Preacher Fic: Jesse Custer: All You can Eat Buffet
Summary: Based off a prompt from a wonderful anon who gave me this:
“119 years old and Cassidy was starin' after that preacher with hearts in his eyes like that poofy-haired fucker from Twilight. He'd even felt a pang at the line about that blank faced chit being his brand of heroin. The thought of doin' lines off Jesse's chest, feelin' the muscles in his stomach quiver… Ah, but goddamn he's fallen so hard and fast into this addiction. Cassidy could sooner go sunbathing than pry his eyes off Jesse”
It turned into a feeding fic.
Fandom: Preacher (TV series)
Words: 2,738
Warnings: Language, blood, bodily harm, my stupid attempts at smut because people asked
Pairings: Jesse/Cass
Where to Read it: Below the cut or on AO3
A/N: Three things you should know about this fic. 1. I worked all the lines from the prompt into the story, so those are obviously not mine (hope that was okay, anon!). 2. I couldn’t come up with a title so you get shitty jokes. 3. I finished this on a plane and the old lady sitting next to me/reading over my shoulder glared for like an hour so yeah, that was fun. :p
Enjoy! <3
Jesse Custer: All You Can Eat Buffet
Back at it again with the drinking and the pews.
One-hundred and nineteen years old and Cassidy was staring after that preacher with hearts in his eyes, like that poofy-haired fucker from Twilight. He’d watched the film the second it came out, feet up on the seat in front of him, two popcorns and a soda in his lap, laughing uproariously as all the tweens sent him icy death glares. Cass was honestly sorry— he could still remember his own idols of youth—but the fact that anyone could take this shit seriously too damn absurd for words. Bad enough the old authors had made him into a water-fearing, cross-phobic sissy, but now they were gonna make him sparkle too?
“Sure sure,” he’d said, throwing popcorn at the screen. “Only sparkle you’re gettin’ is when I piss all over this here shite!” Cass has been escorted out of the movie after that.
Only good things coming out of that film were the werewolves (accurate: Cass had always thought they were a wooden, pretentious bunch), and... well, he had felt a pang at the line about that blank-faced chit being Poofy-Hair’s brand of heroin. The funny thing was, Cass hadn’t known why he was feeling that pang at the time. He certainly didn’t have lovers lining out the door.
Yet two weeks later Cass had rigged himself a private entertaining gig, took a group of what seemed like nice blokes up in an airplane, had to defend himself like a real vampire, jumped 30,000 feet, and damn near landed smack on top of one Reverend Jesse Custer.
Least that’s how it felt sometimes. Because that pang? I was a damn throb now.
Heroin huh. The thought of doin’ lines off Jesse’s chest, feelin’ the muscles of his stomach quiver… Ah, but goddamn he’s fallen hard and fast into this addiction. Cassidy could sooner go sunbathing than pry his eyes off Jesse. Yet strangely enough, seemed like Jesse was thinking the same.
Preacher was staring.
“Wha?” Cass asked. “Hoggin’ the bottle, am I?”
“Nah.” Jesse waved it away, an odd gesture in and of itself. “It’s just... Fuck, Cass. You’re a vampire.”
Cass froze. “Yeh... thought we’d covered that, padre.” He barely mustered up a grin because shite, he’d had this conversation one too many times before. And, Cass would like to add, they never once turned out right and dandy. The words “you’re a vampire” infused with anything resembling belief tended to proceed screaming, crying, shooting, Hail Mary’s, and on one memorable occasion a call to the local exorcist.
He eyed Jesse and his big arms a tad warily.
Still, Cass had a stupid impulse in that moment to quote “Say it out loud” to him, even though Jesse had already said it, he just needed Jesse to say something else because it was quiet, so fucking quiet, why the hell was this guy so quiet?
Just staring at him.
“Uh... padre?”
Jesse waved again, which might have been reassuring. Cass hadn’t decided yet.
“I’m not breaking out the holy water, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.
“No.” Yeah. “That shite doesn’t do nothin’ anyway.” Why was he telling him this?
