A/N1: So… many… reviews! O.O (Showers everyone with advance versions of the Constantine dvd, the LONG version) Thanks guys! Seriously, I don't think I've ever gotten this many reviews to one chap, not even with my POTC fic… Keep up the reviews, guys, and I'll love you all forever! They make me happy:D Remember, critique encouraged! ;)

A/N2—MY OTHER CONSTANTINE FIC: As you all may or may not know, I have a second Constantine fic, a very dark, very angsty, NC-17 fic (in which Ellie never existed; this is a minor point though and doesn't really make much of a difference). I can't put it up on here, though, since it's NC-17 and making it R (or M in this case) would basically take away from it. You can find it at me site at http / www . freewebs. com / constantinefic / (just take away the spaces). Tell me what you think!

Angela: You're advertising your other fic in this fic.
Me: Yes.
Angela: Isn't that a little dishonest?
Me: How so?
Angela: Your reviewers might feel obligated to read, or they might assume that one is as good as this one.
Me: A) Why wouldn't it be, b) this is just pimping it FURTHER, and c) You just called this fic good.
Angela: I'm not John, I can admit this is a good fic.
Me: Sweet.
John: I heard that.
Me: And we care why…?

Dealings with Devils

It was two days before Angela heard from Constantine again, but that night, after she left the taxicab, she had no idea just how much time would pass. Nor was she really thinking about it. All she cared about, then and there, was that she would finally see if Isabel was indeed safe, and while a part of her looked forward to it more than she'd ever looked forward to Christmas morning as a child, another part of her dreaded it more than going to see her sister's dead body at Ravenscar.

Before she went to bed, Angela could have sworn someone was watching her, but after checking around her apartment and closing all the blinds, she found no one and nothing.

And so, Angela changed into her white nightgown, one somehow conservative yet also sexy and classy with the piece of somewhat rumpled fabric over her breasts separate from the main body of the sleepwear. After a considerable amount of tossing and turning, she fell asleep.

That she even managed to lose consciousness could very well have been considered a miracle, but then again, maybe not. Sometimes new, overwhelming information stimulated the mind and adrenal glands more effectively than Green Mountain coffee followed by a few Starbucks espressos, but sometimes, this same something overloaded the mind, causing both it and body to shut down. The subconscious could then cope with that which could not be coped with, giving the actual conscious persona a chance to rest.

But sometimes, both happened simultaneously, resulting in a restless, harried sleep that was almost worse than no sleep at all.

That night, Angela fell into this third category, no doubt the most common of the bunch. And not only that, but she had a very strange dream. A disturbing dream. In this dream, there was a half-breed, and not one of the good guys. Instead, the outer flesh was gone and there was only the demon. Dameon.

In her dream, Dameon stood inside the doorway of her bedroom, breathing hard as he began to approach the bed. Angela could see herself lying under the covers, oblivious and ostensibly helpless, her hair spread out over the pristine white pillowcase, the hotel-like beige sheet and multi-shaded brown comforter down over her waist. Dameon reached out for her with a wrinkled, slimy gray claw, but then… Then somehow Isabel was there, in her hospital gown, standing between the bed and him, and he was hissing and cursing, recoiling backwards. Steam seemed to roll off of him in waves, and a faraway stench of burning flesh and a touch of sickening warmth somehow reached Watcher Angela, who only dully felt disgust.

The skin over Watcher Angela's nonexistent lower throat, right between her nonexistent collarbones, felt warm, as if from some charm having slipped upwards as she lay, and then Dream Isabel turned towards the bed. Ignoring the sputtering half-breed behind her, she ran her hand over Sleeping Angela's brow and hair, and although she tried, Watcher Angela could not see her twin's face. Instead, she watched as Dream Isabel bent down and kissed Sleeping Angela's forehead and whispered something in her ear. Watcher Angela saw Dream Isabel make the shape of the Cross on her slumbering twin's forehead, and then stand back up.

Then, just as the supposedly injured Dameon lunged again, Isabel turned her head and looked directly at Watcher Angela.

The shriek that came out of her sister's mouth was inhuman, reminiscent of a badly tuned piano that played the many melodies of nails on a chalkboard, and Angela shot up in a cold sweat at 4:26 AM.

Breathing hard, she reached for her neck and immediately found the amulet hanging beside her small cross. She grasped the metal with her hand, like a drowning man would grasp a life raft, like someone having an asthma attack would grasp an inhaler. It was not strangely hot or cold, but an ordinary temperature. It was just like any other necklace.

