"no," A sleeping John mumbled, instinctively shriveling on himself in the king sized bed, adopting a fetal position and covering his face with his arms "not the belt, no, please" The blond further tucked his head betwixt his arms for protection as he let out squeaky nasal noises he'd long thought he was no longer capable of emiting and physically wincing with each past hit. Eventually, the currently metaphorical but once very real strikes of leather against his skin stopped, and John indulged himself the quiet whimpering as the sound of his father's retreating footsteps resonated in his ears, far too loud, far too grand, for such a small miserable brittle man. John's position eventually shifted, fingers kneading in the soft fabric of a pillow as he wept quietly. He'd gotten good at that, as a kid. As quiet as a mouse. Still, sometimes, too loud for the old man, too loud for Cheryl to muffle in the crook of her arms or manage to quiet with soft shushes.

It seemed tonight, would be one of those night. Because the old man returned. More corpse than man, now, looking like Gemma's once terrifying visions. He had a bottle. Because of course he had a bottle when he would stumble close, slurring angrily about John ruining it all and still playing the victim card with his tears, 'as if you didn't fucking kill her', the old man would say, 'as if you didn't take away the best of us, the only one of us capable of turning this wretched place into a home!' John flinched at the sensation of drops of alcohol reaching his face, but making no move to wipe them away. No, he sat still, quiet, swallowing away his own snot and biting his lip to oblivion to stop the tremors. Terrorized, the blond watched his old man sit on his bed, 'you killed your brother too, you know' he said, as if Thomas Constantine hadn't asked his wife to abort, 'that's what ye'er, a killer, a bastard'. John could endure the name calling, knew if he endured it well, quietly, without a wrong note, than the man would run out of steam and stumble out exhausted and ready to pass out on the couch. Or so, normally was the case. But Thomas crept closer, his ghoulish gaze fixated in his son, 'drink, come on," he held the bottle out, 'drink it all to the last drop Johnny, come and join us. Me, your mom," he chuckled, "even the dead twin Johnny boy, we're all waiting for you, drink! DRINK!"

But John wasn't a boy anymore, no. John was a man. A grown man. A prepared man. A man who slept with a retractable switchblade under his pillow for nights like these. So John reached for the knife and held it out to a ghost. Who faded as his consciousness returned. The blonde wiped at the wetness beneath his nose. "Taken my nightmares, my ass." John let out, referring to his deal with a particular Endless in return for a pouch of sand. The blond dropped the knife atop the covers, letting himself fall backwards into the bed and covering his eyes with his hand as the telltale signs of a good cry made themselves known. Except this was accompanied by such an intense wave of nausea that the exorcist had to rush out of bed and to the nearest sink, dry heaving and only managing to rid himself of accumulating spit, though he kept gagging.

Eventually, the blond managed to stop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and attempting to stand as he panted heavily, eyes watery still.

"You should've just drunk boy. All you have to do, is keep drinking. Always."

Tears welled in the blond's eyes as he clenched his jaw at the words coming from an all too familiar voice, turning around to be faced with what he knew was little but an apparation conjured by his guilt, by his trauma, the two so intricately laced when it came to Thomas Constantine's death.

"You're fucked anyway. You're going to die young because you smoked 30 cigarettes a day since you were 15."

"Actually, I already took care of that. Cancer's all gone." John replied, attempting to feign confidence in front of his first tormentor as tears welled in his eyes.

John Constantine:

Half the time you don't know he's a dad cause he's gone to get that milk for centuries and the other half you wanna hit your head on the wall cause he sucks at parenting sm

Thomas Constantine: