Second Chances Part 10
Disclaimers in Part 1.
Blood on the teenager’s chest and face. The kid’s nose was bleeding - too much - no, John realized, it wasn’t just the kid’s nose, it was his own arm, bleeding freely, hot warmth running down his wrist and pouring onto boy and bed.
The teen was shouting in some foreign language, his eyes terrified but human. The possession was broken.
John fumbled sideways off the bed, almost tripping over his own feet. Those few instants in Hell’s dimension had left him exhausted and drained - it seemed even worse than usual. Although maybe that was the blood loss -- his mind wasn’t working very quickly - he put his right hand to his wounded forearm to staunch the flow.
There was an unconscious woman lying on the floor, a large butcher knife by her hand. John watched dumbly as Sebastian kicked the knife across the room and spoke incomprehensively to the people who were coming into the room and kneeling by the woman, hugging the distraught teenaged boy.
Then Sebastian was there, filling his blurred vision. “Constantine?”
Sebastian was holding John’s arm and speaking to the people in that same strange language, and people were bustling about.
John said, “Don’t understand, what -“
Sebastian said, “Of course not, dumbass, you don’t speak Persian. Now sit down before you fall down.”
“Need something to eat,” John slurred, “need -“
The world went black.
***
He came to, groggy, sticky with sweat. Lying on his side on an uneven surface.
Opened his eyes. In the back of a car. His car.
John raised his head - nausea hit, he fought to keep his gut under control - he leaned forward and vomited onto the floor of the back seat.
His stomach was empty, nothing but saliva and bile to bring up. The fluids coated his suit jacket, lying crumpled on the floor.
“Ah shit,” John muttered. Sunday. Fucking drycleaners were closed.
He heard the car door open, struggled to sit up, was assisted by a hand on his shoulder. A bottle appeared in front of his face.
“Drink it,” said Sebastian.
John drank, the fruit flavor of the drink blending nastily with the taste of his own acids. He squinted at the bottle.
“Gatorade,” John said hoarsely. “Now you’ve ruined me on this stuff for life.”
“So next time I’ll bring you a Red Bull,” said Sebastian Balthazar. “Whiner.”
***
Things kept fading in and out. He knew Sebastian was driving. The idea of an amnesiac demon halfbreed chauffeuring him along the Los Angeles freeways was not reassuring.
His arm hurt like shit but it had stopped bleeding.
As Sebastian helped him out of the car, John said interrogatively, “Hospital.”
“You want to go to the hospital?” asked Sebastian. “That’s a change.”
“Fuck no. No hospital.”
“I didn’t think so,” said Sebastian.
***
John tried to stand, and almost did a faceplant on the sidewalk. Sebastian maneuvered him around the back to avoid the main entrance of the bowling alley with its patrons.
At the fire escape door - Sebastian’s hand in John’s trouser pocket, shit shit! -- oh, going after the keys. Keys jingling. Up the stairs, shit, clumsy, door, more jingle.
John grabbed at the kitchen table, glad for something to lean on that wasn’t Sebastian. His brain was trying to tell him something. “Uhh….how…”
“What?”
“How’d you bring me here?” John forced himself to speak clearly. “My place, how you, uh…”
“I didn’t remember where it was,” said Sebastian. “Not explicitly. I just drove, and we ended up here. Call it instinct. Or divine providence. Whichever you prefer.”
John tried to focus. Images were melting in front of his eyes like watercolors. But he couldn’t pass out again, he couldn’t, not with a demon halfbreed - who might or might not have regained his memory and his powers - standing inside John’s apartment, inside the protections and wards, nothing to prevent --
“Relax,” said Sebastian. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve left you in Hell and saved myself the trouble.”
Blood on the teenager’s chest and face. The kid’s nose was bleeding - too much - no, John realized, it wasn’t just the kid’s nose, it was his own arm, bleeding freely, hot warmth running down his wrist and pouring onto boy and bed.
The teen was shouting in some foreign language, his eyes terrified but human. The possession was broken.
John fumbled sideways off the bed, almost tripping over his own feet. Those few instants in Hell’s dimension had left him exhausted and drained - it seemed even worse than usual. Although maybe that was the blood loss -- his mind wasn’t working very quickly - he put his right hand to his wounded forearm to staunch the flow.
There was an unconscious woman lying on the floor, a large butcher knife by her hand. John watched dumbly as Sebastian kicked the knife across the room and spoke incomprehensively to the people who were coming into the room and kneeling by the woman, hugging the distraught teenaged boy.
Then Sebastian was there, filling his blurred vision. “Constantine?”
Sebastian was holding John’s arm and speaking to the people in that same strange language, and people were bustling about.
John said, “Don’t understand, what -“
Sebastian said, “Of course not, dumbass, you don’t speak Persian. Now sit down before you fall down.”
“Need something to eat,” John slurred, “need -“
The world went black.
***
He came to, groggy, sticky with sweat. Lying on his side on an uneven surface.
Opened his eyes. In the back of a car. His car.
John raised his head - nausea hit, he fought to keep his gut under control - he leaned forward and vomited onto the floor of the back seat.
His stomach was empty, nothing but saliva and bile to bring up. The fluids coated his suit jacket, lying crumpled on the floor.
“Ah shit,” John muttered. Sunday. Fucking drycleaners were closed.
He heard the car door open, struggled to sit up, was assisted by a hand on his shoulder. A bottle appeared in front of his face.
“Drink it,” said Sebastian.
John drank, the fruit flavor of the drink blending nastily with the taste of his own acids. He squinted at the bottle.
“Gatorade,” John said hoarsely. “Now you’ve ruined me on this stuff for life.”
“So next time I’ll bring you a Red Bull,” said Sebastian Balthazar. “Whiner.”
***
Things kept fading in and out. He knew Sebastian was driving. The idea of an amnesiac demon halfbreed chauffeuring him along the Los Angeles freeways was not reassuring.
His arm hurt like shit but it had stopped bleeding.
As Sebastian helped him out of the car, John said interrogatively, “Hospital.”
“You want to go to the hospital?” asked Sebastian. “That’s a change.”
“Fuck no. No hospital.”
“I didn’t think so,” said Sebastian.
***
John tried to stand, and almost did a faceplant on the sidewalk. Sebastian maneuvered him around the back to avoid the main entrance of the bowling alley with its patrons.
At the fire escape door - Sebastian’s hand in John’s trouser pocket, shit shit! -- oh, going after the keys. Keys jingling. Up the stairs, shit, clumsy, door, more jingle.
John grabbed at the kitchen table, glad for something to lean on that wasn’t Sebastian. His brain was trying to tell him something. “Uhh….how…”
“What?”
“How’d you bring me here?” John forced himself to speak clearly. “My place, how you, uh…”
“I didn’t remember where it was,” said Sebastian. “Not explicitly. I just drove, and we ended up here. Call it instinct. Or divine providence. Whichever you prefer.”
John tried to focus. Images were melting in front of his eyes like watercolors. But he couldn’t pass out again, he couldn’t, not with a demon halfbreed - who might or might not have regained his memory and his powers - standing inside John’s apartment, inside the protections and wards, nothing to prevent --
“Relax,” said Sebastian. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve left you in Hell and saved myself the trouble.”