Lovely – I know the feeling! I love getting creeped out at night, it's so scary and yet not, if you know what I mean. I love writing JohnAngela, they're so much fun. I can make them really sarcastic and bitchy to each other, and then I can write some really sweet fluff. Ahhh….Thanks for reviewing!

Seryblack – Subtly is my forte…except when I want something. Then I'm blatant. For example, I'm very blatant when I want reviews! I'm really glad you like my story, and thanks for reviewing!

A special thanks to Lady Hawke, who sent me a PM when was doing it's weird not-letting-you-give-reviews thing. Thank you so much for going to all the trouble, I really appreciate it, and I'm so happy that you think this is good. Thank you millions!

Sorry this took two weeks instead of one, I sort-of had an idea in mind for the chapter, and then I changed it around so that it sets up part of the storyline in one of the sequels. Also, I timed this shittily, and so I promised fluff last chapter, and actually, that's next chapter. I'm so sorry! But remember, big fluff next chapter! Lots and lots of fluff!

Oh, this chapter rips off the Hellblazer universe big time. So sue me. I'm not claiming it's mine, and you all know it's not.

Chapter IV: Sin

He sat alone, in the window of his narrow, dark apartment. If he looked upwards, towards the heavens, the outside world was dark, completely dark, with only the waning moon shining palely down, only to have its light thrown back. If he looked down, towards hell, he could only see blindingly bright light. It was amazing, the contrast that could be seen with just a tilt of his head.

The scene was shattered when he coughed, deep chesty coughs that burnt the back of his throat. He pulled away from the frigid night air that stuck like a knife in his gullet and retreated into the relative warmth of his apartment. There was a sudden uncontrollable rush of fear like a cold snake in his stomach, which he calmly pushed away with rationality. It wasn't the cancer again. The Devil had taken the tumours in his lungs away, and though he didn't really trust the word of the Devil, he knew it was true. The x-rays done by Dr Archer had proved that. She hadn't been able to believe it at first. She'd insisted on him going for a second set, and once it was shown that they were clear as well, a third. But he'd escaped before she could subject him to that, he remembered with black humour.

He'd stopped coughing now that he was in the warmth. It was the cold air, that was all. And maybe a little reminder from the Devil, making him remember he was beholden to him.

Well fuck you he thought in his typical Constantine fashion.

He began to chew a new stick of nicotine gum, just to aggravate the Devil if he was watching – as he always was – but it was disgusting. Really. No substitute at all for the real thing. Those little white, innocent looking sticks that plagued his body as he purged himself of their effects.

Surely one couldn't hurt…?

Constantine turned his mind sharply away from that train of thought. It was just the withdrawal talking, he assured himself. It made him feel weak and ill, two adjectives he didn't like to use to describe himself. In his world, having those two qualities could get you killed, if you weren't strong enough to defend yourself.

He was though. Constantine, the hardass, the defender of fucking humanity, if any of them actually knew it. He was tougher than anyone knew. Strong enough that he would stick away from the cigarettes. If only to figuratively spit in the Devil's eye.

As a compensation to his body for subjecting it to the vicious nicotine gum, he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. He felt it burn the back of his throat like the coughing had, but this was silky smooth. The strong liquid suppressing the itch and irritation, he let it slide down his gullet in a manner that was almost sensual. The forbidden love between a man and his alcohol.

The contrast in the sky was gone. In fact, it had been overpowered by the light pollution of the city, forcing the darkness back, if only temporarily.

He thought back to that night in the cemetery. He wasn't sorry to run into Angela again, but he wished it would have been some other time. She was still grieving for her sister, and her death. He knew, just from the few words he'd overheard at the Catholic Theological Society, when she was talking to Father Garrett, that she hadn't been able to get a Catholic funeral for her sister, when even she didn't know for sure that it wasn't a suicide. But now, even when she knew that Isabel had only taken her life for the good of humanity, she hadn't been able to convince the Bishop otherwise. She hadn't told him that. There was just something painfully obvious missing from Isabel's tombstone when she'd pointed it out to him earlier. Part of that was Angela's own feelings about the matter projecting onto the object, but it was the absence of any consecration, any spiritual balm laid over the wound of her death. And also Angela's own aura, full of anger, frustration and guilt for what she should have been able to do for her sister.

He wished that he could tell her not to worry, to stop feeling guilty. She'd done so much for her sister. She'd been possessed by Mammon, almost ritually sacrificed and put through Hell, and it had never occurred to her that if Isabel hadn't killed herself, none of this would be happening to her. But then again, Mammon might have succeeded using Isabel. He wondered whether anyone had ever told Angela how strong she was. She thought he was strong, but she was wrong. He could summon elementals, deport half-breeds and kill a demon without flinching or even stopping for breath, but not without fucking someone over. She was strong enough to save souls, not take the easy road and destroy them like he did.

