"Oh, that's real nice of him to say." John sneered. He didn't want to think about anything his father had said which he could remember. Or anything his adopted father had said, either for that matter.

He watched with moderately impressed awe. Someone with such proficiency in magic was rare to meet, and even rarer to see using it with reckless abandon. He liked the guy's style.

Then the cans started spitting out. John had to sidestep the first one, which clattered across the floor and hit the corner of a table leg and exploded open, spinning itself across the floor. John didn't bother watching that, he just crouched and started catching them quickly enough, setting them on the floor just as fast as he caught them one handed at a time. "All right, all right," he told Constantine, "Y'can stop, I wanted a can of it, not a case."

He dropped back onto his ass and continued to catch the cans as they started spitting out, suddenly weirdly dizzy. Right. Drunk. Forgot.

"Y'know, I just thought'a somethin'," he said, "if we do enough of this, y'think the place'll let us free, or just try'n kill us?"