The road ahead is a harrowing one. What had once been concrete highway has become something anachronistic— cobblestone bumping against the failing tires of John’s rust bucket. The entire car jostles at every bump, pothole, and suspiciously dead animal on the road.

The Honda civic has seen better days. It was probably shiny and new, once upon a time. Though imagining the scraped up car as anything other than what it was is difficult. The trunk is only kept together through duck tape and prayers; and there’s a none zero chance that the transmission is possessed.

John himself isn’t driving. He’s too ‘indisposed’ to be managing a piece of machinery, if the flask that’s hanging just out the inside of his trenchcoat’s pocket is any clue to what that means.

“Don’t stop now, luv. We’re heading to hell, not damnation.” The little quip would be charming; if it weren’t uttered from John Constantine’s lips. There was something compelling about him. But there was a grimness to him too, something about his expression or demeanor, that pushed people away as much as it drew them in.

Not you, though. Maybe it would’ve been better to listen to your instincts on strange, drunken men. Because now you’re stuck driving him to hell— to ‘steal a deal from a blasted demon.’

Whatever that meant.

From the side view mirror, shadows are approaching. Twisted into things that could almost be mistaken for humanoid. Tiny, pinpricks of purple light shine— an intimation of eyes, perhaps. They’re strange, horrifying, and slightly hypnotic.

The loud rustling of John’s map (notably not of hell) breaks the trance. “I’m not paying you to crash my car. Pay attention to the road.” He’s not paying you.