dixie's outfit is above.
( she's a bartender in the south in 2006
in a teeny tiny town btw.)

III. SMILE MADE OF KNIVES

   BY sundown the whole town of Hollow Creek was slick with sweat, shirts plastered to backs, and hair curling damp against temples. The air was thick with honeysuckle and cigarette smoke, and even inside the Hollow Saloon it felt like the walls were sweating. Ceiling fans turned in lazy, practically useless circles— really just pushing the heat around without relief.

Folks still came, though, they always did. The closer it crawled toward August, the fuller the bar got. People drank harder in July, laughed louder, almost like they could outrun what waited for them at summer's end.

   The mine's shadow stretched longer with every passing year.

   Dixie leaned her hip against the bar, sliding a sweating glass of beer down to Big Jim. The wood beneath her bare arms was tacky with heat, and she ignored the way her tank top clung damp to her spine. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck no matter how many times she twisted it up, but she didn't care. Sweat had become part of life here.

   "Another one gone," Marla whispered at her table, a church pamphlet fanning her flushed face. "Preacher's nephew, wasn't it? Boy never even made it home from fishin' at the creek."

   Trevor Hensley. Dixie felt her throat tighten at the mention of the kid— she always had a hard time stomaching when the kids went missing.

   He was a good kid— always kind. He wasn't raised with hatred rolling off his tongue; never called her the name that hung heavy in the air when she was around.

   "Cave's stirrin' early this year," Jim rumbled, foam clinging to his mustache. "Ten years, ghosts are bound to be restless."

   "Or cursed," Marla muttered, eyes sliding sharp toward Dixie. "And everybody knows who crawled out alive."

   Dixie didn't blink— just flipped her rag over her shoulder and met Marla's gaze head-on. "Guess I was harder to kill than the rest."

   The men in the building howled, their hands slapping down on the bar. Marla sniffed, muttering about God's punishment, but Dixie didn't give her the satisfaction of a second look.

   She was used to it by now. A decade of whispers and suspicion. Survivor's guilt lived in her bones, but in theirs? It turned to poison.

   That was when the door swung open, spilling in night air so hot it felt like breath.

   Two strangers stepped inside and the saloon hushed for a beat too long. They looked out of place— far too clean and too sharp around the edges to belong to Hollow Creek. The tall one had broad shoulders under the plaid of his flannel, his hair curling damp from the heat. His eyes moved like he was measuring everything and everyone. The shorter one carried himself like he owned the floorboards, boots hitting the wood with easy weight.

   Dixie's gaze snagged on him before she could stop it.

   Sun-browned skin, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and a mouth built for trouble. His T-shirt clung in all the right places and that leather jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder? It made the sweat slicking her own skin feel hotter somehow. He had that grin too— cocky, knowing, like he'd already won a game she hadn't agreed to play.

   "Don't see tourists much in July," she called out, sliding a beer down the bar without looking up. "Y'all lost or just plain stupid?"

   A ripple of laughter moved through the room. The shorter one smirked, stepping forward with a swagger that made her pulse hitch. "Maybe a little of both."

   The tall one gave her a polite nod, "Evening."

Dixie raised her chin, letting her eyes drag over them slowly, "Evenin'."
  
   "Dean," the cocky one introduced, resting his elbow on the bar like it belonged to him already. "That's my brother, Sam." He glanced back at the chalkboard listing the specials, "Two Budweisers."

   Dixie's lips twitched. "Figures. One of you got the height, the other hogged all the attitude."

   The saloon chuckled and even Sam smiled. Dean didn't flinch, if anything, his grin widened. He leaned in just close enough that she caught the faint smell of leather and motor oil, sweat sharp beneath it. "And you are?" he asked.

   She grabbed two bottles by the neck, using the opener in her back pocket to pop the cap, and her nails clicked against the glass as she slid it over. "The bartender."

   "That's all I get?"
 
