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Cassidy packs up his bags and leaves.
And it’s not like he actually wants to go, no, not really, it’s just– painful . It’s a little too painful, to sit by while Jesse and Tulip play house.
The world is saved.
They don’t need each other anymore. There’s not that sense of responsibility or whatever anymore. They got in that mess together and they got out together but it’s not like it ever meant anything beyond what it was.
The world is saved.
Cassidy packs up his bags and leaves.
He doesn’t actually have anywhere to go, but that’s never stopped him before.
He’s not feeling his best, if he’s being honest.
He wants to say he’s felt worse before but he’s not all that sure about that. He thinks about Jesse and Tulip constantly, yes, mostly because they text him nonstop all day long, but–he thinks about other things, too.
About other people.
He still feels the echo of the gun where it recoiled against his palm when he shot Humperdoo. He sees flashes of Denis’ expression in that very last moment, when he realized what was going to happen. Hears his cries as well.
It’s funny, but his mind sort of decided to slot those two in the same category.
He thinks he would’ve cared after Humperdoo for the rest of his life.
Then he finds himself thinking about Eccarius, as well, and his little flock of posers. He thinks about them, and he thinks he killed them as well.
All in all, he feels like shite.
He drinks until he can’t stand up straight.
He hops in random busses at random times, no clear destination in mind.
He always ends up in identical motel rooms, propped against stained pillows in the dark, watching reruns of whatever shitty show the shitty tv in front of him has to offer. He sits and does nothing during the day. He fucks around at night, gets drunk, gets high, sleeps with whoever’s willing, drinks from whoever’s willing.
It’s all the same, day, after day, after day.
Until one day it’s not.
He’s just leaving his motel room, a fag in hand, not even lit yet.
He’s just bringing it up to his lips, searching his jacket for a lighter, when he sees it.
In the middle of the busy foyer–some sort of mix between the motel’s reception and a makeshift bar–there, a blur of black.
All black.
Black, head to toe, a mop of ridiculously voluminous hair on top of the head, bloody– cowboy boots, and that stupid collar thing–a stark white contrast.
Jesse.
Jesse Custer.
Cassidy freezes.
He panics, and he freezes, and he wonders how the hell they even found him until he remembers he does carry a cellphone with him and he’s friends with fucking criminals.
They probably tracked him down.
God knows Cassidy has no idea where he is, anyway.
And he knows it’s a they situation, here.
He just knows. Where Jesse goes, Tulip follows.
Jesse is leaning against the bar, a languid posture, relaxed, letting his elbows carry most of his weight. He’s talking to the lad behind it in low tones, no doubt sweet-talking him to get what he wants–and what he wants, Cassidy realizes, a second too late, is him.
It’s Cassidy.
He sees it happen, when the bartender lifts up a finger and points in his direction.
He sees it happen, when Jesse follows the trajectory and his eyes land on him.
At once, Cassidy snaps out of whatever spell had taken ahold of him.
He takes a step back, and another, and another, and the fag drops from his lips, and–he might drop the lighter, too, or not, he can’t bring himself to pay it any mind, and–
Jesse advances.
“Cass!” he shouts, over the noise and the people.
Cassidy turns on his heel and walks away.
He goes back from where he came from, scurrying along the motel’s hallways, going up the stairs and towards his room, hoping to get away , hoping he can lock himself inside and not face the menace that is Jesse, calling his name.
“Cass!”
“Cassidy!”
He almost makes it, mere meters away from his door.
But then–Jesse.
Always Jesse.
His hand, on Cassidy’s shoulder. “ Cass, damnit . Slow down, would you?”
Jesse grabs him, and Jesse spins him around, and suddenly Cassidy’s got his back against the wall and Jesse half an inch away from him, crowding him, making sure he won’t slip away and run or whatever.
And even though he doesn’t particularly want to, Cassidy ends up looking into Jesse’s eyes.
He’s expecting the anger, and the exasperation, the resentment, the rage . He’s expecting that feeling deep inside of him, a dam breaking, at the sight of him. He’s expecting the hurt, uncontrollable, painful, painful, painful.
What he’s not expecting is the wave of unmistakable relief that washes over him.
An ever-present ache, soothed.
Like he can finally, finally , breathe out.
He’s missed him, Cassidy realizes–and he thinks he knew that, already, in an abstract sort of way, but now he knows for sure. He’s missed Jesse Custer like a limb.