“Really?”
“Ya.”
“Huh. No, I was just wondering why you were drinking whiskey instead of blood.”
Well shite.
Lots of decent answers to that. Cass liked whiskey for one thing. Didn’t want to dig into Jesse’s flock for another. Literal flock wasn’t much good either. The living would never know it, but blood had real taste to it, and with taste came preference. Sheep were fine and all if you were starving, but not something Cass wanted to subside on permanently. Horses were too damn conspicuous, goats were mean, pigs... fuck now, you seen the slop they ate? Point was Cass had been on a damn strict diet since he got here and he didn’t appreciate Jesse bringing it up.
... except he did because he appreciated everything Jesse did, the handsome fucker.
Cass was about to lead with that—maybe leaving out the “handsome” part—when Jesse beat him to it, leaning forward until his body curved towards Cass, their knees nearly touching. Before Cass could so much as blink that preacher man was tearing down his shirt, collar and all, leaving his neck bare and vulnerable for the taking.
“You can have some, you know,” Jesse said, like he was offering a cigarette as opposed to his freaking artery. “Figure you must have pretty good control by now, hmm? No more than what I’d give to the Red Cross, alright?” and the bastard winked.
Now, one couldn’t exactly blush without a proper circulatory system, yet Cass would have sworn on his Irish heart that his face heated tomato red in that moment. A bloody Grade A Charlie Brown blush.
“Don’t know what you’re offering,” he muttered.
“Don’t I?”
“No, ya don’t,” and this time it came out a snap. First he’d ever thrown at Jesse Custer and Cass hoped to hell it was the last. “You think I can just stop once I get the juices and like flowin’, huh?”
“I do.”
“And what if I can’t?”
“Then I’d command you to stop.”
Cass drew in a sort of trembling breath, because that there was definitely an option. Too picture perfect for words, so far as he was concerned, because hell, Cass didn’t need any justifications. Jesse might be offering, and it might be damn sweet, but Cass hadn’t had any drugs since he’d set foot in this town and he didn’t plan on starting now.
Heroin was a might bit strong after a dry spell. Metaphorically speaking.
Cass leaned forward as well, hoping that helped with the emphasis and all. “You’re not hearin’ me, padre, really you’re not. I’m no Dracula. No, no... Eddie?”
“Edward.” Jesse’s lips twitched.
“I’m gonna pretend you didn’ know that—no, not Edward either. I look like I’ve got fangs to you?” Cass cranked open his mouth, letting Jesse get a good look all the way back to his molars. “It’s a nice fantasy, sure, piercin’ and drinkin’ like outta a sippy cup, but it just ain’t the truth. I gotta tear into the lil’ wankers’ flesh. I gotta goddamn rip their throats out.”
Cass was hoping to scare Jesse off from the idea. Not that it wasn’t true, but he could chomp down without tearing, lap up little bits as the blood bubbled up... and Cass shut his mind down right there, because no way was he picturing his preacher shirtless, a whole litany of marks covering his chest and back. Cass’ mouth was stupidly flexible and that image wasn’t doing anyone anything, except maybe driving him up the proverbial wall. He sat back, doing his bally best to appear firm.
“A whole bite or nothin’,” Cass emphasized.
He was expecting Jesse to beat it after that. Best case scenario—because lets be real, man had morals of steel—was that Jessee nodded kindly, letting Cass know that they were still buds, provided they never spoke of this again. Maybe he’d get a nice lecture on not eating any of the neighbors, least that Jesse knew, and that was well and truly becoming a problem because Cass would need to feed sometime. Sometime soon.
What was it Edward had called it? Being a vegetarian? Yuck. Didn’t fly for the living and not for the undead either, far as Cass was concerned.
He was still thinking about that stupid movie (“How long you been nineteen, Cass?”) when a warm press against his thigh made him jump. Jesse had moved to sit beside him, one hand actually dangling on Cass’ knee. If they were talking drugs this was some strange one that paralyzed you. Cass kept waiting for the kick.
