Title: John Constantine: Demon hunter, Bad Ass, Idiot

Author: Silverkitsune1 (this may be changing very soon)

Part: 1 of 2

Rating: R for language

Disclaimer: Neither Constantine nor Hellblazer belong to me. They are the property of Warner Brothers, and DC/Vertigo respectively.

Authors Note: Today children we're going to discuss the difference between a truth and a lie.

I do not have time to be writing fanfiction (truth) and until I finish my mass amounts of papers I will not be writing anymore (lie).

John Constantine is a bad ass. Chas knows this. It's not like it's a surprise. It's something you pick up when you first meet him. It's like saying John has black hair, or John is way too pale. It's a physical thing that you notice right away. Like, as both your palms are touching while you're shaking the guy's hand you're thinking, "Oh yeah, he's a bad ass. Better watch it." And the deeper you sink into the world John lives in, the more you can truly understand that John is a Grade A, high class, world renown bad ass. Underline, capital letters, written in blood.

I cut too much off my nails yesterday, and now there's practically no nail, which is very very bad since it's leaving me nothing to fight back with.

The problem is, that Chas has been around him for so long, and he's come to learn that along side with being a bad ass (and an asshole) John Constantine can also be a really big idiot. John may have a hundred and one spells rubbed into the walls, etched over the door, painted under the bed (he'd always meant to ask about that one) and scratched in the cement around the bowling alley's foundation. John may be as safe as a newborn lamb when it comes to keeping the mystical forces of good and evil out of his apartment, but God forbid (and for all Chas knows He had (or should that be hath?) forbid. With John you've got to be aware that the explanation behind 95 percent of what he does is usually just plain fucking crazy) he go out and buy a dead bolt lock for the door.

This dude is way too fucking big. There's blood dripping on me from the places where I tried to claw his face. I don't think he even felt them. What the hell is he on? This is not fair. I've got no chance here. Oh, god please someone get him off me.

But oh, no, no. Just a flimsy little chain and a key lock for John Constantine the bad ass. It's not as though John lives in the safest part of town, and anyone with two god damn brain cells to rub together knows that just a chain and a key lock is not going to stop anyone whose mind is set on breaking it, especially in L.A. But Chas can only assume that because John Constantine is a bad ass, and since he knows he's a bad ass, that he's started to assume that no normal person would mess with a well-known bad ass' place.

Thrash you idiot! Fight back! Use your entire goddamn body. Throw him off balance. Buck your hips. Get him off you! You've still got your arms free, elbow the bastard! Do something or you are going to die you moron!

Everyone is going to die someday. It had been one of those surprise lessons he'd picked up from John. Surprise lesson because he'd thought he'd already learned it a long time ago, but hanging around John had Chas relearning a lot of things. People think they know that they're going to die, eventually. It's floating around somewhere in the back of their minds and it occasionally surfaces when a great aunt kicks the bucket or a young cousin chokes on a lima bean, but no one ever really believes it. So, it took Chas a few trips, a few experiences of seeing John walk out of apartment buildings, back alleys, Disney Land, or the sewers covered in blood, bile and the occasional bits of skin to truly understand that, one of these days he, Chas Kramer was going to die.

Let. Go. Of. Me. You cracked up, cum guzzling, gutter slut. Oh, Christ. I'd like to be able to breathe again if you don't mind.

The trouble was that now that he really understood that someday he would die, he had begun to form a general idea of how it was going to happen. He had no plans on leaving John, or turning away from the path of exorcist is training, someday exorcist in practice so he'd quickly ruled out dying warm in bed, at the age of 100, surrounded by fat grandchildren. He expected that it would come during job, chasing out a demon or fighting off a balance messing half-breed. He had not expected to die pinned to the floor of John's apartment (ignore that he'd been living there for almost three months now, this was always John's apartment), with the hands of a 23–year-old junkie wrapped around his throat.

I make a grab for his hair. Black, greasy and falling over his shoulders. My left hand misses but the right grabs a hunk. He doesn't notice until I'm pulling so hard his head is tilting to the side. He's letting go, or at least letting up. Sweet, sweet oxygen.

The asshole currently strangling him to death broke in looking to steal a T.V., a CD player, a VCR (none of which, for fuck's sake, John even has) and instead found Chas eating a carton of left over fried rice and reading. Chas hadn't even moved when the door first banged open. He'd thought it was John. An intoxicated and swearing John, but that was a normal state of being for the exorcist anyway. The guy looked enough like John to have been mistaken for him at first glance. Pale skin, black hair, blood shot eyes, but the second he looked up, he knew he'd been wrong. John was older, John was taller, John's hair was shorter, his nose sharper and John would never ever wear a Grateful Dead t-shirt. (Far too many puns coming out of that).

Motherfucker! The blow jerks my whole head to the side. The coppery taste of blood is on my tongue due to a split lip and his hands are back around my neck. Is this fucker muttering to himself? I'm going to be strangled to death to the soundtrack of a crazy person muttering to himself. That's just fantastic. John, come on man. Come home.

Chas, in all his skinny 17-year-old glory had actually managed to shake up the man who crashed through the door (drug addicts, you know they're more afraid you of you then you are of them). At least he thought he had. When the almost thief had seen Chas he'd froze, stared at him with dilated pupils and an accusing stare. Not looking away he'd reached behind him, fingertips brushing the doorknob, the whole time staring at Chas, weighing his options. A whisper in his ear, that he forgot the minute he heard it, pushed him into an obvious choice. The door slid closed. Chas stood up, put down his book, and slowly backed away, painfully aware that they were on the second floor, and he had nowhere to go. Then the door clicked shut.

My feet kick out, and my hands are locked around his, but they sure as hell aren't moving anything. There's a black tide washing in across my eyes, little spots the color of bruises blocking out an angry red face. John is going to be so pissed that I died on his floor.

When the door opens he doesn't hear it. It's the smell that alerts him that anything has changed. Mix of cigarettes, sweat and what Chas is going to assume is blood that wafts under his nose, and even though he's far past almost conscious he finds himself feeling relieved (the smell of blood should not be a cause for relief. Repeat as necessary). He can't see him either, but Chas assumes if he's shocked to see his "oh, so appreciated apprentice" being strangled on the floor of his apartment he only dwells in it for the course of a few blinks. Heavy footsteps punctuated with what he's always considered (but never voiced) to be one of the most beautiful languages ever created suddenly fill the apartment. John spitting out acid laced nouns, verbs and adjectives with a voice that sounds like ashes and echoes from what appears to be a very far away place that Chas has just left. Trust John Constantine to make Latin sound angry instead of melodious.

This is not the time to be chanting in Latin, John. This is not a demon. This is a crack addict. I swear to you there is a difference.

Chas can't see what happens, but the chanting stops followed by a thud, and his would be murderer collapsed in a boneless heap on top of his unmoving body. Chas isn't dead (hallefuckinglujah), but he's not exactly in the greatest spot emotionally right now, and he'd like a few minutes to regroup before even trying to move (and when did moving become so tiresome?). That and the possibly unconscious, possibly dead ass hat on top of him isn't what he would call light so the lack of oxygen problem hasn't gone away yet, and joys upon joys, the black water slipping over his gaze has not receded either.

John is saying something. I think. This had better be some kind of begging. 'Don't go I'd never forgive myself if you died on my apartment floor' kind of begging. I'm about to pass out here, John. I'd like some words of comfort to take into the black abyss if you don't mind.

"You had better be breathing you little asshole. I am not giving you mouth to mouth."