“We’ve looked for you everywhere, Cass,” Jesse says, frowning, earnest, standing way too close, his palm a heavy weight on Cassidy’s shoulder.
“Yeah, well,” Cassidy mutters, looking away.
And– yeah, well.
He suddenly feels like an arsehole.
Which is a load of horseshite, because out of the two of them he’s really not the one who ought to be feeling like an arsehole.
He swallows, stands his ground. He doesn’t even bother putting on a smile. “The idea ever occurred to you that I didn’t want to be found, eh, padre?”
Jesse doesn’t reply, doesn’t move a muscle, for a while, there.
It can’t possibly be news to him.
Cassidy has been ignoring calls, texting almost exclusively in single sentences and crude emojis. He’s not had a single conversation with Jesse since the end of the world, and even then–those little awkward exchanges hardly count in his book.
He’s been avoiding all interactions, is the thing. Hasn’t been exactly subtle about it either.
Jesse takes a breath, heavy, and visible, squeezes Cassidy’s shoulder one last time and lets his hand drop to the side, brushing his fingers in the ghost of a touch over his arm all the way down.
Cassidy shudders.
He can’t help it.
“Tulip’s worried about you, y’know,” Jesse says, softly. Like whatever he’s feeling doesn’t matter, wouldn’t change Cassidy’s mind one way or another. “She’s–she’s been going crazy, thinking that you hate her.”
And– oh , that feels like a slap, electric, untrue .
“ I don’t hate her ,” Cassidy blurts, a little louder than he intended, a barely restrained hiss. The thought is horrifying. “How can she–? I don’t–I don’t hate her, mate.”
“You don’t hate her,” Jesse echoes, awfully calm for some reason. “I know,” and Cassidy nods, and Cassidy goes to agree, and Cassidy goes to explain the mere idea that he could ever hate Tulip is revolting, but then: “You’re in love with her.”
He–freezes. Tries to step back but finds he’s already backed against the wall so there’s no place for him to run to.
He snaps his eyes shut.
For a too long moment, he imagines Jesse’s fist connecting against his jaw, against his cheekbone, his stomach. Maybe a kick to the balls and then the ribs once he’s down, because why the hell not. He imagines kick after kick after kick after kick.
He would probably deserve it.
Wouldn’t make him want to change the way things happened if he could.
When he opens his eyes back up, nothing happens.
Jesse is still standing way too close to him, an expression Cassidy can’t quite decipher softening his features. Lips parted, eyes open wide.
His eyes seem kind.
His eyes have always seemed impossibly kind, against his tough exterior.
“It’s–it’s okay,” Jesse says, at last. “I’m–it’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Cassidy starts, “Did I just hear you say you’re okay with me being in love with your girlfriend, or did I take one shot too many of turpentine last night?”
And Jesse–he pulls a face, misses the point by a mile. “You’re drinking turpentine , now?”
“I ran out drugs and money, whatever.”
He could lie and say he’s absolutely never drinking turpentine again, but it wasn’t all that bad, really. It was like a vodka speed run except his esophagus was actually burning from the inside out instead of only feeling vaguely so.
Probably would’ve killed him if he weren’t a vampire.
He takes a breath. “Just–Jesse, c’mon, mate. You can’t–you can’t say shite like that and then–”
“And then what?”
“And then–”
And then what, exactly?
Not beat him to a pulp?
Cassidy makes a vague gesture with his hands, at Jesse, at himself, at them both.
Jesse sighs, like it pains him.
He finally steps away from Cassidy’s bubble just to step right back into it, the heat of his body and the beating of his heart an overwhelming draw. “I’ve had– time , to think about it, okay?”
Cassidy blinks. “Okay?”
“I mean,” Jesse starts, choked up and awkward, almost aggressive, “I don’t– Jesus Christ , I–I talked to Tulip, and I guess I–she talked some sense into me, right? She said–she said to pull my head out of my ass and think for a second, so I did.”
“Congratulations, padre. Didn’t think you had it in you now.”
“Shut up.”
Cassidy shuts up.
“What I’m trying to say is–” and Jesse frowns, and he fixes his eyes on some random spot next to Cassidy’s head, and his fingers flutter, clutching into loose fists. He's looking for the right word. He finds it: “– I’m glad. ”
And now, now –Cassidy’s lost the plot.
