#deadstantine

"Hi John. My name is Charles Kroger, I am what they call a court-mandated therapist. Which is just fancy talk to say—"

"Me da's a shitbag an' yer bein' paid ta make sure Cher an' I aren't already completely fucked by him or not too upset about him going ta jail for being a panty stealer?" John interrupted, unimpressed.

The therapist laughed. "Yes. Something like that. You're very clever John, has anyone told you that before?"

"Yes. The teachers. Me da too. It never sounded nice. Always was about how I played clever, like it was a synonym for bein' a cunt. Cher does it sometimes as well. But she means well. She want ta keep me out of trouble. So she thinks I shouldn't be doin' all that."

"All what?"

"All the playin' clever."

"But you are, clever."

Young John sighed softly, gaze lowering to his shoes. "Am not even sure I get what it means, clever. Is it or is not an insult then?"

The blond frowned, clutching at his head and squeezing his eyes shut as the memories assailed him, but they were jumbled and fuzzy and out of place. Like his brain was trying to just put puzzle pieces that seemed to fit together together, regardless of the overall pattern.

"Constantine? Like John Constantine?" Selene asked, eyes widening with genuine awe. "The clever fucker who cheated The Fallens?"

"Is that how it goes?" John inquired, brows creasing. "Me reputation? Iss'that good?"

"Ahhuhh...." The younget woman had tilted her head to the side. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't necessarily say good." She spoke, a little more high-pitched, earning a genuine laughter out of the blond before he brought his pint to his mouth taking a pleasant sip. "Not that I mind."

"Yeah?" John asked, the cheeky grin coming easy. "Don't tell me, ya like trouble, dontch'a luv'?"

Selene shrugged. "Liking's a strong word. Just very used to it. Very good at managing it too now." She'd added, her hand reaching out for his beer and taking a purposeful sip as she held his gaze. "Just not the type to run away. At least not in those shoes. Plus, you don't look mean, John, you look sad."

"Sometimes I look in your eyes and I swear I've never seen anyone so sad as you, John," Dani had said once, "I know you--always taking the weight of the world on your shoulders."

But, it made sense. With "all the things I'm mixed up in, all the trouble..."

"Oooh, I'm a disaster, and all I do is bring pain and misery to those that cross my doom-kissed path... I walk alone towards armageddon, while the world draws back from me aghast..." Kit had mocked him, once, like that. Before walking away too. Unable to deal with it all. With the baggage, all the ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night...

John fell to his knees, clutching his head still as faded memories became vivid and recent once seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.

John warned people. Always did. Always made the effort of frankly telling them, of reiterating that he was the type to "walk me path alone".

But like Oliver, they didn't listen, didn't believe, until something bad happened and resentment built. Then it was time to throw accusations around and suddenly Oliver was spitting out that he was too dumb. "I thought you needed help. Some good in your life, a friend. But get close to you, and it's more than trouble. You're a black hole. You destroy people--make them worthless." Which is why "I shoulda stayed on my own and away from you," John.

"Mr Constantine? John?" John blinked, opening his eyes and looking up to the man in a suit with a horrible tie. "Please, John, stand up. This is rather awkward and unbecoming." He fixed his tie as John stood up. Suddenly, they were in the camper, alone. "Oh have a seat. This is your home after all!" John numbly obeyed, sitting on the nearby bench couch. "Now," The male summoned an armchair out of nowhere, having far more control of the limbo than John himself. "cigarette?" He offered after sitting down and John took it. The male made a display of lighting it up with a snap of his fingers. "How do you find the Duat Mr Constantine? Myself I am not a practioner of egyptian magic, but I find it is easier to bend than stiffer afterworlds." John took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled, keeping quiet. "Ah. So you chose silence. Sure. May I ask though, why? Why are you not... Fighting? Are you not a fighter? That is what people say about you, Johnny Con-Job. The Hellblazer. The best conman and perhaps too, the best magician." John sighed but did not offer a particular answer, choosing instead to keep smoking his cigarette. "I mean, people are still counting on you. I believe dear Miss Mallki has taken to guarding your body." He chuckled. John's eyebrows visibly creased as he tried to piece together who the man was referring to. "Violeta? Spunky young woman? Avatar for a incan goddess? Of indigenous origins? Is that the correct term? Or is it native? Pero between us, I wouldn't bother with all that and just call her a traidor. Anyone who engages with any sort of heavenly being and accept their design for us, is nothing but a traitor to the human race and its free will." John merely rose his eyebrows, unimpressed as the other launched in an impassioned rant, still enjoying his first cigarette in far too long. "Anyways, we're getting off track, Mr Constantine. Why not simply return, to your body? Your people need you."

"I don't have, people. Let alone any that need me." John replied, gaze focusing on a speck of lint on the floor. A nothing fuzzball. A meaningless detail.