“That all you’re concerned about?” Jesse said, nice and soft. “Hurting me? I can take my fair share of pain, Cass, you know that, but even if you don’t wanna... I don’t know, maim me or something, there are other ways.”
Cass blinked. “Wha?”
“You’re an idiot,” and with a final pat Jesse rose to his feet. In moments he was out the church doors, raising a single finger to tell Cass to wait.
... the fuck?
Still, Cass wasn’t nothing if not loyal, at least to Jesse, so he stayed put, squirming and letting out a curse here and there. It was like a drug, because though Cass was feeling horny and nervous and a bit on the guilty side, the only thing coming through was hunger. That sickly ache that started in his stomach before rushing through the rest of him—tightening his muscles and making his gums ache like a dog in need of a bone. Cass ran his tongue over his teeth, still waiting.
When Jesse did come back it was with a wine glass and a goddamn knife. He twirled the weapon expertly. Cass stared.
“Seriously now,” he said. “The fuck?”
“This,” Jesse said and drew the knife across his arm.
Stupid. What a goddamn stupid wanker—at least that’s was Cass would have been thinking if his mind wasn’t overrun by the smell of blood, overpowering before it even broke through Jesse’s skin. He normally had better self control than this, would have if he’d bothered to eat at all the last week, but as it was Cass was out of the pew in a single second, barely keeping himself from lunging on Jesse then and there. One hand gripped the pew to anchor himself, the other acted as a surrogate, Cass’ teeth biting down into his own flesh.
Cass snarled around it, instincts getting the better of him. If he’d been in a better state of mind he might have noticed Jesse’s expression, notably that it lacked any of the expected fear. There were nerves there, but that stemmed solely from the gorgeous rush that accompanied danger, the thrill of beginning something new. More than that, Cass would have picked up on the fondness there, just a layer beneath and, if he’d have believed it, that would have been confirmation that he wasn’t the only one with damn hearts in his eyes.
“Easy, partner,” Jesse said, and smiled.
Blood was coating his arm now. Coming back to himself, Jesse tilted so that the majority of it ran into the glass, filling it, then scraped off the top like it was some kind of specialty beer. Jesse was smart enough not to wait. He thrust the glass out and Cass snatched it, taking a bite out of the edge in his hurry to gulp it all down. He swallowed the glass shards as well as the blood, hissing when he ran out too soon.
It coated his mouth, his chin, riveting down to his neck. In desperation Cass swiped his fingers inside, sucking them off before going back for more. When the glass contained nothing but smears Cass snapped the stem and tossed it aside. Its shatter sounded obscenely loud in the church.
“Hot damn,” Jesse whispered. “So much for my attempts at sophistication.”
“… Yeah.” Cass scratched at the back of his neck. “Uh… more please?”
“Sure thing, Twist.”
Jesse extended his arm this time and lucky for him that first batch had taken the edge off. Still, Cass hesitated, Jesse’s arm suddenly held in his hands like a rib he was about to go to town on.”
“Sure, padre?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just don’t bite,” and underneath Jesse’s words was that hint of power, the threat of it. Cass nodded.
Hunter partially sated, Cass was able to really taste this time and he groaned aloud as his mouth closed over the wound. He always knew Jesse would be sweet, but holy hell, Cass had never tasted anything like this.
He was literally sweet, almost sickly so, but beneath that initial layer there was tartness, sour, the heavy aftertaste of meat. These were somehow separate from and equally a part of Jesse, whatever it was within him tasting like everything at once. Cass didn’t realize he was sucking hard at the wound until Jesse let out a hiss of protest. He backed off, just a little.
Cass turned his attention to the blood drying on his forearm instead. He moved through the dark hair, licking Jesse clean.
“Shit,” Jesse said as he fell back into the pew. Cass didn’t mind. Easier access. He sank to his knees between Jesse’s legs, a whine emerging when his little blood fountain began to run dry.
