Plot Summary: Takes place about two weeks after the movie. Feeling very duty-bound, not to mention incredibly guilty, Angela has Constantine teach her how to harness her psychic abilities and how to handle half-breeds. However, at the same time, she meets a certain demonic half-breed who has influenced a murder she's investigating, and he soon breaks the rules. He begins to stalk Angela, who now has to come to terms with this new world of angels and demons, her growing feelings for Constantine, and this psychotic stalker.

Rating: M (for language and some violence and gore mainly and some John/Angela later on)

Disclaimer: I don't own John (tho' I steal him sometimes and keep him AND Sparrow in me closet then), Angela, Chas, the taxi, the bowling alley, or any other places/things/ppl/etc from "Constantine." These all belong to WB, the directors, the writers, Vertigo DC comics, and so on and so forth. Please don't sue me. I'm 16 and unless you really want an N64, you're not going to get much from me. I love you all! You do great work! (Please don't sue:P)

A/N1: I first saw "Constantine" a few weeks ago, and already, I've got over 60 pages written of my fic. O.o Needless to say, I'm in LOVE with this movie and am VERY obsessed. Plus, I'm really working out my writing skills on this one and trying some new stuff, so anything you guys notice, whether it's really good or somehow off, anything really, point it out please.

A/N2: This fic is also available at this site (without the spaces, naturally): http / www . freewebs . com / constantinefic /.Some parts are gonna become rather MA, so the edited version will be up on here, and the complete, unedited version will be up there.

A/N3: IMPORTANT-THIS PROLOGUE WAS PUT UP AFTER CHAPTER 3, SINCE I ONLY JUST WROTE IT. Hence, any and all reviews on it would be appreciated, and chapter 4 will be next up!


The Price of Repentance

Prologue

Angela was surrounded by Hell. She felt it in the very air around her, in the very fabric of reality, like oppressive smog and heat that gave thickness to the atmosphere, thickness tainted with sulfur and human suffering, like a soiled pillow reeking of filth and death being placed ever-so-slowly over your mouth and nose, smothering you. It was difficult to breathe, to think. Angela sensed it, felt it, knew it. Hell was there, as solid as the cool tile floor beneath her feet, and as insubstantial as the Aurora Borealis or the spirit of God that supposedly filled the Church.

Where was God now? Where was God now?

"You're going to be all right, John, you're going to be all right…" It was a mantra she chanted, over and over again, tears running down her cheeks and obscuring her vision, obscuring his pale, pale, far too pale face from view and falling onto the lapels of his coat, onto his shirt, hell, even onto his face and hair and neck. "I called an ambulance. You're going to be all right."

What had she done?

Couldn't this be a faerie tale, a simple fairy tale? Please God, please, any old faerie tale would do, one where everybody lived happily ever after. Not real life, not reality. Anything but that. Please, either a dream or a fairy tale. Either let it all end, leaving her in a cold sweat in bed and John safely hunting down demented demons, or let her tears hold magical properties. Let her tears bring him back to life, the crystalline droplets of salt graced with some divine spirit, some spark of divinity that would make this horror end, that would keep him here, on the mortal coil, that would bind him temporarily to the Earth. That would keep him from going on to the next realm. She'd give up anything, absolutely anything. Her psychic abilities, her car, her apartment, her cat, even a place in Heaven, if, by some off chance, she was still entitled to one. Anything to keep him alive.

She couldn't lose him, not now. And especially not to Hell. Especially not to Hell. John Constantine didn't deserve Hell, he never had. He'd just been a scared kid, a hormone-and-terror-driven adolescent who'd seen no way out. And he'd been saved, hadn't he? The whole Mammon affair, it had saved him, hadn't it? There was no way that Lucifer could still claim his soul.

He couldn't be going to Hell. He couldn't be. He didn't deserve it!

Yet why else was Hell there? Why had it come? Why was it coming? Which one was it? Had it already gone?

She couldn't tell. All she knew was that she could feel it, but in her panicked state, she wasn't able to concentrate, to determine if her mind was exaggerating her sixths sense, if her feelings were interfering with her abilities, if Hell was even still there. Mightn't it have come and gone for another soul?

Was John still with her?

Yes, still breathing, speaking even, talking to her.

God, what had she done?

"Damn," the dying man gasped out, his head held on her lap as she kneeled flat on her knees, holding the sides of his face in her trembling hands. "Never thought I'd go out like this."

Even in death, he was still he.

"Damn it, John, don't say that!" she cried out, her voice thick with tears and agony unimaginable, agony that could fill every chasm and canyon out there, every river and pond and stream and lake, and still manage to flood into the oceans and cause a tsunami or seven. Or six hundred and sixty-six. "Don't you dare die on me!"

First her sister, and now this? It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. He couldn't leave her, he couldn't die. He couldn't. How could she have done this?

What had she done!

The blood was pooling, gurgling, like a fountain not quite strong enough to propel its load into the air. Like a water-fountain whose water just barely managed to leak out and trickle down, but with speed. With a great, great deal of speed.

Like a gunshot wound to the chest.

His white collared shirt, it was too red, far too red. It was dyed red, as if never before had it been anything but crimson, as if the white was the stain, although this color of purity was not the glistening one. Was not growing. Had it always been this red, his shirt, as red as fire and sour, mouth-puckering cherries and squashed, mutilated raspberries and venomous serpents and the hazard lights at a crash site and Snow White's lips and the poisoned apple that had touched them?

As red as blood?

Angela was no stranger to blood, no stranger to gunshot wounds, no stranger to the stench of copper that permeated the senses and managed to somehow make its way onto your tongue, although the last thing you would ever do was put your mouth to the warm, pulsing liquid of cells and plasma and platelets. And although it had never been a pleasant thing nor a thing she was proud of, she was no stranger to inflicting fatal injuries that made the blood gush and brought instant death.

She was a stranger, however, to inflicting these slow-acting wounds, to firing her gun and hitting not murderers and rapists but those she loved.

If the ambulance didn't get there soon, he was gone.

And it was all her fault.