A/N: Hello, and thanks for glancing! I found this idling on my computer having abandoned it a while back, it's not finished but I thought I'd post it as-is for all the other Constantine-fic fans out there to chew on! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Constantine, it's characters and universe don't belong to me, and I make no profit from this. As if you're so surprised.

Summary: Another Return of the Chas story; assume I took artistic license by ignoring the films coda and giving my own take on how and if Chas comes back, and not that I fell asleep drunk, thus missing the end and only discovering Chas actually did return as an angel a year after I first saw the film. Because that totally didn't happen.

(Looking back the Chastine isn't as subtle as I thought, but I think it can be read either way as any stronger stuff is in chapters I haven't posted yet, so don't let it put you off.)

John was not in the best of moods. Big surprise, he was hardly a cheerful soul to begin with. His sharp features reflected his current state of mind with little effort, (a slightly increased scowl, eyes just a little narrower. Job done), and his stride was that of a man who should not be crossed. His coat, unnecessary and even masochistic in the balmy LA evening, billowed impressively around him.

He rounded the corner to his street and walked between two extremely large and questionable looking men who saw first his suit and made to move in, then his expression and thought better of it. People who wanted to make it through the night with their organs intact had a tendency to leave John alone.

Shame, he thought, I could use the distraction.

John had been angry throughout his entire ten-minute trip to get whiskey. Of course, he wasn't really angry with the store clerk or the whiskey or even the men who decided that in fact they rather liked the use of their bones. Anger wasn't even the problem, it was a symptom of something much worse.

John was bored.

Ever since the Mammon incident life had been distinctly quieter. Demons were fewer and further between and Angels seemed less inclined to get in his way on account of what had happened to Gabriel, which was all great news for The Balance but left work a little thin on the ground for those in the exorcism trade.

John had hoped, (though not expected), that life would be easier after his burden was lifted. The thing that was tying him down was gone; he was no longer a slave to Heavens wishes. Likewise he was no longer a slave to the hacking coughs and constant exhaustion that had previously dogged his days. Yet as miraculous as this was, and as much as he enjoyed spending time with his lungs, there were only so many days he could revel in his ability to breathe before he snapped from the boredom. The fact was that as rotten as life had been before, he had possessed a purpose, and now that purpose was gone. He had been so consumed by the desire to avoid his terrible fate that he completely failed to plan for the eventuality that he might succeed, and now that he had life on this side of the line felt alien to him. He'd fantasised about it sure, indulged wild notions of life without sentence, but towards the end his fantasies consisted more and more of walking 2 blocks without the need for a respirator, and now that wish had been fulfilled he found that not only was he bored by it but he was looking for something to punch.

And the earlier fantasies had included people who were no longer in his life. His friends were few but he hadn't counted on an existence without them. Yet that was where he found himself. John was quite alone.

He slammed the door as he entered the building. Everyone deals with frustration in their own way; John used anger.

It wasn't working.

He knew he was far too hardened to alcohol for the weight against his chest to change his view on the world but with any luck it would knock him out long enough for it to pass.

Returning to his apartment he felt around in his coat pocket for his key, making sure not to clink against the whiskey bottle as he did so, (just because John didn't care what anybody thought of him was no reason to advertise this late-night/early-hour alcohol run), found the key and roughly unlocked the door. He had hoped it would stick and give him a reason to kick it in but even the door it seemed was aware of John's mood and unwilling to provoke him.

Without bothering to hit the lights he threw his keys in the general direction of the sofa and made to walk to the kitchen when he heard a small voice muttering.

What happened next was the equivalent of a slow-motion avalanche.

'What the?' said the voice.

'What the', indeed, agreed John as he froze mid-stride, hand still on the whiskey, tension and questions clamouring suddenly for his attention.

Since when does anyone get the nerve to break into my apartment?

Gotta be a demon.

Since when does anyone get the nerve to sit on my sofa?

The door was still locked-pummel them for information.

Violence as a solution, just what you've been itching for.

That last one cinched it and John moved forward determinedly to see who or what would be stupid enough to invite themselves onto his home turf.

A confused human face stared back at him baring a rapidly forming key-shaped bruise on its forehead.

'John, what the hell was that for?' demanded a wounded voice.

John gaped for a second before suddenly grasping tighter on the whiskey bottle for.. Support? A weapon? He didn't know, he just knew that at that moment the presence of alcohol, heavy and tangible, felt very reassuring against his chest.

What felt like an eternity passed before John regained his higher brain functions and cleared his throat.

'Chas', he stated simply.

The silence in the room might have stretched on forever if that small word didn't cause John to shatter the glass bottle in his hand.