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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine	By : Krystal_Frame Category: 1 through F > Constantine Views: 918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own JC or any other DC properties. Merely meant for funsies.

Chapter List
- 5
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- 7
John wiped a line of blood from his chin, then returned his hand to the supportive position it had been in, protecting broken and cracked ribs. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that Chas and Zed were still making progress up the hill. Chas was walking with a stout stick supporting most of his weight, his right leg splinted with sticks and a couple of belts. Zed's broken hand was in a sling that John had made out of his tie and she moved with a bit of a wobble because of the head injury. But she had proven herself easily as tough, if not tougher, than the two men.
John caught his breath, used the vines of a nearby tree to pull himself up a steep slide of rocks and mud and finally came to the mountain trail they had left almost three hours ago.
The demon had come out of nowhere. The charms John and Zed had been carrying didn't warn them in time and one stomp of the horse demon's hooves had sent all three of them flying down the mountain side. They were lucky to be alive.
John sat down on the gravel path and wished desperately that he hadn't run out of smokes. Zed had snapped at him twice now for griping, giving him a rundown of how many respiratory dieseases he was at risk for, even more so with broken ribs. It didn't stop him from craving them, didn't stop the shakes, and wouldn't take care of the irritation and paranoia.
With a groan John slowly lay back on the ground, closed his eyes and tried to force his muscles to relax, listening intently to the sounds of the other two negotiating the last few feet of the tortourous climb. They both sat down, either side of him, then followed his lead and lay down on the path with a variety of hisses and groans and growls.
After a moment John heard Zed shift, then felt her head fall gently on his shoulder. "I can't go any further." She said softly and John nodded to himself.
"Can we...get a signal from here?" Chas asked, still panting softly.
Zed shifted and groaned softly, then John heard the beep of a cell phone. "Yeah..we got a signal." She said, then started to call the number for the hotel they'd left early that morning.
While Zed worked her way towards the proper authorities and arranged what John hoped would be effortless transportation away from this hellscape of a mountain, the warlock drifted into a light sleep.
The sounds of the mountainside melded into the crash of waves, cries of seagulls, and the lighthearted chatter of women and children playing. He felt warm sun on his face and propped himself up on his elbows to watch the active beach. Palm trees swayed, birds darted in and out of the choppy surf and at least one dolphin was leaping further out from shore.
John looked down at his pregnant belly, the bikini that showed it in all it's glory, and the small heart tattoo just under his belly button. He felt junior kick and turned to his husband with a soft smile. His husband was a werewolf. A hungry one. It came at him instantly, ripping first into his belly and mauling their unborn child before closing it's jaws around John's neck and shaking him like a ragdoll.
"John...wake up!" Someone slapped him hard and his head swam. John jerked awake and regretted it as bones in his chest ground together and his lungs seized. He started coughing and hiccuping and couldn't pull the air in until someone sat him up and he could smell cool, clinical, clean oxygen forcing it's way into his nose and mouth from a rubber hose.
He heard someone thanking god, and thought a woman was crying near him. Sobbing softly, frightened. He closed his eyes trying to control the nausea. He needed to know what the hell that was. What had just happened and why he was being slapped, after being eaten.
Hands guided him back to what felt like a soft mattress, but he remembered being on gravel last. Nothing sounded familiar or smelled familiar and a slow building panic was seeping into him through his bruised belly, traveling like molasses to his brain. John fought it, sucking in oxygen until his heart rate had gone down.
He opened his eyes and caught blurry flashes of nursing uniforms, white caps, doctors with stethoscopes dangling from their necks. Lights above him, and not sun. His legs were half covered with a blanket that had been hastily tossed over him and his chest was bare. There was a tube sticking out of his side, draining milky pink liquid from him. He could taste blood on his tongue and on his lips.
The woman crying was a nurse who had stepped as far away from his bed as she could get without leaving the room. John wondered if he had hurt her.
"Is he ok?" Chas' frantic voice called from beyond a curtain. Another nurse, a male one, flipped the curtain back so that Chas could meet John's eyes. The big man had had his jeans cut away entirely on his wounded side and his leg was a mass of misshapen bruises and blood. John's own leg hurt in sympathy before the pain in his ribs took over. He groaned and closed his eyes again.
The IV in his arm had to have included a sedative of some kind because a sweet malaise was overcoming the panic. John drifted again as the male nurse came towards him with an alcohol swab and a syringe. He was out before the metal pierced his skin.
This time John was in a club. He was taller than usual and a single glance down told him he was male, fit, and next to naked. The rest of the patrons of the club were dressed similarly, grinding sweaty nakedness against nakedness. John found himself instantly involved in a three-way rub off that had him excited in minutes. A nude male fae came around with jello shots and John and his two new friends partook. The beat changed, a hard metal band played a screamer while a montage of the band leader murdering it's members played on the large screens hanging from the cieling.
The mood in the club changed. His dancing partners became more aroused and less shy. John was soon sandwiched between the two and could feel hands actively awakening him, pulling him from his clothing. Fingers danced up his spine, along his neck, then caressed his skull and drew him closer. He sensed the vampire moments before the first set of fangs sank into his neck. Pain lanced down his spine and exploded in his head. Another blast of fire in his loins, drew his panicked gaze and he saw the other vampire latched onto his femoral artery, even while jacking him off. John tried to fight but his arms and legs wouldn't respond. The pain became unbearable and he screamed, his voice joining that of the other victims until a nurse shook him awake.
