broken is the heart;

if you could kill anyone, and get away with it, who would you kill?

the guy who invented condoms. fuck that guy.

c’mon, answer the question.

oh, i’m sorry - did you wanna fuck me that bad?

alright. well do you want the truth or just something clever?

truth is, you’re all full of shit.

who needs motive?

we’re animals. it’s in our nature to kill. basic. simple. you should have all figured that out by now. of course, we’re civilized, we socialize. we sit around and talk about it over a beer. we don’t actually do it.

but if we could actually get away with it? kill anyone? anyone at all? we would kill anyone. anyone at all.

the only emperor, is the emperor of ice cream.

it was nitrous oxide.

you shared a drink with him but you didn’t drink.

you cut him up while he was still alive, but unconscious.

motherfucker. well, you are good.

there was no struggle.

hey, you want to play the game, you gotta bring something to the table.

i know exactly what you’re thinking.

you think you feel guilty, but it’s not that. 

there’s no such thing as guilty. there’s just the fear of getting caught.

your brain’s all sick and twisted up.

you’re paranoid everyone knows you fucked up.

you’re going to lose everything.

you’re not going to sleep tonight.

nothing has changed.

after a few days you’re going to realize no one knows shit.

this whole bloody thing that’s amounted to you as some kind of importance has somehow slipped beneath the notice of the world.

you’ll be a new man.

yeah, we’re going to hell.

you’re losing it, (character name)!

let’s take a look inside.

i’ve misjudged you.

i expect you two will get along quite well.

you wanted to know if there was a problem? there is one. we don’t like you.

that’s not a problem.

you don’t wanna to be cutting into the poop pipe, kid.

that stuff will kill you.

we all gotta go at some point, right?

to the dead!

this where you bring all your dates?

you killed him.

what is this, a game?

exactly. It’s a game.

i don’t fucking believe this.

come on and get over it, will you?

there are 6.5 million people in the city. trust me, this asshole will not be missed.

really, who needs a reason? we’re animals. it’s our nature to kill. remember?

how do you know I won’t tell?

are you playing fair?

oh, what an imagination.

paid a visit to us last month, in fact. 

chairman of an obscenely profitable banking institution, and a hell of a guy I might add. 

hell of a guy.

hunting… i’d say hunting’s a lot better in the city.

you look very sexual… i mean, alluring.

are you fucking kidding me? huh?

fuck you. don’t touch me.

oh, what? you want to fuck that guy? you want to fuck that guy? go fuck that guy! 

hey, we got a fucking whore in the room! 

go fuck him. 

just remember your ass belongs to me.

you don’t fucking own me.

oh, I get it.

fuck you.

what the fuck?

by the way, props to you for killing everyone.

uh-oh. who’s that? that’s you. that’s me. that’s me. me. you. me. you. me. you’re me. 

you’re a fucking killer. you’re a fucking animal.

your fiancée is really beautiful. 

you must be very happy.

There were not a lot of reliable people in John Constantine’s line of work. Magic tended to attract the shady, the selfish, the cowards, and the nutters. It was perfectly natural [and God knows he was all of the above], but it did make it hard to get a second opinion. Constantine fancied himself a clever old sod, but even he wasn’t familiar with everything. Or the ol’ colonies; particularly the bloody colonies, for that matter. Especially because they had taken the profession of exorcist and mage to new and terrifying levels. Hunters. They made work miserable. And they were even less predictable scoundrels than the magic lot.

So what was a bloke to do? Well, make friends with one of the gun toting Yanks, obviously. And lucky him, he seemed to have picked of the biggest and baddest to rub elbows with. Wasn’t what he’d intended, honest. And it was less of a partnership and more of a “show up uninvited and not get kicked in the bollocks” business, but really, wasn’t that was all his friendships were anyway? Least this one was good in a punch up.

The blonde mage had divined the location of his consulting friend with a simple charm and a spell on his favorite knife . Shit hotel, as usual it appeared. But after a bloody bus ride and a truck driver trying to get a little too friendly, that shit hole was a site for sore eyes. Constantine sauntered up to the door, standing to the side before knocking.

The hunter didn’t move from his VERY COMFORTABLE spot on the couch to attend to the Brit. Instead, he sipped tentatively on his beer, ignoring the knocking and continuing to watch the crap show on the only channel the motel had to offer.                               ( Screw him, and screw his case.)

A mage. Witches sucked, but a mage who knew his way around magic and could probably manipulate him into whatever it was he wanted Dean to do? But, of course, like always when John wanted his help, Dean relented by throwing his remote down against the table and sauntering to the door.