With her heart still pounding, her lungs gasping for air, and goose bumps throwing a fiesta on her arms and legs, she drew her legs up, the covers falling away at her feet, and rested her head against her knees, her hair cascading to either side of her head. In her right hand, she continued to grip the amulet like a toddler with a butterfly, tightly yet also tenderly, with awe and even fear. She couldn't let it go, but she didn't want to hold it. While she could feel that it was a protector of sorts, a part of her was nonetheless frightened that it would do something vicious at any moment, such as bursting into flames, scorching her hand, burning a painful hole into either her body or soul.

What the hell had that dream been about? Had Izzy really been there, in the room with her?

And why had she shrieked? Why had Isabel shrieked that unearthly shriek?

Had Dameon really broken in earlier?

Questions like these and more raced through Angela's head with the swiftness of a Tazmanian devil trying to outrun a twister, but she was far too distressed to really consider any of them.

Why had Isabel shrieked?

Was it a sign… a sign that she was still in hell? Was Dameon somehow keeping her there? Had Satan broken his promise? Was Isabel still suffering for sins she didn't deserve to suffer for?

Did Isabel blame her?

The fact that perhaps Isabel had been warning Angela of dangers to come did not even occur to the detective. The fact that perhaps Isabel had merely screeched to awaken her beloved twin sister while she lay in danger did, however, but somehow, Angela could not accept that as the truth in its entirety. There had to be something more, but all she could come up with was an image of Isabel shrieking as she writhed in pain in Hell.

Shakily, Angela checked the apartment again, just like she had done before going to bed, just in case… Nothing.

She did not get back to sleep, and she was on edge the rest of the night. Coffee became a bosom friend.

That morning at 6:15, Angela went out for her daily run, but this time, she took her gun with her.

John went to bed late that night, or early that morning, depending on how one looked at it. He never really did sleep much in the first place, and the fact that he was in an awful mood upon his arrival at home didn't help much.

It was a good thing he'd gotten rid of his lighter and every last cigarette, else there was no doubt that he would've smoked a pack or two right then and there. Screw the nicotine gum. Screw healthy lungs.

But as it stood, this gum was all he had, and so, on the way home, he popped a piece into his mouth.

It did jackshit.

Maybe he should just stop by a drug store, yes, that was the smart thing to do. Just buy a pack, just one pack of Lucky Strikes. Just one pack, just this one time…

No.

Upon his arrival at the Bowling Alley, he really didn't have much of anything to do, and so, after pacing, replacing his gum with a fresh piece, and more pacing, he was forced to resort to the unthinkable… looking over his bills and accounts.

It was about time he took care of his finances.

After going over the expenses and profits of the Bowling Alley (he owned it), the contents of his bank account, and basically just all of his money overall at the desk beside his bed… Constantine had decided that money was a greater curse upon humanity than half-breeds. Forget the killing of the First Borns. Moses should have tried giving the Pharoh a checkbook to balance. See how fast the Jews would have been released then.

However, Constantine did get some work done in his on-and-off three hours of late-night bill-paying, and so it was almost worth it.

Anything to get his mind off of Angela and the many dead.

Whoever said ghosts didn't exist obviously lived in a happy dreamworld, a dreamworld whose existence was no doubt denied as well by these oblivious optimists. Idiots, the lot of them.

John's sleep that night, if he even had any, was restless at best, and just past dawn he gave up on it entirely.

Looking into his fridge, he wasn't surprised to find next to nothing and settled for two buttered slices of bread with the last of his one-and-a-half-week old milk.

After killing some more time once he'd finished his tremendously fulfilling breakfast—and it sure was a hell of a lot of time to kill—he walked downstairs and talked to the manager of the Bowling Alley, just arrived. Constantine may have owned the building but he really didn't do much for the place; he just didn't have the time and didn't want to bother. It was income, that was it. Let the guys he hired take care of the place; he had better things to do, like go out to half-breed bars and exorcise demons. Or just stay up in his apartment and brood.

Once he was finished with this conversation, John went out in the taxi and did those things that all normal people in L.A., or anywhere really, had to do: get gas, groceries, and fast food. He even visited the bank, though he wasn't very thrilled with what he found there.

For John Constantine, every day wasn't filled with some sort of demonic adventure. Some were actually quite dull. This was one of the latter.

Not exactly the kind of day one wanted when one wanted to distract oneself. Not exactly the kind of day John wanted when he wanted to get his mind off of Angela.

Just past 4:30 that day, right as the sun was beginning to lose its magnificence as lord of the sky, he pulled in across the street from Midnite's. The ex-witch doctor should have had something for him by then.