Blue walls, sunlight, white linens, silk flowers, scrubs. John could feel the pressure of bandages, the pull of stitches, pinpoints of pain where IV's were taped to his wrists. He fought off the hands of the nurse and tried to claw his way out of bed. Away from the fear. She pressed a button and the worst case scenario rushed into the room and pushed sedatives into his IV...for his own bloody good.
John was in hell. He was standing, strapped spread eagle to a giant X made of boards. There were clusters of nails sticking out of the X. Three in front of each nipple. Five in front of his naked crotch. A triangle of sets of four where his eyes and mouth were. Then single nails, zig zagging, points wickedly sharpened all up and down the rest of the structure. Behind the X was a stone wall, uncomfortably sticky with gore. John heard feet shift behind him. He heard a chuckle that seemed frighteningly familiar. There was a grunt, a snap, then a score of hot, horrible pain across the small of his back that forced his hips foreward, into the sharpened nails.
John's yelp earned him more laughter from his torturer. He heard the hiss of the whip, sliding back through the dust on the floor, the whistle, then another crack that opened his skin across his shoulders. He turned his head and felt the tips of the nails piercing his forehead and chin. It was impossible to stop himself from moving forward, away from the whip, and just as impossible to brace for where it would strike next. The strikes increased in speed until the wielder had developed a rhythm at about 60 beats per minute. John's shoulders, back and legs were soon streaked with warm blood on both sides of his body. A minute later he could no longer stand on his own and the nails that had been near his crotch were now imbedded in the skin around his belly button. John became aware of a high pitched tone, starting in his inner ear and building as he lost consciousness. The whipping never stopped, the pace never slowed, and John knew he would die.
Then the paddles sent electricity through his heart and he came gasping back to reality, screaming his pain at the top of his abused lungs. Doctors and nurses buzzed around him. A frantic look to the side showed him Chas and Zed, sporting casts, watching with grief and terror on their faces.
"Chas.." He croaked. "Chas don't...don't let them-" The sedative hit and he wailed in desperation, spiraling back down into...
water.
He splashed, arms and legs flailing, into deep, clear, fresh water. He plunged into the cool, dark depths and felt his nerves sighing in relief at the soothing effect before he butterflied to the surface. As soon as his head broke free he dragged in the cool morning mist and looked around at the heather covered hills.
Loch Ness.
He knew it perfectly. He'd spent too many nights as a young man trying to tease this particular beastie from the depths, and frequently with a nubile young thing beside him, willing to be held and caressed and stroked.
John started toward the shore. Despite the comfort of the land around him, the sudden peace, the familiarity, he had begun to understand what was happening to him, and he knew that if this was Loch Ness, whatever had chosen to torment him in his sleep would produce a nasty, deadly Loch Ness monster post haste. Best to get out of the water.
John's kicking feet had begun to feel smooth stones beneath them, and he could begin to wade out of the deep when he spotted a boat slowly heading toward the shore. A small thing, operated by oars, and a wide brimmed fisherman's hat atop the rower's head. Not an unfamiliar sight on this particular lake. John turned his attention back to dragging wearying muscles out of the choppy water, the cold starting to get to him. He had managed to get to waist deep water when he heard the shouting behind him. He turned back to the boat and was surprised to see that the fisherman was wearing a wool tunic, that looked very much like a monk's habit. Further, he was carrying and pointing a crossbow at John.
He heard ancient Gaelic flying at him with fear and anger fueling it and put his hands up minutes before the bolt from the crossbow was let loose. It went through his outstretched hand, then into his right breast, where his hand was pinned to his chest. The bolt plunged into his lungs and a gout of blood flew out of his mouth before he turned and stumbled toward the rocky shore.
His ankles cleared the water before a second bolt entered his back, and shot blood and gore from his belly when it appeared in the front. John fell, crawled with one hand and both legs until his left hamstring was snapped by a third bolt. He went face first into the smooth, water rounded stones, a tangled, wounded marionette, disgarded by the puppeteer for anyone to abuse. The monk's boat hit the shore and John could hear his excited voice shouting in Gaelic. The only two words he recognized seemed to imply that the monk had thought John was the waterbeast.
The monk's tone changed as he drew closer, realized the mistake he had made. John felt the heartwrenching moment when the monk saw the bleeding, crumpled blonde as he was for the first time, realized the glamour spell he had been under, and threw his head back to keen. Then the blood that had been filling his lungs finally cut off his air and John felt himself die.
"Get off him. Get back. Get the hell off of him! John!"
Air rushed back into his lungs and John's eyes snapped open. He couldn't stop the coughing and the pain in his chest was extraordinary and visceral. Hands held onto him, grounding him, and John's hands reached up and clamped down around thickly muscled forearms until his body finally let him breathe.
"John...come on, man."
"Don't...don't let them.."
"I know...I know. It's a sleep demon. Zed figured it out. She touched you and had a vision."
John's hands wouldn't unclench. His eyes stared, glassy and painfully wide open. He was shaking and crying and terrified of returning to the clutches of the Haganoir.
"What do we do, John? How do we get rid of it?"
"Exorcism. Simple. Easy. Just don't...don't."
"I know, John. I won't. I promise. I'll keep you awake, whatever it takes."
- 5
- 6
- 7
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The Mis-Adventures of John Constantine