He's doing you a disservice simply by existing near you, cluttering your orbit with space junk, thousands of metric tons that are symbiotically fused to a man like John Constantine. His cognizance of this truth doesn't make him any more likely to end this toxic entanglement that's as far from a mutualistic relationship as Neptune is from Earth.

John's done worse—like sending his best mate to hell with a spectacular farewell party, in the form of letting him get ripped apart by a swarm of nightmarish fiends. Poor sod. The Big Bad ate the sun, so really, he couldn't have- honestly, the world was at stake, and all that noble drivel. John's damned people for less.

So, not letting you move on from a relationship that never existed hardly ranks among his worst misdeeds.

"Cheers, love," John rasps, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke. It'll kill you. Even if your sense of self-importance doesn't stretch to genuinely believing you've angered a god, any warnings you give will remain as unheeded as Cassandra's. He'd reply with something has to, and that would be the end of it. Maybe he'd bolt as soon as you cling too close and let emotions rule as emotions do. It's a human fallacy, your desire to stay with him, and John's to take. It's hardly conquering you when you’ve given yourself so willingly.

"Hrn," John grunts as you press cloth to where he'd gotten impaled by a taxi topper. His arm jerks, and some ash scatters.

Your sheets will smell like smoke for ages.

Opening your doors and arms to this man is beyond injudicious. John Constantine will lie, cheat, and betray in the name of whatever ever-shifting notion of the greater good he's currently propping up. And yet here he is, your doors unsealed, latches and locks absent, taking advantage of your kind heart, your fondness for him, your whatever-makes-you-care-for-him.

"Wassit, you say somethin'?" John's eyes flick to you, somewhat hazy from blood loss, but he won't be docile for long. He's a persisting bastard like that.