   "That's all you're payin' for."

   The locals roared again and Dean tipped his bottle toward her in salute, like she'd just thrown down a gauntlet. Sam lingered behind, quiet, but watching her too closely. Dixie didn't like being watched— not when it felt like he saw past the armor and beneath the sharp tongue she wielded like a knife.

   Dean's voice drew her back, low and edged with that grin. "So tell me, sweetheart, what's a girl like you doin' in a place like this?"

   Her smile was all teeth, "Keepin' the lights on while the rest of y'all sweat and drink yourselves to death."

   He laughed, his head tipping back just enough to make the line of his throat gleam with sweat. And Lord help her, Dixie's gaze lingered, way too long. Long enough to make her grab a rag just to have something in her hands.

   Jim held his beer up in salute, "Careful, kid, Dixie'll chew you up and spit you out."

   "Dixie, is it?"

   Dixie grinned, leaning back against the bar counter, barbell on her stomach glinting in the light, "Painfully southern, ain't it? Bit too on the nose."

   Dean grinned at that, a silence following them. Sam broke the spell with his steady tone. "We heard about the boy. The one that went missing."

   The room quieted like someone cut the fan. All eyes shifted toward them and then, like an accusation, they looked towards Dixie.

   Dixie's jaw tightened. "Everybody's heard. That's what Hollow Creek does this time of year, it takes."

   She held Dean's gaze when she said it, like she was daring him to laugh— daring him to flirt past it, but his grin faltered just slightly, and Sam kept staring at her like he knew she carried ghosts heavier than the mine itself.

   And for the first time all night, Dixie felt the heat press down differently— heavier and sharper— the kind that had nothing to do with the warmth of July.

   "Maybe the cave's started collectin' again," Old Joe muttered from the corner, words slurred around his alcohol. "It never did like to stay quiet long."

   "Shut your mouth, Joe," Marla snapped, clutching her pamphlets tighter, sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse. "Fear feeds evil. That's scripture."

   Joe cackled at the woman. "Hell, lady, it's just the truth. Ten years gone, them bodies still ain't at rest."

   Dixie's rag slowed across the bar. She didn't look at them, but she didn't need to. The words burrowed into her chest like they always did.

   Alive when she shouldn't have been— that was both the long and short of it.

   She leaned an elbow on the counter and let her eyes sweep back to the strangers. Dean was watching her now, not polite like Sam, not pitying like Marla, just watching. A crooked grin played at his lips, but his eyes had narrowed, sharp with curiosity.

   It made something spark low in her belly— the kind of spark she usually stomped out quickly, or got a quick fix, but he didn't seem like he'd just go that easy.

   No, this one was trouble. The kind of trouble that swaggered in without asking, leather clinging to broad shoulders like a second skin, eyes the color of good whiskey, and just as likely to burn going down.

   Trouble that smirked too easily, the kind of grin that made a girl's stomach twist even when she knew better. Dixie had seen men like him before, all sharp charm and dangerous edges. He was the kind of man that small-town whispers warned you about and the type she usually steered clear of. But Lord help her, something in the way he looked at her, like she was both a dare and a secret, had her pulse stuttering.

   Trouble, sure. The worst kind. And damn if she wasn't already curious enough to lean in closer.
Dean's gaze slid her way, lazy but sharp, like he'd already clocked her the second he walked in. His eyes caught on the glint of gold on her stomach, lingered a beat too long at the edge of her shirt where lace peeked out, and then flicked back up with that grin, all cocky and knowing.

   "Didn't figure this place would come with entertainment," he said, once again leaning on the bar like he owned it.

   Dixie arched a brow, slow and deliberate, letting her drawl curl around her words like smoke. "Entertainment costs extra. You lookin' to pay, pretty boy?"

   That smirk of his widened, just enough to make her teeth grit and her stomach flip. "Depends on the show. Are you worth the price?"

