I Have Two Faces; Blurry is the One I'm Not

|two|

Saturday has been and always will be the busiest night of the week, and tonight is no exception. The bar is thrumming with the sound of people chattering, pool balls slamming into the sides of the pool table, glasses clinking and sliding all over the counter, and of course AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' blaring as loudly as possible from the bar's stereo system.

Nikki's running food out to people and generally being chipper while Austin lurks in the kitchen, whipping up bar food with lightning speed. And me? I stay where I belong - at the bar, mixing drinks, ringing up and taking orders, chatting with those who sit on a plush red stool and empty shots of whiskey and pour their hearts out.

A gaggle of nervous girls enters the bar, and I can't help but laugh quietly to myself as they anxiously approach the bar. The oldest can't be older than seventeen.

"What can I get you?" I half-chuckle as they gather around the bar, propping my elbow up on the counter. This should be interesting.

"I, uh," a plain blonde in the group stutters, her overly done green eyes wide with fear, "can I uh-"

This'll be amusing.

"You're not twenty one, are you?"

The three girls share a nervous look, and a loud gust of air whooshes out of my lungs as I throw my head back and laugh. No tact whatsoever.

"Uh, um, yeah, I am," Blondie shakily takes a fake I.D. out of her navy cross body bag, and I take my flashlight out from under the counter.

I pluck the card from her hands. Business time. "Alright, look. I'm going to give you the option to go. You take this," I shake the card a little, "and go home, and I won't say shit. But, if I check this," I shake the card more forcefully, tightening my jaw and glaring, "and it's fake, I'm calling the cops. I won't lose my job over some little kids trying to be big. This is a respectable place and we refuse to serve minors." The two other girls nervously look at Blondie, clearly distressed. They aren't much older than fifteen or sixteen, I realize. I raise an eyebrow. "So, last chance - is it fake or not?"

She swallows hard and takes the card back, her long, red acrylic nails clicking quickly against the card. "How, how did you know?" Her voice shakes.

I take three bottled waters out from my personal cooler beneath the register. "I've been workin' here for five years. I've seen a lot of kids come in here trying to be big. I've seen every trick." I hand them the waters and they all turn pale, alarmed. "It's just water. Now skedaddle."

"Thanks." Blondie whispers before her and her crew slink out of the bar, disheartened. Sucks to be them.

"Excuse me," croons a rough, deep male voice, "bartender."

I turn around to see a lean, toned guy sitting a few seats down. His dark brown hair is neatly cropped and styled, his stubble accentuating his sharp jawline. Stunning hazel eyes peer out from long dark lashes, and a smirk plays on his full lips.

Fuck, he's gorgeous.

His eyes travel up and down what half of my body that he can see before actually resting on my face. "How's your night?"

I lean forward on the bar, resting my chest on my arms. "Same old, same old." His eyes travel to my chest and I snap my fingers to regain his attention. A blush rises to his cheeks. "What can I get you?" I giggle.

"If I could get you, that'd be fantastic," He grins at his own cleverness, "but seeing as you're working, I'll settle for a beer."

"Bottled or keg?" I simply say, standing up.

His eyes travel me once more. "Bottle." He murmurs. "What do you recommend?" He asks quickly.

I walk a little ways toward the beer wall. "Personally I'm not a beer fan. I'm more of a vodka person myself." I look over my shoulder and find his gaze wandering once more and I clear my throat. He looks to my face, grinning. "But uh, seeing as I'm from Massachusetts, I'm impartial to Sam Adam's Boston Lager."

"Mmm." He hums as I grab a bottle and slide it toward him on the counter. He reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet, but I grab his arm.

"It's on the house." I whisper, winking before slapping the counter.

He winks and pops the cap off. "I like you," he announces, tipping the bottle at me before taking a drink.

I roll my eyes and continue serving, occasionally handing Señor Attractive a new beer, pouring shots for tables, bantering with Nikki as she flits in and out of the kitchen.

I feel darkness in my stomach.

"Go to the bathroom."

"Go away, Blurry."

"Fine." He disappears.

I turn around and notice the Señor Attractive is gone. Damn, I was going to give him my number.

"Hey, lady, have you seen my brother?"

I turn to find a towering giant of a man standing at the bar, distress apparent in his eyes, which are almost identical to the hot guy from minutes before.

"Was he kinda hot?" I ask, grabbing a glass off the counter and cleaning it out.

He rolls his eyes. "That's not going to feed his ego if he finds out," he groans, "but I guess." He runs a massive hsnd through his messy mop of chestnut hair. "If you do see him, his name's Dean." He awkwardly extends a hand. "I'm Sam. Winchester."

I shake it. "Sabby Garrison. Mixologist extraordinare."

"That's just a fancy word for 'bartender,' but it's cute." Croons the same rough voice of the hottie at the bar. "I'm glad you have a name."

"Likewise." I look around Sam to see Dean grinning slyly at me.

I feel Blurry's presence in my lungs again. "Leave them. Now."

"Fuck off, Blurry."

I close my eyes as a momentary rush of his anger causes my head to throb for a second. I open my eyes to see Sam looking over his shoulder and Dean analyzing me carefully. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Just uh, been up a while." I lie as Blurry keeps urging that I flee immediately.

"Go. Now. I'm staying. Go back to your silence."

Sam looks back to Dean, raising an eyebrow, before turning to me. "You not sleep much?"

I shrug. "I'm a student by day and a bartender from nine to three-thirty. I don't sleep."

Dean's eyes never leave my face. "I'd like to talk to you after, if you don't mind. I see it's busy now."

A rugged forty-something leans on the counter. "Coors." He slurs. "Warm."

I slide him his drink as he stumbles away.

"I get off at three-thirty, if you want to stay til then." I stammer, my heart rate picking up with no logical cause.

"Sounds good." Dean smiles awkwardly and thumps the counter before sitting down. "Sammy, you want a drink?"