"So Constantine, you can't talk at all?"
Cas thought the better question was why the man in charge was still talking to him. He'd announced his intention to kill him. Chas had left—without arousing any suspicion, as far as Cas could tell. What else was there to discuss? Might he be onto their ruse? Did Cas need to do something more to prove he was Constantine, lest the entire charade crumple?
The man watched him expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer.
"Speaking is difficult," Cas said in a raspy whisper, doing his best to make his voice sounded weak and strained and far too faint to allow any reliable accent detection.
"Well," said the man, "I guess at least that means less screaming once I give the word to my friends here. Sorry if it seems like a lot of folks to be killing you all at once, but I like to think of it as strategy. Let me tell you something."
Cas certainly hadn't planned to stop him, baffled as he was by this impromptu lecture.
"They call me Hoover," the man said, "Wanna guess why?" He stared Cas down until the angel realized he actually expected a guess.
"Because that's your name?" he whispered, his face completely serious.
"Ha," said Hoover. "Y'know, he told me you were funny, but I didn't believe him? No, smartass, it's not my name. You see, men like Manor have this tendency to make… messes. Piss off the wrong cop, buy the wrong drug, screw the wrong girl—or boy, of course." He gestured at Cas. "Messes. Hard things, complicated things, things that explode in your face if you don't handle them right. Big, nasty, messes on their fancy white carpets.
"They call me Hoover," he concluded, "Because I'm the one they call in to clean those messes up."
Cas wondered if he was done talking now.
"Now you," said Hoover (ah, still too soon), "From what I hear, are a special kind of mess. Lot of folks've tried to kill you, but you've always got some kind of trick up your sleeve that lets you slip out of it. Of course, a lot of guys are like that when the bounty hunters wander up one at a time."
Cas glanced around at the assembled monsters. Hoover caught his look and smiled.
"Yes," he said, "Hence the gangbang. But, here's the thing. I've got the feeling you've got something up your sleeve for even this occasion." He reached into his pocket. Cas watched him cautiously. What was he going to pull out? A weapon of some sort? Hoover pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal… a pack of cigarettes? He took a few steps forward, closing the gap between himself and Cas.
"But maybe I'm wrong," he said, "So how about a last smoke?" He handed Cas the pack. Cas stared at it blankly.
"Silk Cut," said Hoover, "Heard they were your favorite, John."
Cas nodded, eyes wide. Of course. This was turning into a true test of "Constantine's" authenticity, and things would go very badly if he didn't pass. He fumbled a cigarette out of the package. It couldn't be difficult, right? Millions of humans did it every day. He was fairly certain Jimmy never had, but, theoretically, he easily could've started at any time, right?
He stared down at the little carcinogenic cylinder lying on his palm. Which end was supposed to go in his mouth again?
"Let me get that for you," said Hoover, pulling a lighter out of his pocket.
Cas nodded gratefully. No need to panic now; he knew enough to know you didn't set fire to the same side you put in your mouth. Absent-mindedly tucking the rest of the pack in his pocket, he carefully pinched the cigarette at the middle—exposing both ends without a hint of favor toward one or the other—and held it out toward Hoover.
The look Hoover gave him and the proffered cigarette had him worried he'd done something incorrectly, but the man lit one end without comment. Keeping his face completely neutral—not daring to let slip the barest hint that this wasn't something he'd done a million times—Cas brought the unlit end to his lips and inhaled.
The coughing fit was truly spectacular, bending him over and shuddering his entire frame with its force. He'd never felt his vessel fight so hard to expel something before, even counting the time he'd spent as a homeless human who frequently ate things other humans discarded.
Fighting to recover quickly, he looked to Hoover with watering eyes. The man almost looked concerned about his health. Cas was starting to think his reaction to the cigarette might be outside the realm of normality. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.
He tossed the cigarette down and stamped it out irritably.
"It would seem that cigarettes exacerbate the laryngitis," he whispered. As an afterthought, he hissed, "Bollocks."
"Tough break…" said Hoover. He didn't look entirely convinced. Cas prepared to panic.
"Hey," said Hoover, "Wait a minute… I offered you one last smoke; did you just steal that whole pack?"
Cas wasn't sure how to respond. He supposed, technically, he had, though he hadn't meant to.
"Rat bastard," said Hoover amicably, "Man, he was not exaggerating when he told me about you."
Cas marveled at his luck that this entire blunder had ultimately served to eliminate any doubt Hoover had left that he was indeed Constantine. It'd be unwise to push that luck much longer.
"But," Hoover went on, "Here's the thing, pal. You're not the only one who knows how to make the most of an interval of misdirection."
Misdirection? Seeing the question in Cas's eyes, Hoover gestured for him to turn around.
A glance over his shoulder revealed to Cas that Hoover's non-human henchmen had not been idle while Cas's attention was elsewhere. The double doors he'd entered through were chained shut, and the monsters had drawn in close, forming a tight circle, a barricade of bodies.
"Sorry that last smoke didn't work out," said Hoover, "But that's all you're getting."