He walked into the deserted nightclub, past the bouncer who never seemed to get a break ("A dog over the moon" was the password this time), past the deserted scattered tables, chairs, and well-crafted columns to the door to the back. It swung open, and, sure enough, there was Midnite at his desk. This time around, however, the chair directly to the left of the entrance was empty of the omnipresent, cigar-smoking human statue.

Midnite looked up when he entered, putting down the book he was reading. This book looked conspicuously unlike the Bible. Today, the fuzzy orange scarf was gone, and along with the silver scorpion medallion, dark red bandanna, and black rimmed hat he always wore, Midnite had on a black trench coat, pinstriped with red, and underneath that, a shirt checkered with reds, blues, and whites, the collar open and the top two buttons undone. Constantine, who was still wearing his typical, going-to-a-funeral getup of white collared shirt and black pants, tie, and long overcoat, could not make out the pants of his outfit, as the man whose name more than matched his skin tone was still sitting behind his table.

"John, I've been expecting you." Constantine said nothing as he took his seat across from the barkeep, only kept his eyes on him. "It turns out that the Mary is, indeed, authentic."

Huh, that was surprising. He'd been expecting to be shoved magically into a wall, beaten, and thrown out onto the street. Apparently, Beeman had known what he was doing with this relic.

John arched an eyebrow, pretending that he'd known of its legitimacy all along. "What did you expect?"

Midnite didn't respond but instead took a folded piece of white paper out of his pants pocket, sliding it across the little clear area on the table. John took it, unfolded it, and examined it. There was a name, an address, and a phone number.

John looked up. The sick son of a bitch…

"She'll be waiting for you at seven tonight."

"You're joking," Constantine replied, throwing the paper on the table.

"No, I'm actually very serious. She's good at what she does, John, and she's trustworthy. I guarantee it. And she's all that you're getting."

Perfect. Just what he needed. Cane's little sister.

Evelyn: Thank you. . I had trouble with those… I hate descriptions. -.-" I'm hoping I'm doing them well. :P Thankies on the look. I need it. Blech. At least MCAS is proving to be fairly easy so far.

kissed-luck: Eh, 'bout time Angela faced it all. She's a cop, she'll handle it… more or less. :P Thank ya! I'll try to keep the update frequent!

Vagrant: O.O YEEEEEEEK! I'M SO SO SO SO SO SORRY! (Pounces and huggles and showers yousa with candy and Constantine posters) I thought I wrote a response and didn't notice it was the same response and YEEEEEK! T-T I'm SO sorry! But updates should be better now! So woot! Gippalness!

hersheykisses: Thank you, on all counts! I've been trying really hard with this fic, and I'm glad it's coming out as well as intended. Thank you thank you thank you! . I hope this update delay didn't injure your sanity, either! Cuz that'd be bad… O.o Do I still get an extra Hershey's kiss:P Pweeeeeeeez? They nummy.

Slvrbldrain: Thank ya! . I'm glad you like, and I be sure to keep writing!

heraldtalia: O.O Whoa, you're reading this on your lunch break:Feels very honored somehow: You could be eating! Food! Lol I'm hoping you did that as well. Now on to the review response…
Don't worry, you still managed a lengthy review and that makes Sal a happy Sal. :D It's good to see I managed to show both POVs here, and that my romance-y stuffs is believable. I initially had them go way too fast (as in when I first started writing the fic a long time ago O.o) but luckily I saw the error of me ways… I'm very happy you enjoyed!
Eh, it's not so much that I have to write as I have to edit and proofread, and now I have to figure out the case. Blech. I don't like police cases. And I'll be DEFINITELY sure to check out your vids, definitely. I love fanmade music vids, and set to CONSTANTINE? HELLZ YEAH! XD I'll tell you what I think ASAP.

Miyo86: O.O :Blushes: Thank you! I've tried on alla counts, and I'm happy that I managed to do as I've intended. Hope you continue to like!

fanficgeek: I'm glad you like. . And I agree about Chastine… I just don't like it, though I think I've finally found ONE good one.
Thank ya, on all counts. I tried to do alla afore mentioned, and this fic is basically novel-length, so I'm happy that's not too long and that it goes along with the movie. Those fics that get wrapped up too quickly just confuse me… Real life doesn't work that way, why would the lives of two movie characters? O.o Anyway, I'm glad you like:D
And I shall definitely check out the site, but it didn't show up when you put it there. is weird and you have to put in spaces and stuff. O.o

MrSConstantine: I love 'em too, osm paring. I'm glad you like me fic, and I am here so no stalking:Wags finger: ;) Hope you continue to like!