He crosses his arms over his chest, leans back against the wall and lifts up an eyebrow. “You’re glad I slept with your girlfriend?”
“No! I–”
“What?”
“I’m–I’m glad you love her, okay? Tulip deserves all the goddamned love she can get, and I don’t give a shit if you slept with her if it means there’s one more person in our miserable existence that loves her and understands she’s the best fucking thing that has ever graced this earth.”
Cassidy stands perfectly still.
He looks at Jesse, and he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for or how to find it.
He is in love with Tulip, he’ll admit that much.
And–truly, there’s no universe where Jesse’s words are not true. Tulip deserves the world on a silver platter, her every whim, and her every desire, fulfilled, she deserves– love, maybe not his love, because Cassidy–he’s just not good enough, he’ll never be good enough for someone like her, but– love , regardless, love .
She’s the best fucking thing that has ever graced this earth. He’s not about to question that.
He looks at Jesse, and–he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, but he finds it.
“You really believe that, don’t you, padre?”
Jesse sputters soundlessly for a couple seconds, like he wants to speak just for the sake of it, just because he can, even if he hasn’t got a good come back to Cassidy’s question.
Cassidy sighs, and he relaxes against the wall, lets his shoulders sag. “Anyway, eh, I get it, I guess. You’re okay with it. No need to make a big deal out of it.”
“Cass,” Jesse murmurs, and doesn’t say anything else.
He suddenly feels like–like he needs to run.
Like he’s not welcome, here.
The exact same way he felt after the end of the world. After he took a look at Jesse, and Tulip, and them as a unit, and their lives as whole, and after he thought about it for two seconds and pictured a lifetime of watching from the sidelines, pushed aside, and aside, and aside, until there was nowhere else to go but away .
“Are you finished now, padre?” Cassidy asks, “’Cause I’m kinda busy in here–I met this lass earlier and she said she had something that was gonna make me see god ,” and he laughs, because it’s funny , “Kinda curious about that, y’know? After everything.”
Jesse sighs.
He brings a hand up to his face and lets his neck hang down, down, down. And they’re–they’re standing so close, to each other–so damned close, that Cassidy feels the ghost of his breath over his cheek, for the briefest of seconds.
And he’s shuddering once again, feeling restless for reasons he can’t explain.
It’s over as soon as it started.
“Cass, just–” Jesse starts, without any fight, “Come home with us.”
Cassidy shakes his head side to side. “No can do, padre. I–” he swallows, “I’m happy we settled this thing between us, but I think I’m better off by meself.”
“You’re not,” Jesse says, matter of factly, “And neither are we. With–without you, I mean. We can’t pretend–we tried but–we can’t just forget about you, okay?”
“Jess, Jesse ,” Cassidy says, sighing his tone edging on whining, frustrated, “Listen yourself, mate! You’re not making any bloody sense!”
But Jesse won’t take no for an answer, apparently. “What’s Tulip gonna say?”
“What?”
“When I go get her and tell her I finally found you but you’re too busy getting high to give her the time of the day. What’s she gonna say? What am I supposed to tell her?”
Cassidy breathes out, a heavy thing. “Whatever you want, mate! I don’t care! Jaysus.”
“Cassidy, I swear to god.”
“What?”
Jesse gets a bit of a funny expression, there. Like he’s genuinely–maybe not hurt, no, but something near, by this whole thing. This whole situation.
Whatever. Whatever.
It’s not Cassidy’s job to take care of Preacher Custer’s feelings.
“Come home with us,” Jesse repeats, slower, with intent.
Cassidy is suddenly reminded that Jesse could say the word and he’d be gone. He could use Genesis, if he really wanted to. Save himself all this hassle.
He’s not using it, though, for whatever’s worth.
Cassidy takes his wins where he can.
He presses his lips together, thinks his words through. “I’m not–I’m not gonna be your third wheel, Jess. I can’t. I can’t do that to meself anymore. I’m sorry.”
And–Jesse, he seems to deflate all of the sudden, movements languid and defeated. He lolls his head to the side. “It’s not like that, Cass.”
“Well, it sure as hell looks a lot like it.”
“Cass–”
It’s–frustrating, frustrating, horribly frustrating, to even be having this conversation. Cassidy wants out, and he wants out now . “Then what’s it like, eh? Explain it to me.”
“ Cass .”
