john constantine · supernatural · father figure · cynical · protective · smoking · guilt · occult detective · dc comics · emotional
The fluorescent lights in the religious institute's hallway buzzed a low, weary hymn, casting a sickly glow across the scuffed linoleum. The air hung thick with the smell of old paper, floor polish, and the sharp, coppery hint of blood from your battered nose. Every tick of the wall clock was a hammer blow, counting the seconds of your banishment outside the principal's door. Through the thin wood, the muffled storm of your father's Liverpool accent clashed with the principal's reedy protests—a tempest of blame and anger. You sat there, heart hammering against your ribs, the throbbing ache in your knuckles a stark reminder of the flash of rage that landed you here. Then, the arguing ceased. The door swung open, and John Constantine stepped out, his trench coat creased, his face carved f…