Chapter Text
Jesse Custer was not one to panic. He was often faced with things that would make an average man shit their pants, but him? No, he took it like a champ because that's what he was taught to do. From a young age, he learned that life had an awful way of kicking someone in the balls. Hell, there was even a saying about getting curbstomped while you were already down. It kind of spelled out what to expect when it came to being alive. God gave, God took. Life liked to play Devil's Advocate.
He normally fancied himself immune, so why was he panicking now?
The sun was peeking in through the Church's windows he always said he'd clean but never did, reminding Jesse that, yes, he fucked up. He fucked up bad. Dust danced around in the light's yellow glow, almost resembling confetti on a drunken night out. God, he could go for something hard right about now. Whiskey. He'd take whiskey. Add a shot of you're a goddamn nightmare and he was good for the day.
The sun was the fucking problem or, at least, it was part of one. A big problem that nagged at the back of his brain like a tumor. Cassidy, that goddamned Cassidy, never came home after their little disagreement. According to the stories, vampires didn't stand a chance against the light. Which, looking back at it, made a lot of sense. It explained the man's odd behavior and his fashion sense.
But, it was anxiety-inducing nonetheless. If Cassidy never came home, if he hadn't found a place to take shelter, the sun would beat him fair and square. That thought was what had Jesse Custer freaking out right about now.
Hard liquor. That's what he needed. He had Ratwater, or that's what he thought it was called. Truth be told, the labels were kind of blurring at this point. He didn't care, but it wasn't really helping his nerves. Made them feel like lit fuses, itching where he couldn't scratch. He only thought of Cassidy, which was a bad thought. No good thought. He drank again until the bottle ran dry.
Where does one begin to look for an Irish vampire? They initially met in a bar, as hilarious and stereotypical as that sounded. It started with a bang, a bar fight, and some drunken conversation in a lone holding cell. Not his best moment, he'd admit, but definitely one of the more enjoyables experiences to have happened in his lifetime.
Yes, it was foolish. Yes, it shouldn't have happened. He let too many things get under his skin, but he met Cassidy. It was all in good fun, or however it was that they said that saying. After one too many shots, you tend to forget your name, let alone what philosophical bullshit you're trying to remember.
God, he was pathetic. Thinking about him like he was a friend. Not a monster. Except, he was a friend. And a monster. Both of those descriptions applied which made thinking a lot more complicated, or maybe it was just the booze. He wasn't actually sure. Probably a bit of both.
Jesse was pulling at emotional straws, and that never helped him in the past. He doubted being sentimental would help him in any way, shape, or form. Still, it was hard to stop it once it started. It bubbled up like blood from a papercut and wiping it away only smeared it, only made it more obvious.
He never thought about it before, never really thought about being weak before. It was more of an arrogance thing than anything else, but he refused to admit that sometimes things were too much. Even for him.
⛪ ⛪ ⛪
The taste of blood lingered on his tongue and on his teeth, leaving him with a high he'd come to tolerate over time. Before, it hadn't been like this. He didn't need it, didn't need to tear into someone's throat just because. He'd been normal, or about as normal as a walking disaster could be. Cassidy couldn't say that he missed his life from before, but he did miss Jesse. The feeling that was left behind in his place was almost as bitter as the flavor stuck on the roof of his mouth where his tongue couldn't reach.
He wasn't angry, or at least, he wasn't angry at Jesse. His reaction wasn't anything new. He should've expected the Preacher to act in the way he did, but he thought that maybe he'd be alright with it, seeing as how Cassidy practically spelled it out for him. No, he definitely told him numerous times what he was. He hadn't been trying to hide anything, but the man had shrugged it off as a joke. He couldn't really blame him, but he did worship a God he'd never laid eyes upon. Ironic that vampires were the thing that broke the donkey's back, or whatever the fuck.
It was okay. It was nice while it lasted, really nice actually. It wasn't his fault. Cassidy wasn't angry at him. He was pissed at himself and pissed because he was drunk, but that was a joke at this rate. He was about four bottles in, or that's what it had been when he'd been sober enough to last count. Who was keeping track? So what if there was a tallied score? It was always in good fun.
But the blurring images began to remind him of Jesse, for some fucked up reason, and he kind of wished the Preacher was here so he could suck him off. Shut him up with his lips, or something. He didn't care if Tulip was there, or if she wasn't there. He'd almost forgotten her if he was being honest. Brutal, yeah. He was good at driving the knife in. Except now, he was driving the knife into himself and giving it a little extra twist for safe measure.
Ratwater burned his nostrils at first, but he was far enough in that he barely noticed. Smooth, about as smooth as a baby's ass. Not smooth like Jesse's beard brushing against the skin on his jaw, prickly like a cactus. God, Cassidy was pathetic, but the feeling of belonging was replaced with the ice cold sensation of emptiness. He thought he might prefer belonging.
Jesse's face was on everything. It was burned on the backs of his eyelids, and he saw it every time he closed his eyes. In the pitch black, there was Jesse.
The motel room smelled like despair and cigarette smoke, both scents making Cassidy want to sneeze. It tickled at his nose, and it scratched at the back of his throat. He might as well be the one smoking a fag, except he didn't have one. He only had shitty Ratwater, which only made him think of Jesse. That only made him drink more. He was running out of things to suck on.
The curtains were closed tight enough to blot the sun out, but it didn't take a genius to tell that he was going to be stuck here for a while. He was lost, thoroughly and completely. Without the Preacher giving him a way out, he wasn't entirely sure where to go. They were somewhere in the shit-eating country of Texas, but where was he supposed to go now? How far was the next destination? Would he make it before the sun next came up?
Sure, he could steal a car, but that would raise unnecessary alarm, and he wasn't the greatest of drivers. He doubted he'd make it that far with the amount of liquor running through his veins. He'd bleed the stuff, like Jesus with his wine blood.
Wine was disgusting, at least he'd taste better.
Fuck. Jesus made him think of Jesse too. The man on his knees, praying, and the thought made Cassidy hard. He wanted Jesse, badly, but the Preacher made it transparent. He didn't want Cassidy anywhere near him. He was damned, heading to Hell, blah blah. The typical holy talk he'd heard before. He thought it would be different this time, but it wasn't. He shouldn't be surprised, but he is which is even more surprising. An endless loop of surprise and unease.