Cass felt him laugh then, a reverberation that passed from Jesse into him. “No more until you clean up your mess,” he said, sounding strained, and at first Cass didn’t understand. Then Jesse pointed to the smears of blood that had gotten onto his legs.
Cass spared him a toothy grin before sliding out—hands and knees—and attacking the stains with gusto. It was an odd combination, blood and jeans, but definitely one that Cass could get used to. He attached himself to the inside of Jesse’s thigh and sucked, grinning again when Jesse cursed and grabbed a fistful of hair. Cass let him—he was a little preoccupied with tonguing his way up higher.
It was only when Cass reached his destination that he noticed the bulge, honestly surprised. Cass looked up at Jesse and gapped: the preacher’s head thrown back over the pew, muttering something indistinct at the ceiling. Cass really felt Jesse’s hand then, trembling in his hair, the other gripping wood so hard it creaked, his hips making minute thrusts forward.
Cass wanted this, Jesus did he ever, but right now he was still focused on the food. If this was all Jesse ever gave him than damn, he was one lucky fucking vamp.
So he took a mental picture—something to last when the real thing was gone.
“Sure?” Cass asked again, more to be a tease than anything else. He yelped when Jesse boxed him over the ear.
“You stop now, you little shit, and I swear—”
Cass’ body flooded with adrenaline, manic, unsure of what to do in the face of that power with no clear command. Only sane thing then was to get back to work.
Like a cat Cass smeared the remaining blood from his face onto Jesse, then began mouthing at his dick through the jeans. Slow and tantalizing… just ‘cause Cass was an ass like that. Still, it didn’t take long, and Cass was more than egged on by the whimpers he was squeezing out of Jesse.
Like a bunny in a bear trap. Happy goddamn bunny.
Then it finished all at once. By the time Cass was tonguing bits of blood from between the teeth of his zipper, Jesse came with a howled curse, cum soaking the fabric pressed tight to Cass’ face.
And fuck if that wasn’t good for him too. Only thing that could possibly compare to the hot rush of blood.
“C’mere,” Jesse growled. He hauled Cass up by his shirt, bringing their mouths together in a clash of teeth—bruising just the way Cass liked it. Only two seconds later though and Jesse was pulling away, spitting and laughing his fool head off.
“You’re a mad one,” Cass said, sort of hating how fond he sounded.
“You’re nasty. Shit, Cass, that tastes awful.” Jesse wiped some blood off his chin.
“Yep. Definitely mad. Taste like fuckin’ heroin, you do.”
“Heroin?”
“It’s… it’s a bloody metaphor, okay?”
“What? Like those two kids with cancer? Can’t handle a real drag?”
“No! Christ how do you even know this shite?”
Jesse laughed again, muttering something about Tulip and old indulgences. Just as quick though his hand was under Cass’ chin, lifting it with too much concern.
“You good?” Jesse asked, gaze dropping low.
“Yeah.”
“Still hungry?’
“… yeah.”
Jesse smiled. Stupid fucker smiled while handing him the knife, saying only, “Dessert?”
It was in a rather bewildered state that Cass took it, because really, poof-haired Edward had nothing on what Cass got.
Jesse plucked at his jeans with a grimace, but laid down readily enough on the pew. Cass crawled on top. Ass planted in the damn wet patch he stared down at this man, willingly vulnerable for him, hands out in a what are you waitin’ for? pose.
“Just be careful.”
“Ay,” Cass said, raising the knife. “I’m always careful with you, love.”
ah but have you thought a little something
you know the phrase “he looked at him like he was the sun” and all the variations of it
yeah well normally you look at the sun and you go all squinty-eyed and stuff and that sentence is a bit comical but also i want to bring to your mind………… have you considered….. how cassidy looks at the sun
you know because he looks at it like he’s all he’s ever wanted in life??? because he just wants to walk in the sun again and yet he can’t and there’s a mixture of frustration and longing and want and melancholy and?????? yeah and so
if he looks at jesse like he’s the sun……….. suddendly not so comical anymore is it
Summary: Based off a prompt from the lovely @logicalbookthief: “What about something where a few of Cassidy's enemies DO catch up to him, see how cozy he is with Jesse, and try to use him to lure Cass into their clutches?”
