"Huh." He's got a pocket watch of his own, attached to his vest, but it's stopped running since the ocean got into it. He doesn't have the tools to pry it open to dry it out and fix it, so he's fully expecting the rust to have already started setting into the cogs and other delicate parts.

"Son, you need a smoke." There's no use hollering at dark corners, all they're going to do is holler back. Sure, Doc's got a bit of a temper on him sometimes, but he doesn't always say what he means. Constantine on the other hand, seems to be a beast of his own.

"Or a full bottle of whiskey. Though we might need to make some, at this rate." Doc tilts his head and breathes out a sigh. "You know, we was talking about making some moonshine." But it's been over a century since Doc has tried and he's sure methods have changed since then. 21st century stomachs aren't likely made to be able to handle 19th century homebrews.