Belial slumped to the floor, lying with his face obscured by his black hair. Eyes part closed, drained, he could do no more than rub weakly at the drying remnants of Gabriel's pleasure from the corner of his mouth.

The floor was hard and cold and unforgiving, cheek to polished wood, a chill seeping into his skin where it pressed against his body. His torso lie nigh flat, slats of paneling digging into his hip painfully.

His body crawled with the ghost of ecstasy, overshadowed achingly by a haze of despondent sorrow.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and, for the first time, held himself in confession to his own conscience. Hair drooping about his face in a silken cowl of a condemned supplicant, he gave a sob of release, of relief, of agony. Gabriel wanted him.

John Constantine would be getting a part of his soul back.