Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or The Sookie Stackhouse Books.
A/N: This drabble is set before the books, right after the vampires have come out of the coffin. As for Bobby and Pam's history, I'll leave that to the imagination.
He looked like he belonged to northern Louisiana. But he didn't fit this part, not as a patron at Fangtasia. Shaggy, graying hair layered his weathered neck and tickled his ears, most likely because it was being held down by a greasy ball cap sporting a truck stop logo. At least he'd had the good grace to throw a button up over his tee before he'd left his car in the lot. Still, his appearance was, as usual, somewhat distasteful.
The wrinkles around the man's face were heaviest under his smiling eyes.
"You gonna let me in, girl?" he barked, leaning back slightly.
Pam didn't afford him a smile. She cocked her head at the couple behind him, letting them pass by the man and into the club behind the door. Alone with the man, she rolled her eyes.
"Honesty, Robert?" she asked. The blonde vampire's lips twitched when he didn't reply immediately. "No. We don't serve hunters."
Bobby chuckled under his breath. "Been a fun couple of weeks, hasn't it?" His breath whistled through his teeth and he looked the vampire up and down. "Thought your kind would grow out of this kind of get-up after a few days of. . ."
"Being out of the coffin," Pam provided. She glanced down, taking in the black latex stretched over her curves. The things she'd do for Eric. . .
The vampires had rocked the world after bringing their existence to light only a few months earlier. And what had they done? Profited, at least the U.S and European vampires. And fit into every romantic undead stereotype imaginable. Fangtasia's grand opening had been only days earlier, but the 'brave' humans who'd ventured in had already brought more money to the area than a small theme park.
"You're giving other hunters a hard time these days," Bobby continued. "Sorta funny, actually. Your kind gets to comes open but ours is still stuck in hiding. Like we're the bad guys."
"Hunters are murderers. We're simply citizens in a politically correct society. Isn't America grand?" Pam held back her grin. "Don't look so glum, Bobby. I'll let you in."
Bobby rolled his head to the side, his eyes at a squint. "You know why I'm here?" he asked.
"Does it have something to do with the dead out-of-towner who walked in a few minutes ago?" she asked. At Bobby's expression, she added, "Eric will deal with him. We can take care of our own kind."
"Don't have time for vamp politics, Pammy."
After a moment, the vampire nodded, opening the door behind her. "Very well," she breathed. "I'll mention your presence to Eric. Enjoy your hunt—but don't forget to take it outside. Decapitation isn't good for business."
Bobby tipped his hat slightly. "Will do."
He took a step forward before stopping. "Nothing's changed since '87, then?"
Pam didn't reply.
"You still hate humans as much as you hate other vampires?" Bobby supplied. He clucked his tongue. "Maybe someone'll change your mind sometime, Pammy."
"Have a beer," Pam said, her expression sour.
She watched him enter, her usual bored frown replanted on her face. It wasn't true, she noted to herself. She couldn't stand people, not for long, but the vampire didn't hate everyone. There was always Eric. And Bobby Singer.
The slight smile she'd gifted the hunter returned to her face as she stared out at the night. Her lips pursed in hunger at a memory from quieter times. "Bobby Singer," she whispered, "'87 was a very good year."