   She leaned in, just a breath closer than polite, close enough he'd catch the heat in her eyes if he was paying attention. "Sugar, I ain't ever been cheap."

   For half a second, something flickered in his gaze— interest, heat, or maybe a challenge, if that didn't make every warning bell in her head clang louder.

Dean was trouble. Pure unfiltered trouble. And yet, her lips tugged into a smile she couldn't quite fight.

   Dean dragged his gaze down her frame once more as if he had every right. Her tank top clung where the sweat refused to let go, collarbones sharp, and tan skin glistening in the dim light. Ink curled along the inside of her arm— a vine of magnolia flowers stretching from wrist to elbow, shading soft and dark.

   When she shifted, the metal caught the glow of the jukebox— small hoops lined the rim of her ear, a stud through her nose, and a glint of gold at her belly when her shirt lifted as she reached for a bottle. She had another pair of piercings hidden beneath her shirt, but those were hers, not theirs.

Hollow Creek men saw the same thing every day, but where they saw sin or scandal, Dean looked like he saw fun. Like she wasn't cursed at all, just something wild worth chasing.

   "Nice ink," he said finally, chin jerking toward her arm. "Magnolias, right?"

   Her eyes flicked to him, lips quirking. "Look at you, knowin' your flowers."

   "I'm a man of hidden depths."

   "Mm," she hummed, unconvinced by his words. "More like a man who's full of it."

   The regulars howled again and Dean tipped his beer to her while Sam shook his head, a smile tugging faint at the corner of his mouth. "You'll have to forgive my brother," he said. "He doesn't really know when to stop."

   "Oh, honey," Dixie drawled, tossing a shot of whiskey down her throat without a wince, "I don't need him to stop. I just need to know if he can keep up."

   Dean choked on his beer, coughing up laughter into his fist. "Jesus," he wheezed, wiping his mouth. "You always talk to strangers like that?"

   "Only the ones cocky enough to deserve it."

   The tension that followed was electric. Dean leaned a little closer, forearms braced on the bar, and his signature grin slanted like a secret. Sweat trickled along his temple, dampening the hair at his forehead, and Dixie couldn't stop her gaze from following it down.

   Someone cleared their throat— Marla again— she never did know when to stop. "That mine's cursed," she declared, loud enough for the whole saloon. "Everybody knows it. And everybody knows why she don't sit in church pews no more."

   The room shifted— the heat pressed down thicker— a few folks looked away while the others leaned in waiting.

   Dixie's smile was sugar-sweet when she turned toward Marla. "Well, bless your heart, Marla. Didn't know you were God now. You takin' confessions in the ladies' room after service? Wanna know what your husband gets up to when you're out passin' judgment ain't nobody ask for?"

   The men snorted into their glasses, and even Sam cracked a grin, though his eyes flicked to her like he was measuring something deeper.

   Marla grasped at her church pamphlet, muttering under her breath about how Dixie was a child born of the devil. Dixie only smiled, "You wanna keep drinkin' here, you shut that mouth unless there's a drink goin' down? You hear?"

   Dean just laughed at her. "I like you," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You don't scare easy."

   She tilted her head, eyes catching his in the dim light. "Oh, sugar, you got no idea what scares me."

   The words hung there, heavier than she meant, and she masked it by grabbing a glass, flipping it in her hand like it was nothing. But she felt Dean's gaze linger, heavier than the July heat, like he'd caught the tremor beneath her sharp tongue.

   Sam broke the silence again, quiet but steady. "You said the cave takes. What do you mean by that?"

   The laughter dimmed once more— the jukebox whined faintly in the background, some classic dad rock playing. Nobody answered. Not yet.

   Dixie leaned back against the bar, arms folding tight across her chest. "Means you're not from around here or you'd already know."

   "Maybe you should tell us," Dean said, his voice softer this time, curiosity replacing what was once cocky. "We like a good story."

