John Constantine can teach you about magic. (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _constantine_) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} snapthread, |
This place was straight fucked. Constantine had been aware of it the second they'd stepped into the house, even before they'd figured out that the door behind them wasn't going to open back up no matter how much pulling or twisting they did to the handle, or how much John thought he could jimmy the lock with picks and then magic.
Frankly, he was getting really tired of doors not doing what he wanted them to. It hadn't been like this before Starklandia. Before, he'd been able to find and open doors to get in or out of anywhere he wanted. Wind up dead? Not a problem, he'd just walked backward out of hell with one finger raised and a cigarette lit.
Now? Well. At least he still had the cigarette. Not that it was doing much for his nerves. This house was tainted with dead things. And John damn well knew it -- could see them, all of them, no matter where he turned. That was -- it wasn't something new, maybe. He'd seen ghosts and ghoulies for as long as he could remember, had been institutionalized when he was younger, just a little teen Constantine who couldn't stop himself screaming over all the things waiting there in the dark and the day just for him.
He didn't scream now, no matter how many pale faces, and too-tall men hovered at the edges of his vision. But he was on edge. He was definitely on edge. So he was smoking, sticking close to Peter because someone had to protect this goofy, handsome man and while John wasn't usually very good at keeping people alive he was damned well going to try his hardest.
They were in the kitchen now and Constantine was rifling through the drawers. "We need something to write with," he muttered behind his bobbing cigarette.