Cas narrowed his eyes at Hoover then spun around to confront the thugs behind him. The sudden motion startled a couple of them into stepping back, but the group at large clearly didn't feel too threatened. He glanced at the building's only exit again. The chain about the door handles had been secured with a padlock. That meant one of his hopeful killers had the key…
"Whatever you're thinking of trying, Constantine," said Hoover, "I wouldn't recommend it. You're outnumbered, outbid, and out of lucky breaks. You can try running. Hell, maybe it'll even buy you a few minutes, but you're not getting past that lock. Don't know if you're enough of a history buff to know about the Men of Letters, but that lock was stolen straight from one of their strongholds. Warded against demons and magic and psychic powers and all kinds of things we've never even heard of, more than likely. Should be enough to withstand any tricks you've got."
Cas was thankful for his imaginary laryngitis because he couldn't begin to imagine what sort of response Hoover anticipated. Did he expect Constantine to simply give up and accept his fate without fuss? He eyed the skin-tight jeans on a blonde vampire who was licking the tip of a blood-stained dagger suggestively, saw a key-shaped bulge in one of the front pockets. Weapons were unsheathing and he heard Hoover's hurried footsteps getting out of the way behind him. No point wasting any more time trying to act like Constantine. Now it was time to act.
oOo
Sam and Dean leaned against the wall outside Rachel's office, waiting. They'd both tried listening in at first, but the door was too thick and Constantine and Rachel too quiet to allow them to pick up more than a few words at a time.
"How much longer you think this'll take?" Dean asked, checking his watch.
"How should I know?" said Sam, "I mean, I guess it can't take really long, right? Cas would've warned us."
"Good," said Dean, "Sooner we get this over with and drop him off back at the magic treehouse, the better."
"Really? I thought he was your new best friend."
Dean grimaced.
"What?" said Sam, laughing.
"It's just, working with him…" Dean made a vague gesture. "Kinda feels like working with Crowley, y'know?"
"What, because of the accent?" said Sam, "That's racist."
Dean snorted. "Shut up."
Sam snickered. "Jerk."
"Bit—ahem." Dean cleared his throat, cutting himself off at the last second when he spotted a haughty-looking lady in pink scrubs coming down the hall toward them. Even though he was sure he caught himself in time, she was definitely giving them the stinkeye. Naturally, Dean glared back as she passed, but then she didn't pass. She stopped at the door.
"Hey!" Dean barked.
"Excuse me?"
"Um," said Sam, gesturing at Dean to calm the hell down, "There's a doctor meeting with a patient in there."
"I know," Pink Scrubs said, "I work here."
"But I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be like, a private—"
"Sam…" said Dean. A couple more people were approaching, two men who looked like they also worked at the hospital, but Dean didn't think they were doing their jobs right now. They walked purposefully, eyes trained on the Winchesters. One pulled out a knife, smiling.
Sam spared a split-second glance at the men and returned his attention to Pink Scrubs's face just in time to watch her eyes turn black.
"Yeah, okay," Sam muttered, drawing his own blade. Dean belted Pink Scrubs in the mouth.
"Whole thing was starting to feel too easy anyway," he said, shaking out his hand.
oOo
Hoover had a mess on his hands.
He'd expected Constantine to have something up his sleeve, but he thought it'd be something a big box of assorted monsters could handle. A mass exorcism for the demons, maybe, or some kind of magic superweapon—those always had a few species exceptions, and Hoover had selected for diversity when putting together his team. This was… well, a mess.
Maybe he should've gotten worried when he pulled out the blade. The way it glowed and sizzled whenever it took out a demon clearly marked it as magical, after all. But that didn't seem like such a big deal at first; it was hardly the only magic weapon in the room.
No, the real red flag had been him going for the blonde vampire chick first. She was the one Hoover trusted with the warded lock. The one with the key. At first Hoover thought Constantine wanted the key so he could get himself out, but no.
He was keeping everyone else in.
After tucking the key somewhere in the depths of his trenchcoat he'd gripped that magic blade of his and carved a bloody path through anyone dumb enough to not back away after seeing how fast he took down the vampire. For a few of them he didn't bother getting his weapon dirty, just grabbed them by the top of the head and cooked them from the inside out in a bright flash of light. Hoover had known in advance the guy could do "magic," but that had to be the kind of thing you sold your soul buy, didn't it? Someone's soul, anyway. He shivered, hugging his knees tighter where he sat curled up against the wall. He'd sure as hell never make the mistake of underestimating John Constantine again. He only hoped he lived long enough for that to matter.
The trenchcoat-clad menace had dispatched all his bravest victims and was cleaning up the stragglers now, chasing down and cornering the runners like some demented Benny Hill sketch. No survivors, huh? He'd heard Constantine was as cold as they came, but this was ridiculous. He just wished he knew why he was saving him for last.
Hoover didn't know why Cas put such priority on killing all the demons and monsters before they could escape. He didn't even notice he'd worked especially hard to take care of all the demons before they could smoke out and head home to Hell to gossip, but if he had he'd have never guessed why. And of course he wasn't aware that, as the only human in the room, the worst Cas would do to him was put him to sleep for a while.
Cas stowed his blade as he smote the last monster in the room—a ghoul who'd taken the form of what appeared to be a body builder for the occasion—and then he slowly made his way over to where Hoover waited. The man was visibly terrified—shaking—but he didn't bother trying to run.
"H—how," Hoover gasped as Cas drew close, "How did you do all that? What are you?"
Castiel stood over him and paused. He tilted his head and got a distant look in his eyes, as if trying to remember something. At last it came to him.
"I'm a nasty piece of work. Ask anyone."