   Her eyes cut to his— her chocolate brown eyes sharp and unreadable. Then to Sam, whose quiet intensity unnerved her more than she'd admit.
The saloon seemed to lean in too, all waiting for her.

   And for the first time since she'd spotted the leather jacket and that grin, Dixie didn't feel like she was the one in control.

   "You really want it?" she asked, dry.

   Dean leaned forward, forearms braced on the bar, grin cocky as hell, something she was realizing may be his own armor, "Lay it on us, sweetheart."

   She ignored the name, took her time dragging a rag over the wet wood before she straightened.
"About ten years back, twenty-three men went down into that mine. Coal seam buckled, roof came down, and whole place groaned like hell itself was openin' its throat. None of 'em came back out."

   Except one.

   The saloon hushed. Nobody breathed but the cicadas outside.

   "Some say they never left," Dixie went on, voice even, almost as though she were bored. "Folks hear boots scuffin' in the dark. Hear coughin' from the hillsides when the wind shifts right. And come August? They say the dead begin to get hungry. Start collectin' their due." She let the silence stretch, enjoying it a little— the unease, the way Sam's brows knit, and the way Dean's eyes didn't leave her face. "Kids go missin', hunters don't come home, dogs howl at the shafts. Every damn year since." She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "This town's built on bones, whether y'all like to admit it or not."

   The floor creaked as Big Jim shifted, muttering a prayer under his breath. Marla fanned herself faster, as if words could call up heat from below. Someone at the back spat into a cup.

   "Easy to tell ghost stories when you grew up crawlin' in the dark," a voice jeered. A farmhand by the jukebox. "Cave rat."

   The name slid under her ribs like a knife, but Dixie didn't flinch. She propped a hip against the bar, her smirk sharp as glass. "Better a cave rat than a drunk coward who can't piss straight," she fired back, tone sweet as poisoned honey.

   The bar roared, some with laughter, others with uneasy groans. The man flushed scarlet and looked away. Dean chuckled low, clearly entertained, and Sam was watching her, curious, almost as though he'd just seen another piece of her puzzle fall into place.

   Dixie picked up a bottle and popped the cap clean with the edge of the counter, sliding it Dean's way without asking if he wanted it. Her lip curled, half a dare, yet half a shield.

   "Now you know the story," she said, shrugging off the weight that pressed at her throat. "Welcome to Hollow Creek."

   Dean tipped the bottle in salute, his grin slower this time, eyes darker. "Hell of a welcome."

   Dixie smirked, rag tossed over her shoulder. "Don't say I didn't warn you, cowboy."

   He leaned in, elbows braced on the bar, just close enough that she caught the musk of leather and motor oil under the sweat. His voice dropped, low enough for only her to hear. "Sweetheart, you don't warn, you tempt."

   Her pulse tripped and she hated that he could probably see it in her throat. The jukebox hummed in the background, laughter and glass clinks fading under the weight of his grin.

   "Careful," she murmured, words sharpened on the edge of a smile. "You start thinkin' I'm temptation, you'll end up on your knees."

   Dean's eyes flickered, a flash of heat, perhaps surprise, maybe even delight. His grin crooked wider, wicked, and slow. "Damn," he drawled, savoring every syllable, "you really are trouble."

   The nickname slid between them, hot as the July night, branding her in a way that made her stomach twist. The room laughed with him, but his eyes didn't leave hers, holding her in place like she was the only soul in Hollow Creek that mattered.

   Dixie leaned in until the wood of the bar pressed into her hip, her voice velvet and barbed wire all at once. "You call me trouble again, pretty boy," she whispered, "and you might just find out just how right you are."

   For the first time, his smirk faltered— just a crack, a flicker in the armor—  and the heat that snapped between them left her dizzy, like the mine itself had stirred beneath her feet.

________

i'm sorry im addicted to dixie.
my girl is HOT. 🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️🧎🏾‍♀️

qotd: favorite species
in supernatural?