Hell, forever being torn apart by the blazing wind and the darkly-burning fires, forever being destroyed but never to be consumed completely. The landscape shifts constantly, like something alive and restless. Something waiting to be awoken. Dust and ash fills the air, some still smouldering and alight as it grazes against his face. The smell of decay and sulphur invades his every breath, the smoke causing his lungs to burn. Hell, filling his body a particle at a time, alienating his blood, turning him against himself, slowly destroying him. John Constantine knows this nightmare by heart now, knows exactly what waits for him.
Soldier-demons, droves of them, prowling in his peripheral vision, circling him in anticipation. None of them will touch him, not yet. This is a warning and nothing more. A reminder, as if he needed reminding.

You're dying, Constantine, and this is what waits for you. No hope, no chance of redemption, simply Hell. And that's what frightens him. Not the fires, not the demons waiting to rip his soul to shreds over and over, but the hopelessness. The undeniable inevitability. Nothing he does, or will ever do, will ever be enough to change his fate.
It's the realisation that hurts, that causes him to jolt back into his body, awake and gasping for air. Though he knows it and knows it well, it never ceases to hurt. And probably never will.
He awakens yet again, his breath and the taste of his own blood catching in his throat, the ghost of Hell still clinging to his skin.


Short, short, short, I know, but I wanted to get something out for this. It's probably not that good, but I'd really, really appreciate some feedback. Thanks for reading! :)