John shuffled over to his jacket, and bent slowly to pick it up and slide it back on. He left the crumpled, white mass of his shirt where it had fallen. It wasn't incredibly bloody, but he didn't really feel like getting the coat dirty. He liked his coat.
His back slapped against the wall and he leaned there, fumbling in his pockets for the box of cigarettes Rain had given him, and the lighter. Half way through his task, his legs started to fail him, and he obligingly, slid down to a seat against the wall. His head rolled back and he stuck the cigarette in his mouth, tucked it down to light it.
He snapped the lighter closed with a harsh flick of his wrist and focused on the sweet smoke as it pulled into his lungs. God, that felt like heaven. A torturous kind of heaven nonetheless.
John contented himself to sit there, smoking, and let Rain patch Chas up. Show the concern that John Constantine couldn't.