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.

Never one quite like Cass' though.

Fin.