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“Johnny Winchester! What’s a good hunter like you doin’ in a place like this?” Constantine slapped the man’s shoulder slightly harder than was necessary. Then took the bar stool next to the hunter without waiting for an invitation.
“You mean an interdimensional demon bar?” Winchester said. “Mostly finished, actually. Just looking for the mighty Hellblazer.” He said the word Hellblazer with almost as much scorn as Constantine himself. Impressive.
“That’s a lot of effort for little ol’ me,” Constantine said cautiously. He lit a smoke while he waited to be served. When your tab was as long as his was it was best to be as polite as possible to the bartender.
“Yeah, it was,” the hunter said. He spun a very special book of matches across his knuckles as he spoke. God knows what he did to get it. Those matches were the only way for non-magic users to find the entrances to the Oblivion Bar. And they were very well guarded and hard to come by.
“Right…” Constantine gave the eldest Winchester an appraising look. He couldn’t help remembering Dean’s comments back in Louisiana. The bloke wouldn’t really come after him for shagging his 26 year old son, would he? No one was that bleeding stupid. Not even John Winchester.
They were interrupted, thank god, by Jim Rook, interdimensional bar owner and mostly retired superhero. Coming up to grudgingly take Constantine’s order. He gave Winchester a suspicious look, non-magical humans were an unusual thing in this place and John Winchester was every inch the hunter.
“Jimmy boy, pint of lager if you please.”
Jim tilted his head almost imperceptibly to Winchester and raised an eyebrow, as if to ask ‘what does he want?’ Constantine shrugged in response, ‘hell if I know.’
“You plan on paying up any time soon, John?” Rook asked, out loud this time.
“Probably not,” Constantine said giving Jim a big easy smile. He didn’t even bother trying to lie. This was the Nightmaster after all. He probably kept the Sword of Night under the bar. “And ‘sides, don’t you still owe me for that Balrog thing?”
“Fine,” Jim rolled his eyes but he poured the pint so John was counting it as a win.
Winchester waited until Jim was all the way down the other end of the bar talking to Dan Cassidy before he turned back to John. Although not before glaring at Dan’s blue skin and horns with mild horror. Constantine couldn’t help a small scoffing sound at that. Blatant speciesism – Cassidy had probably sent more demons back to Hell than all the Winchesters combined.
“I’m looking for The Colt,” Winchester said. "Word is you had it." No small talk then. But at least it wasn’t some kind of threat about his son’s honour. So there’s that.
“The Colt?” Constantine laughed. “I don’t have it.”
“Do you know who does?” the hunter growled. Grumpy. Maybe he did suspect something?
“Hey, mate. Remember who owes who after Georgia, yeah?” Constantine jabbed with his cigarette to make his point. “And remember who helped you with those weather patterns. You owe me. Don't get that confused.”
Winchester had enough sense not to argue. Even if he did down his drink in one and put his glass down more forcefully than was necessary. Making trouble in the Oblivion Bar was plain old suicide and even the grumpy hunter seemed to realise it. When he clamped his jaw down like that Constantine could see the family resemblance. He wondered idly if flirting with John Winchester would get him punched, and if he did it in here probably get them both obliterated.
“That demon murdered my wife,” Winchester said pulling John back to the present. It wasn’t an apology but an explanation might be the closest this man got to one. “Do you have any idea what a man is capable of in that situation? I’ll do anything to get that thing.”
“Yeah. I know exactly what men like you are capable of doing, Winchester.” He knew all too well what a man was capable of in revenge of a wife’s death. He shook off the thought.
“Is there anything else? That can kill a demon?”
“Yes. All just as hard to come by, though. Kurdish demon killing knife, Angelic Steel, or y’know an angel; Cain or the First Blade, certain Babylonian blood spells, some Scottish bint… me.” He glanced at the hunter and shrugged. “But those yellow eyes mean something. If it’s who I think it is then a Kurdish Knife isn’t going to be enough and I doubt you have angel feathers and baby's blood on hand. The Colt probably is your best bet. If you can find it. Last I heard some old vampire hunter had it out your way. Best I got.”
“Thanks, I suppose.” The hunter was standing.
“No problem, mate. Say ‘ullo to Dean for me.” Constantine smirked.
“What?”
“You know, your son. The pretty one.”
“Whatever,” Winchester said with a relatively mild glare. “See you later, Hellblazer.”
