Fic: Their Type
Title: Their Type
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 843
Summery: Ethyl knows their type, alright. Outsider POV
AN: Just a short, fun little story.
She knows their type.
Ethyl's been working in the motel business since she was sixteen and she took her first job as a maid. Damn near fifty years ago, it was, though these days she's an owner, not a maid. She's seen all types come strolling in looking for rooms in those fifty odd years and learned a few things about people (mostly things she didn't want to know) and somewhere along the way she learned to read folks pretty damn well.
She gets truckers and travelers a lot, but her motel isn't exactly the Ritz (not that it matters, because it's her place, dammit, and she's earned it) and she gets other sorts in as well. Prostitutes, and adulterers most often, but dangerous types too. She's gotten used to them, and she accepts it as part of the business. She learned back when she was still cleaning rooms to scrape by that the only difference it makes is how much cleaning needs to be done when they're gone.
So when the two young men walk through her doors and ask for a room, she has them pegged, alright. Oh it takes her a moment, but who can blame her? She's getting on in years and her eyesight is going, and the smile on that first young man is practically blinding in and of itself.
Oh, he'd be hard to miss if you passed him on the street. He's handsome in a way that straddles the line between rugged and too much a pretty boy, but he wears the look well and with a clear awareness of his own attractiveness. He's all charm and slight drawl, just the sort Ethyl herself would have gone for when she was still young enough to be taken in by such things (and not to know better). Well, she's not young anymore, but she's still charmed for a moment, just a moment Then she gets a look at the other one.
He's taller than his friend. Downright huge, really, all long legs and broad shoulders, but with a sweet boyish face that should make him look mismatched, but somehow doesn't. He smiles at her with cute dimples and a gives her a look that's pure, sweet, innocence.
She isn't fooled.
She see the way they watch each other out of the corners of their eyes, like they're hyper aware of each other's movements. She sees their posture, and the silent conversations they hold with glances.
Oh, she knows their type. She's surprised she didn't see it sooner.
They get one room, and they're all innocent smiles as they take the key. She resists the urge to tell them to drop the act, that they might fool other people, but they don't fool her.
For the next few days they're out at all hours, leaving and coming back at weird times. Sometimes they have what looks like blood on their clothing. Ethyl hears from some of the people in town that the two young men have been all about, and asking some pretty odd questions. It all just makes her more suspicious. The she reads in the paper that morning that another hiker has gone missing. Oh, yes, she's right about them. No doubt about it.
She gets her final, absolute, confirmation four days after they showed up. She's watching them out of the window of her room at two in the morning (and making good use of her new binoculars), when the shorter of the two opens up the trunk of his car, lifts a false bottom, and reveals a pile of weapons. It's down right scary There are guns, and knives, and sharpened wooden steaks, and... is that a dreamcatcher?
Oh yeah, she's right about them, after all, Ethyl's been around the block a few times. She's seen all sorts of things. She's learned a few things about people, learned how to read them real well, and she knows their type.
So when the FBI agent comes asking about the two of them, she just blinks at the picture and says no, she hasn't seen them. No, she doesn't know them. Yes, she's sure.
And when the two young man come back to their room, bloodied and bruised and barely moving, she gives them her own well-stocked first aid kit and a kettle of freshly boiled water, warns them about that fella Hendricksen, and waves off their confusion and questions.
And before they leave the next day, she hands them a bag filed with food (most of it her own cooking, 'cause damn they look like they could use it), and tells them she isn't going to charge them for the room.
And once they're gone she vacuums up the salt herself, scrubs the protective symbols off the walls, and takes away the bloodstained towels.
Because Ethyl's been around the block a few times. She's seen all sorts of things. She's learned a few things about people, learned how to read them real well, and she knows their type.
She knows enough to be grateful.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 843
Summery: Ethyl knows their type, alright. Outsider POV
AN: Just a short, fun little story.
She knows their type.
Ethyl's been working in the motel business since she was sixteen and she took her first job as a maid. Damn near fifty years ago, it was, though these days she's an owner, not a maid. She's seen all types come strolling in looking for rooms in those fifty odd years and learned a few things about people (mostly things she didn't want to know) and somewhere along the way she learned to read folks pretty damn well.
She gets truckers and travelers a lot, but her motel isn't exactly the Ritz (not that it matters, because it's her place, dammit, and she's earned it) and she gets other sorts in as well. Prostitutes, and adulterers most often, but dangerous types too. She's gotten used to them, and she accepts it as part of the business. She learned back when she was still cleaning rooms to scrape by that the only difference it makes is how much cleaning needs to be done when they're gone.
So when the two young men walk through her doors and ask for a room, she has them pegged, alright. Oh it takes her a moment, but who can blame her? She's getting on in years and her eyesight is going, and the smile on that first young man is practically blinding in and of itself.
Oh, he'd be hard to miss if you passed him on the street. He's handsome in a way that straddles the line between rugged and too much a pretty boy, but he wears the look well and with a clear awareness of his own attractiveness. He's all charm and slight drawl, just the sort Ethyl herself would have gone for when she was still young enough to be taken in by such things (and not to know better). Well, she's not young anymore, but she's still charmed for a moment, just a moment Then she gets a look at the other one.
He's taller than his friend. Downright huge, really, all long legs and broad shoulders, but with a sweet boyish face that should make him look mismatched, but somehow doesn't. He smiles at her with cute dimples and a gives her a look that's pure, sweet, innocence.
She isn't fooled.
She see the way they watch each other out of the corners of their eyes, like they're hyper aware of each other's movements. She sees their posture, and the silent conversations they hold with glances.
Oh, she knows their type. She's surprised she didn't see it sooner.
They get one room, and they're all innocent smiles as they take the key. She resists the urge to tell them to drop the act, that they might fool other people, but they don't fool her.
For the next few days they're out at all hours, leaving and coming back at weird times. Sometimes they have what looks like blood on their clothing. Ethyl hears from some of the people in town that the two young men have been all about, and asking some pretty odd questions. It all just makes her more suspicious. The she reads in the paper that morning that another hiker has gone missing. Oh, yes, she's right about them. No doubt about it.
She gets her final, absolute, confirmation four days after they showed up. She's watching them out of the window of her room at two in the morning (and making good use of her new binoculars), when the shorter of the two opens up the trunk of his car, lifts a false bottom, and reveals a pile of weapons. It's down right scary There are guns, and knives, and sharpened wooden steaks, and... is that a dreamcatcher?
Oh yeah, she's right about them, after all, Ethyl's been around the block a few times. She's seen all sorts of things. She's learned a few things about people, learned how to read them real well, and she knows their type.
So when the FBI agent comes asking about the two of them, she just blinks at the picture and says no, she hasn't seen them. No, she doesn't know them. Yes, she's sure.
And when the two young man come back to their room, bloodied and bruised and barely moving, she gives them her own well-stocked first aid kit and a kettle of freshly boiled water, warns them about that fella Hendricksen, and waves off their confusion and questions.
And before they leave the next day, she hands them a bag filed with food (most of it her own cooking, 'cause damn they look like they could use it), and tells them she isn't going to charge them for the room.
And once they're gone she vacuums up the salt herself, scrubs the protective symbols off the walls, and takes away the bloodstained towels.
Because Ethyl's been around the block a few times. She's seen all sorts of things. She's learned a few things about people, learned how to read them real well, and she knows their type.
She knows enough to be grateful.