time to absorb what she'd seen, to process it all in her mind. She needed time. And so, knowing this, he did not press.

"As well as business with Midnite can go." Angela blinked, looked at him and then allowed her eyes to wander, the flashing lights and their reflections on the cellophane-like curtain strips hanging along the walls hurting her gray eyes. "Our deal should be finalized tomorrow."

"That's good," Angela said, her roaming eyes now back on him, but at the moment, honestly, she really didn't care very much, as long as Midnite hadn't decided John was his new arch-nemesis, or something of the like. She just wanted to get out of there. "John… I think I've had enough for tonight. Can we leave?"

"Sure," he said, knowing all of this had to be more than merely difficult for her, knowing it had to be a nightmare, but having absolutely no idea just how much. And besides that, he didn't really want to be there either, especially not after his latest conversation with Midnite.

Constantine stood, and she did as well. She followed after him as they weaved around the clientele, and then they went down the hall, up the stairwell, past the bouncer, up the other stairwell, and out onto the street.

Angela had never been happier to see the sky or taste fresh, crisp, polluted L.A. air.

In silence, they crossed the street, the area having calmed down some, and walked over to the taxicab Chas had left the man he'd idolized.

The moment she was in the car, Angela sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She was even more exhausted than she'd been earlier in the day. She could barely keep her eyes open, and she felt like an operation had been performed on her arms and legs to replace all the voluntary muscle tissue and nerve connections to her brain with extra-dense lead.

She needed sleep.

Forcing herself to remain awake, she reopened her eyes and turned her head to the left, watching John start the car up.

"What time is it?" she asked, still reclining fully against the seat, her head collapsed against it. She'd completely forgotten that she was not only wearing a watch but that there was a digital clock right there on the dashboard.

Pulling out onto the road, he glanced at his watch, forgetting about the car's clock as well. "12:19." Damn, had that much time really passed? It didn't seem possible. They hadn't spent that much time in there, had they? Only a half hour, an hour tops.

Time really flew when you were having a miserable time.

Not counting that time with John in the car, before they'd entered the club, though. Then, time had flown for other reasons.

She'd need jugs of coffee to wake her up the next morning for work, that was for sure.

Angela now remembered about her own wristwatch, and glanced at it, just to be sure. He was right. It was already past the Witching Hour. And she'd been so counting on casting a spell or two while dancing atop a pentagram under the moon during the most potent time of the night. What a shame.

She turned her head again, staring out the window as streetlights, brick buildings, ditches, sidewalks, and people of all walks of life flew by. Every once in a while, she would turn to look at the driver, but then she'd turn back to the window. They made record time as they weaved through the downtown streets, and then they came somewhat more uptown. They flew across one of the most loved and hated freeways in L.A., one that didn't even move during Rush Hour, and before long, they were at her building.

"You should go in, get some sleep," he told her.

She nodded, once again brushed the hair out of her face.

"Tomorrow, get some rest. No more of this for at least two days, understand?"

She smiled, tired beyond belief, and nodded. "All right."

Reaching for the door handle, too drained to even think of doing anything else, she was stopped by John saying her name. She turned, half-anticipating what was about to come, but, as usual, it didn't. He only leaned forward, his hand moving to he back of her neck, so in her somnolent state, Angela decided to take matters into her own hands. The reservations she had were too dulled by fatigue to stop her.

She closed the distance between them and kissed him, in a languid, weary, tender manner, her hand running through his hair. After the initial moment of surprise, he returned the embrace. A few long seconds after, as he pulled slowly away, he reached past the strands of hair at back of her neck to the skin underneath, searching for the clasp of the amulet he'd originally gone after. Angela smiled, her eyes closed, enjoying the feeling in her lethargic state.

Suddenly, he drew fully back, his hand still on the back of her neck. His expression was deadly serious, and his voice was more than a little worried. "Angela, where's the amulet?"

Shit! She'd completely forgotten about it. Shitshitshit.

"I took it off. After we left the club," she lied as best she was able. She sounded entirely sincere.

But not to him. John could see right through the act.

"Get out," Constantine ordered in a cold, low voice. He backed his torso up, in line with his seat, and took his hand away.

"John, what-"

He was facing forward now, no longer even looking at her but out the windshield. "Get out of the car."

Damn it, he'd asked one thing of her. Just one. One fucking thing, and he hadn't been planning on asking it again any time soon. Just this one time, her first time in that club, he'd wanted her to be safe. He'd wanted her to wear the amulet. A ban on violence or no, it was still dangerous to be there if you were just coming into your powers as she was.

What the hell had she been thinking? And to lie to him about it!

And what the hell had he been thinking to agree to all of this?

"John, I was fine in the club. Nothing happened to me." She had basically admitted now that she had in truth not worn the amulet, but apparently, he already knew that.

"Get out of the car, Angela."

Angela had never seen him this angry before. Ever. Perhaps when she'd first met him, at the Church library and he'd been arguing with Gabriel, but she'd been at a good distance away. She hadn't really heard or seen anything besides a holy book being thrown.