“T’ra!” Constantine said in his best mockingly posh accent. He had a lot of practice with that one. He even gave a little wave to the hunter’s back as he stomped out of the pub. Constantine sighed. That wasn’t half as bad as it could have been.
Somewhere in the background a gravelly voice called out, “Anyone know the dimensional calling code for Earth 616?”
“Bloody hell,” said a rich London accent behind Constantine’s back. “It’s literally 616. How hard is that! Some people.”
Constantine sighed again, more heartfelt this time. Not for the first time, he wished he had something worth praying to.
“I just wanted a quiet pint!” He complained.
“Good god, what rot. No one comes to the Oblivion for a quiet anything,” Crowley said.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. You come here on your way somewhere else so you never have to take a train that passes through Manchester or use the M1.”
“Fine, that too. What do you want Crowley?”
“Souls, naked angels, a new azalea maybe, usual things,” the demon said and shrugged. He took the seat just vacated by John Winchester.
“If I talk to you while I drink this you’re paying my tab,” Constantine said indicating his pint. It was usually easier to find out what the demon was up to by talking to him. Letting him think he was in control.
“Sure,” Crowley said. He leant closer. “If you seal the deal.”
Constantine laughed. Stubbed out his cigarette in the nearby ashtray and twisted towards Crowley quickly enough to catch him off guard. Put a hand on the back of the demon’s neck, pulled him in and kissed him like he meant it. It wasn’t half bad actually. It tasted like sulphur, burnt sugar, and sin.
“Hey!” Jim called out and pointed meaningfully at a sign behind the bar. It read: ‘NO SOUL TRADING ON THESES PREMISES’.
“Don’t worry luv,” Constantine called out. “Mine’s already spoken for. Perfectly regular business arrangement.”
“Was that one of the Winchester boys?” Crowley asked smoothing down his suit.
“The father,” John said.
“You think one of them's the one?”
“Dunno, isn’t that your area?” Constantine leant over conspiratorially. “You used to think it was me.”
“Things change,” Crowley shrugged. Then saluted the Hellblazer with his glass of poncey claret. “So why did daddy Winchester want to know about demon killing?”
“I'd say he want’s to kill a demon?” Constantine said. He was pretty sure Crowley already knew but he only agreed to talk not actually tell the demon anything even potentially useful. He took a long pull of his drink. Getting this over with was probably a good idea.
“Yellow eyes? Can't be the Nergal, no one who knows enough to get in here would even think of taking that one from you. So..." The demon drummed his fingers on the bar. "He’s going after Azazel isn’t he?” He looked so speculative that it gave John an idea.
“If he was, that’d sure upset things downstairs.”
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, it would. It’d be a bloody shambles.”
“You still King of the Crossroads? Still workin’ for Lilith?”
The demon made a non-committal noise. But Constantine kept up with Hell’s gossip. He knew he was right and he even knew that the demon was somewhat unwillingly shagging his boss.
“Int’resting,” said the Hellblazer. “You think Hell’ll ever get their act together? Pull off the big one?”
“Presumably,” Crowley said with practiced ease. There was a considered pause.
“Lucifer never was very keen on demons though, was he?”
“What are you getting at Constantine?”
“Just a thought. No more deals or contracts if the world burns, right?” He drained his glass and stood up. “No more angels in Soho, neither.”
“That a threat, Hellblazer?”
“Oh no, demon, you’d know all ‘bout it if I was threatening you,” Constantine smiled, all teeth, then waved at the bartender. “Oi, Jim, Crowley’s taking care of me tab. Thanks, mate.”
Jim looked surprised but trundled off to tot up Constantine’s extensive tab. Hell could afford it.
“Nice doing business with you Crowley,” Constantine said. He put an arm around the demon’s well-tailored shoulders and leant in close, “And, just a friendly reminder, if I see you anywhere near me topside I will have you back in Hell sooner than you can say ‘contractual obligations' - and that's just if I'm feelin' generous. You might even get to find out just how threatening I can be, yeah?”
Crowley actually managed to glare at him which was a pretty good effort really. He just smiled, gave the demon a peck on the cheek, and sauntered out of the pub.
Back to London, back to reality. Back to ghosts, and possessions, lost artefacts and out of control magics. An empty bed and a broken kettle. It was raining. Of course it was.