Fandom: Preacher (TV series)
Words: 3,014
Warnings: Language, gore, blood, murder
Pairings: Jesse/Cass
Where to Read it: Below the cut or on AO3
A/N: Hope you enjoy this @logicalbookthief - thanks so much for the prompt! <3
An Echo of Love
Wasn’t too often that someone stumbled upon the small town of Annville, Texas. It was the sort of place you either knew about or you didn’t, and if you did know you were likely to try and get the hell out of dodge. Strangers weren’t the norm and those who arrived were quick to leave. Jesse knew all this. So the six random guys in slacks and polo shirts really should have tipped him off.
Seriously. No one good ever dressed like that.
“Howdy, boys,” Jesse said. He’d been busy changing a burst tire a few miles out from the church, enjoying the solitude of the lonely road. He had dirt in his nails and a few streaks of grease across his forearms. Probably didn’t look like a normal preacher with his knees down in the mud (yet wasn’t that where they were meant to be?) so Jesse raised a friendly hand along with his greeting.
The men didn’t wave back.
The sun was still blocking a lot of his view, but Jesse saw that his initial assessment had been a bit harsh. Only four wore polo shirts, the others were in white T’s the said things like “Live By Faith” and “The Power of God: Sin and He Shall Smite You.” Blunt, but not necessarily wrong.
They were probably on some sort of pilgrimage or something—the type you took by hopping bar to bar and then telling your neighbors how ‘enlightened’ you’d become. Not that Jesse was gonna judge. He actually wondered if they’d taken a vow of silence when they still didn’t say a thing, just marching along the road in perfect synch.
Jesse stood, brushing dust off his knees.
“You lot lost?” he asked, trying to peer around the sun. “I’m this here town’s preacher--” a gesture towards the collar, “and can point you wherever you need to go. Or you’re welcome to stay the night. Hell knows the Toadvine could do with some more occupants, if you don’t mind the ladies...”
Jesse thought he might have offended them, what with the looks going around, but they still kept quiet. The seven of them couldn’t have been more than a few yards away now and Jesse got a cold feeling down in his gut, the kind that normally spelled trouble for him or the one on the receiving end of his fist... but before he could start teasing that feeling out, one of them stepped forward.
Mr. Crewcut. His polo was dark blue, his tan slacks impossibly pressed, and Jesse’s first thought was that this was the most unthreatening man he’d ever seen.
Fool him once...
The man was so close that Jesse could see his face now: harder than he would have imagined, yet oddly indifferent too. The guy wet his lips and said,
“Are you ‘padre’?”
Jesse squinted. He leaned back just a bit, looking the man up and down. “Yeah... bud named Cass sometimes calls me that, but—”
Another step and Jesse was in the perfect position then. His eyes caught a glint to the side of the group, a flat line of nails that were just in the right spot to blow his front right wheel. At the same moment that cold feeling exploded with Jesse, his eyes started picking up the bulge of weapons in the back and sides of their slacks, the mean look in their eyes, but by then it was too late. When he looked back there was already a fist plunging into the left side of his face—tender cheek pressed into hard enamel. Jesse honestly never would have expected this guy to have such a hook.
Jesse kept his feet though, already swallowing the blood and tightening his core, but within the next second his vision went—a seventh man coming up from behind with a bag. Jesse was pulled backwards and used that as leverage, kicking his feet out and feeling them connect with Mr. Crewcut. The gasp of pain and shift of ribs was mighty satisfying.
Nothing else after that was though. Jesse was good, real good, but blind and pinned even he couldn’t do much against seven other men. Amidst his kicks, snarls, and cursing he made a promise in the back of his mind to stop the whole ‘judging a book by its cover’ thing.
Or in this case, judging assholes by their shirts.
