Supernatural, True Blood 1. Chapter 1

He rests the back of his head against the wall, bottle raised to his lips. He's not drinking it. He's here for something else, and strangely, she doesn't know what. She watches the way the moisture beads at the tip of the bottle neck, the way his skin glows subtly in the dim light of the bar, and that's it. Something flicks on, deep inside. She's seen men like this one every day that she's worked here, and she knows them inside out. They're hard, inside and out. She's never even considered one before tonight.

The bar work is tough, physically; some nights her feet throb with an ache so intense it takes all night to fade, the small of her back grumbling as she folds herself into bed, eyes gritty and red...yes, the work is tough. But it's simple. No thought required beyond what's needed to find the right bottle and glass - the occasional hairy encounter with an over-enthusiastic customer notwithstanding. It's simple work, clean work, and she loves it for this reason.

She looks quickly over her shoulder to gauge the reaction of the regulars. Yeah. They're giving him the trademark Bon Temps eyeball. It's this, more than anything, more than his easy manner, or his appealing hands, more than that other ache she doesn't let herself think about too much - it's that eyeballing they're giving him. The way they're thinking about him...it's more than she can bear, all of a sudden.

She abandons the tray for table five - ignoring the indignant 'Hey!' that spikes up in amongst the other noise - and makes her way over to where the stranger sits. She doesn't sway, like Dawn would, or saunter as she's seen Lafayette do; she wouldn't know how. She just plain walks over there, hips twitching nervously, aware that all eyes are on her now...except those of the man she's chosen.

He stares straight ahead. She flicks a glance at whatever he's staring at. Hmm. Odd, she thinks to herself. Why in the world would he be staring at..."So. This is the 'get out of my bar' speech?"Startled out of her reverie, she fixes her eyes on his. Green and alive, they seem to know what she's feels herself start to sweat, ever so slightly."Oh! No. I wasn't laughing at you. And, no, this wouldn't be that speech. At least, not exactly."His face stays neutral enough, but those eyes are asking a question. And it's too darn quiet now, she can't stop herself from filling the silence, irrationally afraid that if she doesn't...no, she can't make herself finish that thought, not just yet."It's just, you know, we don't get too many tourists down this way, and sometimes people don't take too well to it, but I just wanted to say, that's not everybody. So, uh, I hope you don't think that...I mean, I hope you enjoy your beer." She crashes to a halt, cheeks pink, heart racing inexplicably, waiting for the rush of thought to come at looks up at her calmly. .She pretty near falls over."So. Uh. Okay." She begins her pivot away from the booth and this embarrassment, needing some time to think about the quiet, and those eyes, and exactly what this means, when she feels a cool touch on her sets the bottle down with his free hand and says, "So. What time do you finish?"She feels even more blood rise to her face. "Oh. No. That wasn't what...""Oh." His hand drops away. "Sorry."And it's then, as his touch and his gaze leave her, as she feels the other ache raise its head again, and she realises that she made this decision as soon as she saw him, that she leans down and whispers, "One." This done, she walks smartly back to the tray she set down just before, and gets on with trying to pretend that green-eyed man isn't even there. She doesn't shoot him a second glance all night. Well. Not a third, anyway.

The clock creeps round to one and as usual, she's clearing away and when she looks up, sneakily...he's gone. She pretends that she doesn't feel a thump of sickening disappointment. Sam opens his mouth to say something to her, but she dodges the moment skilfully and beats a hasty retreat to get her bag, and slinks out without a word to anyone. She pauses briefly outside the bar and steadies herself. The night air is thick, and richly dark, and...quiet.

She snaps her head to the right and there he is.

"You gonna blush at me again?"She does."I thought you left," she says, smiles then. It's glorious."Well. You were saying something earlier about traditional Louisiana hospitality...so I figured it would be rude to go until you'd -"She stops his mouth with her own before she knows she's doing it.

It's all she knew it would be, when she saw his eyes, his hands, his mouth; it's hard and soft, urgent, quiet...new. Brand new.

She feels powerful, and curious. She feels his quiet bleed into her. She feels as if she could do anything.

And, of course, this is when his phone rings.

He half-laughs into her mouth, rests his forehead against hers oh-so-gently, and rumbles, "I have to get that."She manages to make a noise that approaches speech.

***

Five minutes later, he's gone for real. Rueful, reluctant, oh yes, but he goes. Family thing, she accepts, but does not allow herself to think, what kind of family thing? At one in the morning? No. This she does not think. Instead, she thinks of his stillness, his spark, his rough and smooth, the hints of more that he gave her during that brief, endless kiss.

She thinks he'll be back.

A/N: tbc? Please comment!