"Oh but you do. Miss Zatara perhaps not, but Miss Feig? Bruce? You've already lost one of those haven't you?"

John chuckled. "You say names like they're supposed to mean something."

"Oh, no no, you can't dupe me like that Mr Constantine. Oh you are good, to a certain extent, at pretending death doesn't get to you anymore and sure enough, lady Death never quite got her hands around you, but her claws have sunk in. She has bled you before. Never dry though, not completely. She keeps those wounds open and claims relentlessly when it comes to you, John Constantine. The people around you, who care about you, die, and you, live on. Always. So the burden of the suffering is always on you. And oh, you wear it beautifully. To the onlooker you make it seem upsettingly weightless, but look at you, you're pathetic. A wreck. And people assume you drink away your sorrow and fuck away your guilt but they got you wrong. You never do away with any of that. It's all coping mechanisms. Just to quiet your mind just a little bit. So how does it feel, now that it's all quiet? Are you weightless as you navigate the Duat? Do you feel free, Mr Constantine?"

"No." John answered, the word feeling almost compelled out of him and having him swallow at the admission.

"No. Indeed. Because you still, feel, compassion. You still are burdened by your human emotions. You are called a black hole, told you are the void, and you absorb and absorb and swallow. But you know not how to spit out, how to free yourself. You will explode Mr Constantine, that is what the gods expect of you. They have heartlessly burdened you with so many feelings and such a painful purpose. Don't you want to be free? No more fighting? No more sleepless nights rehashing past mistakes. No more misplaced love. None of it. Just the weightlessness of being free, of being finally, empty. It could be yours. It is mine. And you want it. A part of you does. A big, part of you simply does not want to go back to this body of yours."

John glanced around, realising they truly were in the camper. He could hear Violeta's voice now. Could hear her speaking to Spooky, reassuring the cat about him.

"I mean, your body's over there. Why not go back? Neither I, nor my organisation have ever stopped you, Mr Constantine. That, this, is your choice."

"Bollocks." John replied, standing up. "I call about bullshit on yer declaration. I tried. I tried going back. Several times. I tried so Clark wouldn't have ta—ta see—I tried so the kid—I tried. I tried. Because that is what I do. I try. I try it all. I try all that can be tried. That is who I am."

"Yes. You try. And you fail splendidly. Or you succeed, when it is written so. Not often though. Just often enough to hold you back from truly ending it all." The salesman flatly said, unimpressed. "But sure, you try. Because it is the trying that matters right? I'm sure Astra Logue would concur. Or Gary Lester. Or Rachel Maddox. Or Benjamin Cox. Or—"

"Enough!" John interrupted, visibly angry. "Ye don't know those people! Ye have no right to use their name in vain ta hurt me!"

The Salesman stood. "I take all the right Mr Constantine. And you will do nothing about it. Because you currently can do nothing about it and don't want, to be able to do anything about it. You want the choice taken away from you. You want your mortal coil to rot and die so you may never return to it and still get to claim you have relentlessly tried. Because that is what you are now, Johnny, a fighter. You daddy beat the crap out of you for years and you endured it, so now that life is doing about the same, you will endure just as well. Even in death, all you do, is endure. You don't fight, John Constantine. Never really did. Not when you hadn't rigged it all somehow to win. You can try. But you don't really know how to."

John punched the salesman. "How's that for not fighting?"

The male laughed before spitting out blood and wiping the sticky mix of blood and saliva left on his lips. "Did that feel good? It must have. Gave you the impression you did something. But you did nothing. You're doing nothing. As your friends are all in danger. Yet again, because of you."

"What have ya done?"

"Why don't you try, finding out?" With those words, the salesman faded.

John rushed towards his own actual body, trying yet against to get his soul back in, to go straight through. Fists clenching, the blond stared at his preserved corpse with barely contained anger. "Fookin' useless. John, yer fookin' useless." The blond repeatedly hit his head with the side of his fists, frustrated, as a vividly recalled his father telling him the exact same thing. And visibly being right...

Could that man be right? Was the blockage on his part? Did he just not want, to deal with it all? With his existence? With what it took to be John Constantine?

"Think, Johnny, think." The blond told himself, trying to get himself together. And sat on the edge of his bed. Before eventually falling backwards and laying besides his mortal husk. The exorcist glanced at his body. "We had a good run, didn't we Johnny? Outlived a great many deal of cunts." He chuckled softly, tears welling in his eyes. Exhausted, the blond closed his eyes, unaware that he had gained enough sentience to be visible to anyone who'd currently look.

Maybe this wasn't, about fighting?

divider credit to @/cursed-carmine

// usual suspects tag: @wariviolet / @darkzatanna / @big-blue-of-tomorrow / @big-spooky-bat / @mara-culous-lady-of-the-bog / @the-whiz-kid ( not a nudge to respond just a update on the getting back in his body! don't worry eheheh)