Someone wrenched his wrist backwards, another slammed what felt like a slab of wood against the back of his knees. There were hands in Jesse’s hair, feet on his thighs, an elbow to his chest, the butt of a gun underneath his chin. Jesse got in one last good kick before that wood connected with his head.
No longer blinded: spots bright as galaxies erupted behind Jesse’s eyes. He didn’t immediately pass out--his head was made of harder stuff than that--but he did fall the rest of the way, his cheek burning against the pavement. It was in this moment that something within Jesse told him to speak, call out and command them to let him go... but when he opened his mouth nothing came out but an unintelligible groan. Jesse thought he felt the presence of Mr. Crewcut up above him.
“Padre,” he intoned, like it was a title. “Thank you.”
Jesse heard the ‘whoosh’ of wood through air and felt, just for a moment, it splintering against his skull.
Then everything went black.
***
When Jesse woke up he had a headache the size of his home state and a throat as dry as his humor. The former wouldn’t have been too much of an issue if it was his normal ‘chugged-the-whole-bottle’ headache, or even the ‘Emily-reamed-me-something-good-the-night-before’ kind, but no. This was a pain he hadn’t experienced since his early fighting days, when people still had the chance to kick his ass. Jesse wanted revenge just as much as he wanted an Advil.
He had to settle for a curse instead.
Opening his eyes Jesse immediately recognized the Parkers’ barn, recently vacated when the couple went off to see their little girl graduate, one of the few in Annville to get an education out of state. Mr. Lobren was tending the animals sunup and sundown, but apparently wasn’t available right now. Either that, or the assholes who’d clocked Jesse had roughed him up too.
“Sure hope not,” Jesse muttered. “I’m a selfish bastard who wants these guys all to myself.”
Confident words, but Jesse realized quickly that he was well and truly stuck. They’d strung him up to the bottom of the tack wall, coarse rope tied tight to a protruding ring. If gave Jesse just enough leeway to get into a squat, but not much else. Too tight to slide out of. Not a position that let him reach anything with his boots. With a grunt Jesse tried to pull the damn thing right out of the wall, but the Parkers’ craftsmanship was having none of that.
He collapsed back into the straw, panting. Not the worst beating he’d ever gotten, but Jesse was sure he had a broken rib or two. Maybe a sprained wrist... no doubt a fucking rainbow of bruises. The worst was still his head though, pounding away like the stomping of hoofbeats.
Jesse sent a glare at the horse doing just that. “Quit it,” he growled. The colt immediately stopped.
Might have spent some time thinking on that odd coincidence if a man hadn’t stepped out just then, filling the barn’s entrance. Jesse recognized Mr. Crewcut, looking as stoic and indifferent as ever. He walked forward, careful in his step around the messy floor, stopped, and smoothed that polo down flat. Jesse felt a petty thrill at the smear of grime he’d left on the shoulder.
“You know,” he drawled, tasting dried blood in the back of his mouth. “This isn’t very Christian of you.” He nodded at the guy in the “Sin and He Shall Smite You” shirt as he came in next.
Mr. Crewcut kept silent. The other guy was dragging in a huge chest, followed by the other five with varying containers of their own. Behind them the sun was just beginning to set and Jesse felt a surge of rage that they’d knocked him out for four goddamn hours. Jesse nursed that rage, inflamed it... right up until he saw Goon #5 draw out a fucking crossbow. Then a spear, something with way too many spikes... his mind moved on to trying to figure out who the hell he’d pissed off enough to warrant medieval torture.
The fact that the list was extensive didn’t reassure Jesse.
“Well shit,” he said.
“Not to worry,” Mr. Crewcut said and Jesse jumped at that soft voice. It was like a robot programmed to mimic emotion, without any of the genuine article. “We don’t want to hurt you...Padre. Not if it can be avoided.”
Jesse licked his lips. “That so?”
“Yes. We are here doing the Lord’s work. You are a man of God. We would prefer to avoid your sacrifice. So long as you help us to smite the abomination, you shall go free.”