	2. Chapter 2

She knows exactly what she's doing. The trick is not to move too much. Heat like this exhausts people and possibilities, and she intends to spend this particular day firmly in one place. Thank goodness she doesn't have to work, she thinks. Porches are made for days like this.

Days like this one stretch on forever in places like this. Cars swelter in driveways, dogs skulk under porches, crickets sound sleepier and people try not to do anything at all. Days like this are full of nothing, of petty fights, of tired conversation, of make-up sex, of unmowed lawns, no shoes, lemonade and idleness. Days such as this are plentiful where she lives. Excitement visits Bon Temps rarely these days.

On a day like this one, when everything is too heat-struck to move, she sits on the porch of her grandmother's house wearing as little as humanly possible, drinking something blissfully cold. The deck of the porch groans in the sun. She pulls her feet out of the light; it's almost painful on the skin at this time of day. The garden shimmers in the heat. She thinks, fleetingly, that she might go upstairs and take a bath. She doesn't move an inch.

Inside, her grandmother bustles reassuringly about the spotless kitchen, unstoppable even in this ridiculous heat - which seems to swell as she thinks on it. On the porch, she sinks into her seat further, all thought of going anywhere abandoned now. All she can do today is wait for the sun to just get on with getting gone. She drains the glass of probably-lemonade and sets it down vaguely to her left. Lets her head tilt back.

She falls asleep.

***When she wakes, the sun has hurried over the horizon and her grandmother's soothing voice is barely audible from a different window. One side of a conversation, low, warm, inviting, all that is Gran. Pleasantly warm now, she wriggles her toes and decides not to get up yet. Perfect. Still light, heat bearable, lemonade...oh. If she wants more, she will have to get up. She makes the ultimate sacrifice: no lemonade.

And then. On the very edge of her hearing, a deep metallic purr arrives. She sits up without realising.

The purr gets louder, and she's rounded the corner of the house. It's a noise she knows. She's sure.

The purr cuts out. Her view of the street is clear now, and fifty feet away from her there is a car waiting. The car is black and somehow sharp, sharper than anything else in her line of vision, and abruptly, she stops looking at it. Because she's looking at him.

He climbs out of the car, more perfectly realised than even his sharper-than-sharp car, pristine in the evening heat. She can't stop looking at him. His hair is messy, his jeans are dirtied with something unsavoury - that much she can tell even at this distance. His hands hang loosely at his sides, fingers curled to make subtle 'O's; not quite the shape of a fist, but almost. His face is just as she remembers, better, even with the early evening sun highlighting his features. She makes a tiny sound of appreciation.

He looks at her. There it is, she thinks, that feeling of not simply being looked at, but looked into...she isn't able to explain it. She would guess, if she had to, that it's something he's learned rather than something he was born with, as she was. He looks at her, and she feels completely known. It's incredible.

He looks at her and walks in her direction. She sees now his slight bow-leggedness, the grime on his clothes. As he gets closer she can tell that whatever's on his jeans is best not asked about; his knuckles are scraped and she knows without knowing for certain that he is going to be trouble of some flavour, likely has caused some on his way here and will cause more on his way back; has been, is, will be bad news.

She couldn't care less.

He gets to about three feet away and stops. She's acutely aware of his height, and of her near-nakedness - forgotten until now. His jewel-green eyes are locked on to hers.

This time, there's no nervous chit-chat. She steps towards him and they fit together effortlessly. This kiss is as different from the last as day is from night. Where the first kiss was need and curiosity, and not a little defiance on her part, this one is smarter, more knowing, deeper, brighter...longer. It has meaning.

He takes his lips from hers but keeps his hands on her, one in the small of her back, one on the nape of her neck. How he knew where to put them, and where not to, she can't say.

"What's your name?" He purrs like his sharp car does, she's delighted to notice.

"Sookie," she breathes.

That blinding smile she saw once before shows itself again. He leans in and tells her, "Nice to meet you, Sookie." His accent is hard to place, he moves, she decides, a man in constant motion. Not like her. Same town her whole life. Same people. Same everything. Except this. Except him.

"What's yours?"

"Dean," he says, and this time she smiles so widely she believes her mouth may stay that way. This feels like a secret, his name, murmured low for her, a blessing, a rare and beautiful thing. She knows he's passing through, again, has guessed that he's always somewhere else, that he's not really from anywhere and, yes, is trouble ten times over. She knows all of this.

She also knows she'll kiss him again, and for as long as she can, regardless of whether it's the clever thing to do. It's the right thing. He is, and does, right, She knows this above all else.

She lets their lips meet, and imagines she can feel their souls touching.

She knows exactly what she's doing.


End file.

Supernatural, True Blood, Romance