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Sincerest Form of Flattery

Title: Sincerest Form of Flattery
Fandom: Supernatural/Hellblazer
Pairing: Castiel/John Constantine
Word Count: 825
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: nothing really
Disclaimer: I own neither Supernatural, nor Hellblazer, nor yet these characters, and this is not in any way intended to suggest that I do.
Author's note: Written for comment_fic: "Supernatural/Hellblazer, Castiel & John Constantine, author's choice"


"That's not your trenchcoat." The hand that grasped Castiel's arm, preventing him from leaving, was warm and all-too-human, nails cut carefully short to avoid leaving fragments behind, the fingers nicotine-stained from years of smoking.

"How can you tell?" Castiel eyed that hand and the man it was attached to with a slightly outraged expression, as though he couldn't believe this man was touching him.

"You can't?" John Constantine shook his head. "Take it off and sit back down. You're the one who wanted to talk to me."

And he had, though at the moment, Castiel could barely remember why. Why had he thought this man, one of the most notorious magicians in either Heaven or Hell, could help him? And yet he obeyed, folding the coat neatly and sliding back into the booth. "I came to you because I've been having doubts. You made me poison this body with alcohol and those foul things you smoke, only to tell me now that you have no answers." He glared, wishing he dared show this arrogant man his true visage, here and now.

Constantine laughed and lit another of the aforementioned cigarettes, deliberately blowing smoke into his face and making Castiel cough. "Welcome to being bloody human, mate. What did you think it was like?" He gulped some of his drink and waved a hand around expansively. "Isn't that supposed to be the whole point of faith - believing when you don't know? Your lot are fond of nattering on about it."

Castiel continued to glare, blue eyes intent on Constantine's weathered face, the face of a man who'd lived too hard for too long - a face that it was his nature to find beautiful despite the wear. "I had faith. But I -"

"And then," Constantine continued, interrupting him without making even the slightest attempt to be polite, "you show up here looking like that, when I came all the way here to meet you? You're lucky I'm giving you the time of day."

He glanced down at the body he was wearing and felt a moment of discomfort. Perhaps Constantine had a point. "I assure you, no mockery was intended."

Constantine laughed again, this time with an edge of the mockery Castiel had just denied. "'No mockery intended'? So you thought you'd just show up here in this bloke dressed like me and I'd find it a bloody compliment? Not likely."

He reached out and opened one of Castiel's hands, shoving the glass into it. "Drink. You need it." He didn't agree, but he found himself obeying once more. Alcohol never helped, but it was so very human to think it might that the belief was almost comforting for its mere existence, despite the falsehood. Which, of course, only went to prove how very close he must be to Falling - an angel should not need to seek comfort in lies of any kind.

Two pairs of blue eyes met in a gaze that was suddenly serious, with no segue to ease the transition. "Look, mate, I don't know what you want from me. God's a wanker; most angels are pricks. If you're finally waking up to that, good for you. But I can't help you."

Castiel finished the rest of his drink without tasting it, suddenly cold. No, of course he couldn't. Magician or not, no human could. Why had he thought otherwise? There was no comfort to be found here. "Then we're done here." He stood, reaching for the coat again automatically - distracted enough that the instincts of this body momentarily took over.

"Not quite." Constantine got up and took the coat out of his hands with a smirk. "One last thing." He leaned closer and, before Castiel quite knew what was happening, he kissed him, slipping his tongue inside a mouth suddenly slack with shock. He tasted familiar, like the cigarettes and gin they'd both consumed - familiar and yet with the tang of a body that wasn't this one, that hint of each human's unique body chemistry. It was surprisingly attractive, even pleasant, but just as he started to enjoy it (despite his amazement that he was even capable of such an emotion), Constantine pulled away, turned on his heel, and started to leave. "Since you admire me so much, I thought you might want a taste," was the only explanation he offered, and that tossed over his shoulder as he slid the trenchcoat on with the ease of long habit.

Castiel was still standing there, too startled to notice the glances and even outright stares of the other bar patrons. When Constantine reached the exit, he paused and looked back. "Catch." Castiel put his hands up and something small and shiny landed in them neatly. He only saw what he held once he'd caught it and he stared at the pack of Silk Cuts with incomprehension. "I don't smoke."

"Keep 'em. They might come in handy later."