Jesse stared. He’d seen a lot of fucked up shit in his time. People off on drugs or desperation or revenge, willing to do things that would make your head spin ‘till it couldn’t ever get back on straight. This guy though? He was like something out of a King novel--all the appearance of normalcy, but with something truly rotten inside. Jesse reared back from it, pulling his lips up in a snarl that didn’t feel human.
“Listen, my son,” Jesse spit. “I don’t know what fucking Kool Aid you and your pals have been drinking, but if you think for one goddamn second--”
He stopped. They all did.
There was something in the air.
A blanket of clouds swept over the barn and in the same moment the sun sank away, leaving them in near total darkness. The colt, still since Jesse’s order, suddenly sprang to life, letting out a shriek and skidding into the very back of his stall. Jesse was honed in on the pale oval of his captor’s face, shining out, until he realized that his eyes were trembling, staring at something far to his left. Jesse followed the gaze with an icy feeling real down deep in his stomach.
There was an eighth man, standing in the barn’s entrance, letting out a sound more snarl than growl. Jesse had the briefest moment of familiarity before Mr. Crewcut’s hand cut through the air, a general issuing his order.
“Now!” He shrieked. It was the first and only emotion Jesse heard from him.
Weapons flew--the twang of bows and the slice of knives. Whatever was in the doorway came at it head on. Even if Jesse had the time to watch the thing fight, he wouldn’t have recognized the style. No easy, loose-limbed teasing. No sharp, targeted jabs. This was the wild slaughter of a predator vs. prey, and Jesse knew who’d always come out on top. The barn filled with the smell of blood.
He wasted no time. When Goon #3 fell near his legs (a chunk of his face missing, an arm torn away, the “Live by Faith” lettering stained brown in the darkness) Jesse turned his sprained wrist into a broken one, wrenching it so he had just enough leverage to slip that hand through. His howl of pain was lost amongst the screams... except maybe not, because later Jesse would have sworn the bloodshed doubled in intensity then. He couldn’t think about it. Not yet. He grabbed the spear the Goon had dropped and flipped it with his legs, guiding the point with his limp hand just enough to slash through the rest of the rope.
Free. A man was shrieking louder than the horse. Another gurgled, impaled on a saddle stand. Jesse tried to wash some of the red from his mind as he stood, wobbling towards the exit.
He made it three steps before a hand grabbed at his hair. Jesse made to turn and throw a punch--wrist or no wrist--when the familiar edge of a knife pressed hard against his windpipe.
“This is for the best,” Mr. Crewcut said and Jesse swallowed bile. When he did he realized the bastard wasn’t talking to him.
The creature still stood framed against the Texas night, surrounded by bodies now, many of them in pieces. It heaved, hands rising with each breath like it wanted nothing more than to reach up and shred them both. Jesse had another moment of recognition when light flared in his face. Damn Crewcut had a blowtorch held in the hand not wielding the knife. Jesse winced, bucking against the heat, and when he opened his eyes again a friend was standing before him.
“Cass?” he said, only to be cut off by a sharpened edge.
It was Cass alright. Bloodied from head to toe and with a wide-eyed look the likes of which Jesse had never seen. He trembled so hard he swayed. His nails had been torn from their beds. When Cass spoke Jesse saw bits of people stuck in his teeth.
“You let him go now,” he said. Cass’ voice held a tremor of something desperate. Maybe fear--the kind you never quite came back from. Jesse felt Crewcut shake his head.
“You’ve existed too long,” he whispered, breath putrid on Jesse’s neck. “I knew, knew that my men would need to be sacrificed. That blood would need to spill to... to rid the Earth of you... to cleanse. But we’re here now. No one else need die except one.”
Crewcut shook Jesse and Cass made a move forward, face twisting. The blowtorch fended him off though.
“I understand,” Crewcut said. “The Lord has given us an advantage in our weakness. He planted an echo of love within you, led us to this preacher as leverage,” another shake. “Take the fire, creature. Burn yourself and I’ll let him live. You can still die human.”