He wasn't yelling, he wasn't even yelling at her. But his forced calm was obviously just that: forced. He was like lighter fluid, a still, cool liquid, with the ability to burst into flames with the most minimal of prompting, with only a flick of the wrist, or the pull of a thumb. He was dangerous like this.

She gave him a long, hard look, debating her options. Although she was getting steadily angrier at him, she knew that if she got out of the car then, she might very well never see him again. This wasn't paranoia; this was realism. This was what John was like.

There were a plethora of reasons as to why that couldn't happen, not the least of which being that part of her knew she had betrayed his trust by taking off the amulet.

She decided to remain.

"No," she said, sitting back in her seat, not a trace of fear or regret but only resolve in her mien. She gave him a look, daring him to tell her to vacate the vehicle again.

He did something very unexpected then, something very un-Constantine-ish.

"Damn it, Angela!" he exclaimed, hitting the steering wheel with his left hand as he whirled his upper body around to face her. "You could have died, do you understand that? Just like your fucking sister, you could have died. You could have been ripped up, piece by piece, and made to live through the whole damn thing. Agony upon brutal, screaming agony. Torture you can't even dream of. Is that what you want?"

The wrist and thumb had been flicked; the fluid had now exploded into flames.

Angela was shaken, but not only that. More than anything, she was furious. "Don't you dare bring Isabel into this," she said quietly, her voice low and quavering with rage.

"Why not? She's why you're doing all this, isn't she? She's why you're getting yourself into this, and she's why you're doing such a pisspoor job of it. She died, and you didn't. That doesn't mean you have to die now, too."

"That's not what I'm doing! I'm not my sister-"

"But what, you should have died in her place?"

"No, I-" But wait, was that it? Was that really what she felt, deep down? That she should have died, not Izzy?

And Angela knew that answer. That was it exactly.

What was she trying to do now to make up for it? Was she trying to get herself killed as some sort of repentance?

Or was she trying to do that which she knew she owed her sister; was she trying to embrace this gift of hers and fight demons as a different kind of penitence, one that, nonetheless, would probably have the same end result as the former? Was that why she was being so reckless?

Angela honestly didn't know, and to be completely truthful, she didn't really want to. But at least she wasn't denying that Isabel was somehow a part of this, because she wasn't that naïve. Angela wasn't just rediscovering a lost part of herself; she was trying to pay her debts to the identical twin sister she'd abandoned, something she could never hope to do. But she could try.

She looked down, took a shuddering breath and suppressed tears as best she was able, wringing her hands together and then bringing them apart, grasping the fabric of the seat as she looked up.

She was no longer quite so angry.

"John, I know I'm not Isabel, and I know that she died. I know that she's dead, and I know I'm not. But maybe if I-maybe if I'd just stood by her, back when we were little, maybe she'd still be alive. And if I'm going to live while she's dead, the very least I can do is stop denying what I can see and feel, what I always could. But Isabel isn't why I didn't wear the amulet; she's not the reason for why I'm doing this how I'm doing this." But was that really the truth?

Whatever, it didn't matter. She couldn't think about that now. Angela pushed the thought away.

"Then what is the reason?" he asked her. "Enlighten me."

"Because this is how I do things. I don't need a necklace to protect me, especially not in a club like that where there is no violence. I don't need you to protect me. I'm not a little girl, John. I can take care of myself."

Constantine paused before he spoke next, and when he did, his voice was quieter, more temperate than before, but nowhere near gentle or kind. He was going to tell her the facts. "You're new to this, Angela. You don't know what's out there. You could have been grabbed in that club; you could have been lured or ambushed. I told you specifically to wear that amulet, not every day or every time, but this one time, your first time. Can you understand that?"

Were Angela's voice and face not full of a determination and fierceness, her response might have been mistaken for passive, submissive. "Yes, I can."

He looked at her carefully, piercingly, trying to figure her out. To Angela, this was almost eerie, certainly awkward. But she did not avert her eyes.

"Your last chance, Angela," he said at last. "One more stunt like this, and we're done. I'm not going to be responsible for your death. You want to get yourself killed, do it on your own time."

The full meaning of these words did not strike Angela until much later. Her training would not be the only thing that would be over. Any and all contact between them would be terminated as well.

She nodded. "All right."

After one last glance at him, she forced herself to look away and moved her hand toward the door handle.

"Angela," he said, and she turned her head, her hand on the handle. "Yeah."

"The amulet, wear it tonight. You don't know what could have followed you home."

Even though her immediate reaction was that of blatant refusal, her mind soon took over. What had she just agreed to? What had he just said?

And besides that, this Dameon character… God only knew what he was planning.

If God even knew.

She nodded. "Okay."

"Put it on."

