Everybody called them the Wolfpack – every hunter, at least. Civilians likely called them trouble, and kept well away. Ellen privately thought they were more like a pack of feral dogs; sly and quarreling and vicious, without a drop of human kindness. But then she was a little biased, seeing as how her Bill had died hunting with them and they'd never once said sorry or showed a minute's remorse. Junkyard dogs, she thought, biting the hand that fed.
Yes. This is Ellen. Even without the mention of Bill, this is her, all over.
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that face, too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.
Too pretty, too smooth, too dangerous . . . mothers, lock up your daughters =D
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's.
For all that Dean displays it more, he's mild-tempered compared to Sam. When Sam loses it, he loses it. And he knows this about himself.
Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.
The Winchesters. . . .
Wolfpack, Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.
It's like I'm leaning across the bar, listening to her tell me about her experiences with the Winchester boys. The characterization is perfect.
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.
The grin's just window dressing. John's the sort of man who lives for two things: wife and children. Half of him's already dead, and what's left all goes to teaching his kids to fight monsters and keep themselves alive while doing so. There isn't enough of him left to make a grin like that sincere.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it raw, truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."
"Something's up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – prey runs – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated.
That's something I've never seen in an SPN fic: the Winchesters seen from the outside, but not viewed in the dangerous-sexy-cool light. Here, they're men--who are less than polite to a woman who just so happens to be handling their food, and who, with a little effort on her part, could turn a large number of hunters against them. Not that that would mean much, since they're such lone wolves, but still.
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Yes. This is Ellen. Even without the mention of Bill, this is her, all over.
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that face, too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.
Too pretty, too smooth, too dangerous . . . mothers, lock up your daughters =D
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's.
For all that Dean displays it more, he's mild-tempered compared to Sam. When Sam loses it, he loses it. And he knows this about himself.
Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.
The Winchesters. . . .
Wolfpack, Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.
It's like I'm leaning across the bar, listening to her tell me about her experiences with the Winchester boys. The characterization is perfect.
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.
The grin's just window dressing. John's the sort of man who lives for two things: wife and children. Half of him's already dead, and what's left all goes to teaching his kids to fight monsters and keep themselves alive while doing so. There isn't enough of him left to make a grin like that sincere.
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it raw, truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."
"Something's up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – prey runs – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated.
That's something I've never seen in an SPN fic: the Winchesters seen from the outside, but not viewed in the dangerous-sexy-cool light. Here, they're men--who are less than polite to a woman who just so happens to be handling their food, and who, with a little effort on her part, could turn a large number of hunters against them. Not that that would mean much, since they're such lone wolves, but still.
They need a mother very badly. All three of them.