Chapter Text
Cas whirled out of the way of the projectile fireball, his long coat trailing behind him as he ducked behind the crate. The wooden container quickly ignited under the onslaught of fire, and all too soon flames were licking as Cas' beloved trench coat.
His situation was dire, the roaring inferno seemed impervious to any normal counter-measure like water, and the flames only seemed to be getting bigger as they tore through the warehouse towards him.
Just as he was preparing to bail out and leave the search for the bones of what was clearly a very angry spirit (who knew ghosts could throw fire?) he heard the familiar British drawl,
"Need some help there, feathers?"
And John Constantine in all his self-assured glory burst from God knows where, spells ready to be used and the ever present cigarette at his lips. Cas noted the fact that he too was lightly smouldering due to the ever growing fire. Not willing to stroke his ego with thanks, he quickly joined him in the centre of the warehouse (now the only flame free spot) as they prepared to fight the spirit.
They worked in a practiced rhythm that spoke of years of experience in the mystic arts and slaying demons. Spells erupted from John's very hands, golden streaks weaving into sigils that attacked the flames as they flew towards to trench-coated duo, making the balls of fiery heat wink out of existence. Every time it seemed like one got too close to either of them, the other would pull another spell or heavenly defence from their magical bag of tricks, saving them just in time.
It was exhausting and dangerous work (at least, for Constantine, it was. It turns out being an angel has its perks; stamina in battle was just one of those) but after what felt like hours, the Angel and the Hellraiser escaped the building relatively uninjured.
Collapsing onto the dry earth a good distance away from the warehouse, John sighed. What he would do to crash at the nearest hotel right now. He shifted on the ground, trying to find a comfortable place to sit, as there was a stupid lump that kept poking his butt. In frustration, he tried to pull the rock -or whatever it was- out of the ground, but it wouldn't budge. Feeling cool metal against his fingers, he studied it more closely. It was-
A handle?
He inspected the dirt surrounding it, only to see timber under the thin layer of soil.
"Huh", he breathed. It was a trap door.
John wasted no time in calling Cas over from where he was stood watching the building slowly collapse (seriously, what did that guy do for fun?) and together they grasped the handle and heaved, swinging the door up to see a small pit.
Wait, was that a body?
Cas caught on before he did, "Oh, so that's why there was a spirit back there," he intoned, his gravelly voice not giving away a tone of suprise.
Constantine didn't know how to respond to that. How could a dead guy throw fireballs? Oh well, it's not like he dealt with this kind of thing daily, he'd leave that to Castiel.
So, he stood by and watched as Cas carefully spilt salt and petroleum over the corpse and set it alight.
/Why, he wondered, isn't there a spell for this?/
The raw stench of smoke brought him out of this thoughts, and he glanced down to see his coat, which was lightly smoking in some areas, and had completely burnt through in others, especially the bottom, which now hung to his waist due to having been singed off.
"Shit."
Startled at his curse, Cas glanced over to see John studying his smouldering trench coat, a look of dismay flashing across his features for a moment. Looking down, Cas saw that his had not just been burnt a little- but had almost completely turned to ash, with just the arms and part of the back hanging off his shoulders. It seemed that they hadn't escaped the blaze unscathed after all.
Flickering his gaze back up to John's face, Cas saw that he was smirking.
Oh no, this wouldn't be good, what would he-
"Hey, Feathers! " He called over.
"We're going shopping."