you cannot be frightened of everythin' you don't know in this world

It's an awkward morning, but she tries to force past it. It helps that she knows Sam so well, and that he's clearly relieved that she finally knows his secret. They talk for a long while over coffee as the sun rises, and he lets her ask him every question she can think of. The only one that gets him a little riled is if what he is is kind of like a werewolf, which is apparently a kind of faux pas when it comes to shifters. By the time Dean's up and Sam Winchester and his dad have pulled up, she feels a lot better about the whole thing – although she warns him, pertly, that he'll pay for all the times he licked her face or let her rub his belly.

And now that she knows his secret, she feels a little safer heading back to the bar with him – although not until she's excused herself to do the ironing. She has no idea what the conversation between Sam Merlotte and the three Winchesters might be like, which is probably just as well, but by the time she and Sam travel back to the bar in her little yellow Honda, each of the Winchesters has clean jeans, socks, and underwear and a freshly ironed shirt to wear.

They aren't setting up long before Arlene comes bustling over, Rene in tow, and starts directing them on how to hang the pretty paper lanterns, but she and Sam just exchange amused smiles and follow Arlene's orders. And the outdoor space does look real pretty when they're done, with the lanterns hanging in scalloped loops and music playing and the crawfish boil well under way by the time the first guests arrive.

Tucked away off the road in Bon Temps, there's a road house. Warm light spills from its windows, and the sound of a jukebox playing drifts out into the muggy Louisiana night. The regular assortment of trucks and Hail-Mary-please-keep-this-lemon-goin'-just-a-little-longer cars sit in the dirt parking lot; what amounts to about half the town's small population... or, at least, of those of the 'drinking age and above' persuasion.

Inside, it's a bar of the type scattered all across the American South: homey, no-nonsense. Booths and tables. A man in a plaid flannel shirt wiping the bar; a crossdresser in the kitchen singing Gospel hymns and rolling his hips in time with the words just to scandalize the prep cook. A handful of waitresses, bustling about.

Sookie makes her way briskly through it all, a tray balanced on her palm and her eyes kept stubbornly front, as voices swarm around her. Aloud, and... less so.