Jesse met Cass’ eyes then. They were pinpricks of black, bulging in their sockets, but they reflected the same understanding Jesse could feel welling up in his own. They didn’t speak, didn’t nod, but they knew all the same.
“You have a choice--!” Crewcut cried and when he did his grip slackened just a bit. It wasn’t much, but it was all Jesse would get, so he dropped low, ignoring the fire of the blade scraping along his neck.
By the time he landed Cass was on him. Jesse choked to the sound of Crewcut being eaten alive.
***
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--”
It was the mantra Cass stuck to as he pressed down on Jesse’s neck, hard enough that he might still suffocate him, and wouldn’t that just be hilarious? That stupid trick had left a scattering of cuts between Jesse’s chin and adam’s apple and holy shit they hurt like a bitch.
Jesse was flat on his back and his whole body jerked when Cass bent to start lapping at his neck--long strokes across the wounds, scratchy like a cat’s tongue. Jesse catalogue the feeling in shock before roughly shoving at him. It came out as more of a love tap. Shit he was spent.
“The hell you doin’, Cass?” he groaned.
Cass pulled back just a bit, eyes fever-bright and right above him. “Coagulant in me saliva,” he huffed, voice sounding strained. “Ant-coagulant too ‘course, wanna keep it flowin’ when it comes, but I...I can stop it too so I can... c-can...”
“Save em’ for later?” Jesse finished.
Cass stared. “Yeh.” Then, seemingly not able to look at him anymore, he went right back to lapping at Jesse’s throat. Jesse let him. He felt like he’d gone through a goddamn meat grinder, woozy to boot... yet oddly giddy too. Jesse’s head lolled to the side as he let out a weak laugh.
“Aw shite you’re goin’ into shock,” Cass moaned.
“No, no, just... you’re actually a vampire.”
The suction against his neck stopped. Jesse nearly groaned as two blood-soaked hands pressed hard into his chest. They shook.
“Not how I wanted you believn’ me, padre.”
“... Yeah.”
The moment was broken. Cass was back at it again, hands fluttering like a nervous housewife’s between his neck, wrist, ribs, thigh... and Jesse was damn near sick of it. He tried swatting at him once more, but Cass was far too strong. Now at least he knew why.
“Cass, that’s enough.”
“--bloody, fucking bastards I swear, padre, really, I didn’ know--”
“Cass.”
“--promised you no trouble and look at this why the fuck don’t ya--”
“Cass stop.”
Jesse gasped because he did--Cass stilling into stone above him. The voice that had just emerged... it didn’t sound like Jesse’s... but if felt like his. Or maybe like something that could become his in time.
“Lie down.”
Cass dropped directly beside him. When he turned his head Jesse saw the same amazement reflected in Cass’ eyes, and thankfully none of the fear. Cass would never accept that though--that his existence was anything as fascinating, as exciting, as whatever was pouring out of Jesse’s mouth--so Jesse gave the only order he could think of to help.
“Relax.”
“Shite,” Cass whispered, his body melting into the dirt. Bloodstained fingers curled towards his palms.
They stayed like that a long time. Until the Parkers’ colt finally stopped heaving; until they became used to the heavy scent of blood. It was a few moments after this that Jesse slipped his hand into Cass’.
He stared fixedly up at the barn’s ceiling. “We good then?” he asked.
“...Ay.” It if were possible, Cass’ arm relaxed even more. “We’re good, padre.”
“Great. ‘Cause we’ve got a hell of a cleanup before the Parkers’ get home.”
There was nothing like the laugh that came right after a fight. Jesse had heard plenty.
consider how cassidy has probably witnessed the deaths of every single person he's ever been close to and by now he should be tired of that shit but he just can't help caring for jesse and it fucking hurts like a bitch
It took 3 episodes 3.Fucking.Episodes. to get me completely into Jessidy / Cussidy ( what is the ship name? ) Hell. I can feel the angst the fluff the smut the crack the domestic all of it in 3.Fucking.Episodes.