After a brief hesitation, Angela reached into her coat pocket and felt for the cool metal chain. It was right there, right where she'd left it. She took it out as John looked on in silence, and turned her head downward, fixing the clasp atop her hair, almost black in the current lighting and still somewhat wavy, now rather tangled. After it was fastened, she pulled her hair up from underneath the chain and let it fall back over.

"I'll call you," he told her once this was accomplished and she'd brought her face back up, and it was obvious that this was his dismissal of her.

"I'll be sure to pick up," she replied, and then she opened the car door and began to step out. However, just as she was getting ready to pull herself out, she stopped and turned back to him.

"John, my sister… How can you be sure the Devil kept his promise? How can you be sure she's in heaven?"

"She is," he said without pause. The Devil may have been the Devil, but dear old Lu' kept his promises.

Usually.

Angela nodded, began to leave the car again… but then stopped, turning to face him once more.

"John, I need to see. I need to see it for myself." He stayed silent. "Can I, um… is it possible for me to… can I go down to Hell, like you did? Can I see for myself? Can I make sure she's not down there anymore?"

This time, he did not answer immediately, but he nevertheless did give her a concise response. "Yes."

"Can you help me? Can you show me how?"

"Yes."

Angela brought her eyes down for a moment, about to ask the big question. Her heart was pounding, and she was terrified, terrified, that he would say no or would give her some sort of ultimatum. Perhaps he'd blackmail her, telling her that only after she had listened to him for a certain amount of time he would do this thing.

But that wasn't like him… was it?

Angela brought her eyes back up.

"Will you?" she asked, her voice somehow small but strong all at the same time.

John looked down, smirked, and looked back towards her, much like she had just done. He'd known this was coming.

"Sure. About time you learned how to come and go from Hell."

She smiled, the tears—ones she had yet to shed for Isabel—glistening in her eyes on account of the overhead streetlights. "Thanks." And this time, she did get out of the car, and just before she shut the door, she bent over, looking him in the eyes. "I'm sorry, John."

Vagrant: Yes, two replies for two reviews:D And I hope you're enjoying the "dinner" so far. As you can see, it's not really much of one. O.o

Daydrmer: Yick, AP. I have to take an AP US History test next year. I dun wanna. T-T I would be taking more but the school I'm going to doesn't really offer them. O.o (Gives you plenty of caffeine and sugar and Jelly Belly™s to get you functioning again)
But yes… Glad to see I'm not the only one with a problem with Chastine, and I completely agree with you on the John/Angela. As disappointing as this might be, the two of them do NOT sleep together ANYWHERE in my fic and shant for a while. À mon avis, Angela is most definitely a wait-till-marriage sort of gal. I originally had her and John make out way too early, and then I realized, hey, not in personalities, and I changed it. Not that difficult. (Grumbles) Parody sounds good, parody makes person on verge of tugging out hair laugh…

Sorry, me rant over now too. :P Now onwards to the chappie!

Methinks I love the word methinks, GO Shakespeare, and I ish glad that thou enjoyed me chappie. It's one of my fav's so far.

Methinks I am updating with hopes that this chappie is equally enjoyed by yousa as well, though if it's not, feel free to tell me so I can fix it. :D

heraldtalia: Angela isn't the bright cop in the field in me fic, but only because I see her acting this way… I ish special, I know.

WOOT, a ramble! They're my fav types of reviews. XD

I agree with all thy points. I'm a huge slash fan myself, but Chas/John just… doesn't make me a happy Salienne. There are even some Balthazar/Constantine fics that are done WELL that I enjoy, but I just haven't really seen a good Chastine…

NOW ON TO MY CHAPPIE! XD Glad to see I made some good points. I love dark things like this. And it's not pretentious at all, it was really what I was going for, that and that he does the same for her in helping her/forcing her to face her own demons. Ooooh, I'm going to have so much fun writing the scenes that lead to the scene you see in my prologue… .

Did I mention thank you for using the word "jaded?" I've heard that word SO often, and loved it, but I never bothered to look it up. Now I did. Thank you! .

-John: I'm loved now?
-Me: Yes! (glomp)
-John: (thinking) Where's Lu' when I need him…?

figmentofimagination: Glad to see I'm not alone in my opinion. :P As for me fic, your welcome. I'm happy it's enjoyed. :D Thanks for pointing out that line, too. I loved writing about the inside workings of John and Angela in that part, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if those lines sounded right. Now I know that they do. :P I only have one muse, though, Fred, though she might as well be more than one with all the mood swings she has. -.-" (I love you Fred, don't hurt me/my inspiration:P)

MP: XD

Slvrbldrain: Wow, I'm honored that you actually went to me homepage. Luckily, this account has almost caught up to me site. Glad you liked, just one more chapter and then brand new stuff for ye! Thanks for the comments on me characters, too. I'm always worried about that. And I don't mind the skater talk at all, I have me own really random way of speech. Do old English/Pirate talk/random high school slang/some big words mix? O.o

Evelyn: Thank ye! I'm glad that you liked! I shall try to keep it as well-done.