“Explain it to me, Jesse,” Cassidy says, anger bubbling up in his throat and his words without his say so, “If I’m not your bloody third wheel then what the hell am I? I’m your friend, sure, but you treat me like shite and expect the bloody world in return. Especially you, Jesse. I’m just your plaything, am I not? I’m your fuckin’ doormat and I don’t believe a single word outta–”
Suddenly, suddenly, too quick to see it coming–
Jesse is all over him.
Standing–closer, if that’s even possible. He’s holding on to Cassidy’s biceps in a death grip, and his eyes are open wide, wide, wide, and his eyes are impossibly dark, and his knees, and his thighs, are brushing against his.
Cassidy feels like his heart could beat out of his chest.
“ Damnit, Cassidy, ” Jesse says, and–
And he kisses him.
Just like that.
A kiss.
Rough, and forceful, and aggressive–still clutching his arms and pining him in place against the wall–like he’s got something to prove and he’s gonna prove it one ungraceful fucking kiss at a time, like nothing matters, in that moment, but pressing his chapped lips to Cassidy’s.
Cassidy–doesn’t kiss back.
He doesn’t even move, his brain too caught up in the novelty of the situation. And he–he can’t make sense of things. He can’t make sense of things. Jesse is kissing him and he can’t make sense of things.
Jesse pulls back, just as sudden as he first started.
He stands there, still holding him.
He stares at him.
Cassidy stares back.
And he–doesn’t really speak, but he thinks his face must do something in that moment, must twist some way or another, and he’s asking a silent question then:
What the bloody hell?
Jesse, the arsehole that he is, kisses him again.
Cassidy–he can’t make sense of things.
He really can’t make sense of things, at all.
But then–he’s overly conscious, then, of the way Jesse’s stubble feels against his skin, rough in a way that hits just right, and his breath–warm in that way that feels almost sickly to Cassidy since he became a bloodsucker all those years ago, warm, and mellow, and alive .
And Jesse’s adamant, and Jesse’s solid, and–
And before Cassidy knows it, he’s kissing back.
And– oh .
Oh .
It becomes almost too much to bear.
Cassidy pushes back against Jesse, pulls his arms free and lets his palms roam, touching, touching, touching , a hand fisting the short hair on the nape of Jesse’s neck, a hand under his shirt, palming his waist, a hand here, a hand there, all over. Jesse doesn’t waste any time, either, and suddenly Cassidy is well and truly pressed against the wall, a hard shove, a pained moan, and suddenly one of Jesse’s legs is shoved in-between Cassidy’s own, and–
“Oh, god,” Cassidy whimpers, against Jesse’s mouth.
The kiss becomes wet and open mouthed, and then Jesse’s kissing down his chin, and down his throat, and it’s– sinful , it’s what it is, the weight of him, his presence. Overwhelming.
Still, though .
“Jess, s-stop,” Cassidy starts, even though it pains him.
Jesse pays him no mind, lapping at his neck while his hands trail dangerously lower, sucking a hickey by the feel of it.
Cassidy feels like his heart could beat out of his chest.
“Jesse, Jess . Can you–” and he sucks in a labored breath and he digs his fingernails into his palms, “Jaysus, Jesse. Stop, okay? Stop . Stop for a bloody second, would you?”
Jesse well and truly pulls away then, looking dazed.
His lips are–swollen.
Reddened.
Shiny with saliva.
Just like that, Cassidy knows he’s gone for this man.
Still.
Still , though.
He struggles to find his voice. “What the–what the hell, mate?”
Jesse blinks, and for a moment or two, Cassidy thinks he might not even understand the question at all, might be too out of it to understand. But then: “I told you, Tulip talked some sense into me.”
Cassidy–laughs, breathy, and nervous.
His fingers clutch Jesse’s jacket uselessly, feeling the muscles in his back flexing minutely, feeling–his bloody heartbeat, with how close they are to one another.
Jesse’s blood pumps deliciously under it all, fluttering.
“You into thrupples now, padre? You want a three way? That what you’re saying?”
And Jesse smiles, a sweet, tentative thing. “Maybe. Don’t knock it ‘till you try it, right?”
Cassidy laughs again, openly, frenzied.
He can’t make sense of things.
And he leans into Jesse, then, hangs his neck until he’s resting his forehead against Jesse’s shoulder–and it irks him to no avail, how natural it feels, how damned good it feels.
“Come home to us, Cass.”
He just might.