Fucking his friends over seemed to be ingrained in his blood. It seemed to be something he did whether he meant to or not. Sometimes it was unavoidable. Like Gary Lester, who had been possessed by the demon Mnemoth, and had been killed by himself and Midnite in order to stop Mnemoth from devouring New York City. But others had been killed just by association, like Chas or Hennessy, and some had even taken their own lives to avoid facing his world, and then had ended up in Hell for their crimes. He was just a damned one man plague.

Constantine had often thought that he was cursed. Because the worst of what he'd done he didn't even remember doing.

He'd never told her this. It hadn't come up. He wished that he had told her. But the encounter with her and Isabel's death had shaken him up. It hit too close to the bone. The whole twin-thing was just too eerie, like the universe was trying to tell him something. But he doubted he'd be able to tell her it anyway. It was a constant resentment, burning into him so quietly and for so long that he didn't think he thought about it anymore. Until it came back with all the screaming guilt that it had the first time it had truly sunk in.

He'd been a murderer. Before he had even taken his first breath.

He'd killed his twin brother in the womb, strangling him with his umbilical cord. His mother had delivered the twins, one alive, one dead, and then died from complications. John had never found out what these complications were. His father had never again talked about his mother, only to blame John for her death. He'd killed her, and his brother. Both killed because of him.

Satan must have laughed that day.

As far as he could remember, he never had a brother and his only mother was his stepmother, once his father had remarried. But he wasn't allowed to forget. He was a murderer. His father reminded him of that every day.

Original sin, he'd never believed in that. But he'd sinned before he'd even formed a conscious thought. What did God make of that?

When he was a teenager, he'd run away from home several times, trying to leave his name and past behind. But it had all got too much. He couldn't go anywhere without seeing them. The half-breeds. He couldn't walk outside without seeing evidence of his gift, his curse, his sight. As a result, he was in and out of Ravenscar more times than virtually any other patient. It was practically a record. Whenever he got out, it all became so overwhelming and too difficult to deal with.

So, he'd tried to kill himself. And failed. It was like someone had decided to torture him by letting him live.

After he got out of hospital, he'd left before they put him back in Ravenscar. He fled into the underground of the city, studying with teachers, masters of the occult who recognised his gift and the anger breeding within him. He'd been taught by a variety of instructors. Some had specialised in crack magic, or any sort of drug magic, inducing visions and trips upon others. Others had studied formally, Crowley for example, and believed in the ultimate power of magic. The beauty of magic for them, lay in its ability to get people to bend their wills to yours. Deceptive magic. He'd been taught all of them, but ultimately he'd walked the middle path. A little light magic, a little dark. Some self-gratifying, some selfless. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. He'd done a lot of bad shit, but he'd never done anything really evil.

Yet he was damned anyway, simply for something he couldn't even remember doing.

It was part of the reason that he hated Gabriel. On one of his first meetings with that half-breed shit, the angel had just mentioned the fact that he'd never get to Heaven with his track record. That condescendingly cold and patronising voice reminding him that he was eternally condemned for something he had no control over had ignited a spark of anger within him. Before he knew it, he was one breath away from sending the pathetic half-breed back up to Heaven, where he belonged. He remembered Gabriel's light, icy eyes, daring him to do it. So he'd obliged. It had felt good, but it burned when he was found later by Gabriel, who had gleefully informed him that she'd been sent back down to 'watch over him'. John's response had been short and obscene, but that had in some way, fuelled Gabriel's ardour for demeaning and belittling him. In many ways, it had almost become funny. But he'd got the last laugh, in the hydrotherapy room.

Constantine was shocked out of his contemplation by a knock on the door, an unfamiliar sound for his apartment. The door was so heavy that any knock sounded like a judgement day bell was tolling on it. But that was the major perk of astral light, or psychic senses. He could already tell who it was, just through their contact with the door.

As he opened the door, he very gently studied her aura – if he did it more forcibly, she'd sense it – trying to get an impression of her mood. When his eyes met hers, he could see it all. Her eyes, sometimes grey, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, were now a mix of all of those colours. He could almost sense something vulnerable in her gaze, and he didn't want to hold her stare. There was something about seeing someone's vulnerability which felt like the psychic equivalent of seeing them in their underwear.

"Can I come in?" she asked, her voice soft and undemanding, yet her aura deceived her and revealed her urgency, her desire to come in. It did wonders for his ego, which really didn't need any help. "Please?"

He moved backwards, allowing her through.

"Always a catch…"

I know I like, never say John's name, I just refer to him as 'he', but it's late and I've been hauling Christmas trees around and my hands are all prickered! Poor me! But my exams finish tomorrow, I saw Narnia and March of the Penguins over the weekend and it looks like I'm seeing King Kong on Wednesday, so things could be worse…

I apologise for any errors, as I had no time to check this chapter over. If there are any, can someone point them out to me? Thanks.

And with that, there's nothing left to say except, as always, please review!