Well, John had tried, anyway. It wasn't like it was that bad (except for the part where it was), he simply wasn't the sort who dealt well in deserts. He was from Liverpool, where everything was always wet.
He sighed and went about removing his trench coat to hold over his arm and loosening his tie a bit. Strange could go on casting his spells to make outside air conditioning for himself, but it felt a little much. Constantine would likely change his mind in a few minutes, but that was beside the point.
"Fuck all about climbing dunes. Like you don't have a proper detection spell," he said rather accusingly before fishing a cigarette out of his pack.
John's magic wasn't quite the same, there was less poetry to it, and more mumbled words, latin and something darker and older. But when he set his cigarette horizontally held pack, it moved like a compass, stopping rather abruptly once it was pointed to the right.