A/N Written for a prompt from my lovely Beta, Angelical devil, who makes my day every time I see them.
Outsider POV for the prompt "The first thing you noticed about a Winchester was their smile."
The first thing you noticed about a Winchester was their smile.
Of course, the second thing you noticed were their bodies-they weren't ugly men.
It was argued for years after that those two things were what had gotten them through so much; after all, who would argue with a man who looked like they did?
These remarks were usually kicked up around the third round at the hunting bars; generally from the more scruffier hunters towards the back.
In the end, though, even the hunters who claimed they weren't jealous couldn't lie. There was something otherworldly about the Winchesters, like a thin aura around them that everyone could see but pretended not to.
It had been years since Tom's family had been killed, but it was only his first year hunting. He relied heavily on the roadhouse, the contacts it provided, the tips. His first hunts had gone off well, not perfect, but he'd been told he had the makings of a fine hunter in him.
Nothing like the Winchesters, someone would mutter. Every time that name popped up, Tom's curiosity peaked.
Who are the Winchesters? He'd ask.
The younger hunters would laugh, claiming they were an old pair of hunters who got lucky long ago and probably didn't live to hear the tale, but the older men would turn their faces away almost as if they were ashamed.
You heard rumors, sometimes, about a hunt somewhere that was too complicated, too dangerous. A while ago, if you didn't know something, they said you could call a guy up in South Dakota, but he'd died a few years back. Tom didn't really remember his name, something with a B, maybe. All he knew was that man had been your go-to guy. Complicated omens? Need a full Latin exorcism?
Go to South Dakota.
These days, they said to call the Winchesters. They wouldn't show up, no, but soon as you checked in, the lucky hunter would successfully have completed the hunt, and that was what mattered.
A lot of the hunters (especially the younger ones) were too arrogant to accept help from strangers. A lot of them got killed that way, and besides a one-time toast, a lot of thought didn't go towards them either.
The Winchesters were a bit of an enigma to the hunting community, and Tom thought maybe they preferred it that way. They didn't travel in anyone's circles, but everyone knew of them or about them somehow. Sometimes, Tom got the impression people were scared of them.
Naturally, that only made Tom's curiosity grow, so one cold winter's night after a semi-successful werewolf hunt, he sat himself down next to Alan, one of the oldest hunters in the roadhouse.
"Alan." He said, greeting the man. He received a curt nod, and the older man went back to his beer.
It was one of his first big hunts, and he'd felt giddy. On top of the world, so to say. So, he'd blurted out his question pretty quickly, alcohol and pure curiosity driving him.
"Who are the Winchesters?" He'd asked, propping his elbows up on the table, staring at Alan until he made eye contact.
"Son," Alan muttered. "Get your stupid ass outta here and stop poking fun." He looked affronted, like Tom had insulted his childhood heroes.
"I'm not!" He said quickly. "I just wanna know more about them. Y'all never talk about them, like there's something wrong about 'em." Tom pleaded with the other man.
Two dark brown eyes stared at him out of an old wrinkled face, ball cap blocking the low lights from above.
There was a long pause, and Tom thought Alan had gone back to his beer and was ignoring him before the older man suddenly spoke up.
"Y'know how long there's been a bar here?" Alan asked, and the question threw Tom off for a couple seconds.
"A couple decades?" He responded finally, frowning at the older man. "Why?"
Alan shook his head. "This bar's been here three years, son. Three." He said cryptically, nursing his beer.
"So?" Tom asked after a second, confused. "What does this have to do with the Winchesters?"
Alan tapped the table, wood barely making a sound over the general murmur of the other hunters chatting around them.
"I'm saying there used to be a bar here, before this one. It burned down, hell, four years ago. All those connections, some hunters, information. All gone." He said, head down.
"The Winchesters built this one." Alan said, glancing up into Tom's eyes with an unusual clarity and emotion, fingers abandoning his bottle.
" Be grateful." Alan said before getting up, leaving his beer behind as he grabbed his jacket and made his way out the door.
Dumbstruck, Tom just sat at the empty table. He didn't even notice when the other hunters shouted at the poker game three tables over.
A few months pass, and there's a few whispers here and there. The Winchesters have a plan, the demons say, but no one's really sure. It's apparent that there's fewer and fewer hunters these days, but no one's drawing attention to it. People are worried, and hunts are becoming more and more dangerous, and hunters are getting killed off.
The demons think it's damn funny, but a little salt and holy water usually calms 'em down.
A few months into the summer, an announcement reaches the Roadhouse. The Winchesters are holding a round-robin in Lebanon, Kansas, the goddamn center of the United States. The announcement is pretty cryptic, saying only that all the hunters need to be there.
The Roadhouse is in a flurry up until then. People make speeches about not worshiping lost idols, of free will and thought. Others grumble about it, calling the message a hoax and a damn shame too.
Tom's not really sure what to think, except for the obvious fact:
The Winchesters are going to be in Lebanon on August 1st, and that's where he'll be.
In the end, almost everyone goes, because aside from immediate hunts, there isn't a lot for them to do except sit on their asses and whine. Even the younger ones go, eyes wide and curious even as they mock these two "Winchesters".
"Better luck than with the rifle." One old hunter, Rob, mutters as they pack up their stuff, and that silences the younger ones.
The drive to Lebanon is pretty similar to every other hunt any hunter'd been on. Lots of excitement and a whole lot of boredom.
Tom's not really bored, even though the road's looked the same for the last four hours. It was kind of like meeting your idol for the first time, when your heart couldn't stop thumping and your brain played a constant tape: You're going, you're going, you're gonna meet them...
He wondered if he'd be disappointed when he finally did.
The first thing he noticed about the Winchester was their smiles.
There was a smile for every occasion, a smile for slipping into a witnesses' house, a smile for the motel employee who looked at your clothes a little funny. Even a smile for other hunters. It was kinda funny that in their terrible line of business, they smiled a lot more than everyone else.
When they got to the round robin, people were already setting up. The field the Winchester's had called for the meeting was swamped with cars, circling around a large, black chevy that Tom couldn't make out very well. Hunters were on top of their cars, chatting to other people, on the phone.
They all looked a little unsure of themselves, doubtful that they should even be there, even though the ring of cars enclosed everyone like a family.
Tom parked his car near the front, snagging a spot he'd been lucky to find. After turning off the ignition, he clambered out, noon sun beating down on his face.
The black chevy was a beauty, a '67 Impala if he'd ever seen one. There was no doubt whose car this was, from the respectful gap around it to the obvious looks people were sending its way.
Where were the Winchesters?
A hush settled over the crowd as everyone turned towards the back of the field, all staring at something Tom couldn't see.
In the harsh light, he could see two figures emerge from the woods in the back, tall and resolute as they parted the crowd.
However they'd gotten these people here, with whatever doubt they'd come with, it all disappeared as they watched the men walk down the aisle that had parted for them, and Tom got his first glance.
They were both wearing smiles, white-toothed and calming. There were smiles for every occasion, and these two wore diplomatic ones.
It was more than that, though. Their eyes were so vulnerable, like windows to the soul or whatever that shit was. It was crazy how open they were, like they told a story that the two men wanted everyone to hear regardless of what they thought.
Their smiles spoke of something else, an ease of the life that of all the hunters in the crowd, no one could claim. Their smiles made everyone remember, remember the time their father congratulated them, slapped them on the back and reprimanded them at the same time.
They were so old, even if their bodies were so young. All the people who'd doubted them, mocked them even, laid their heads down in shame as their eyes roved over them. These men had seen it all and more, and anyone stupid enough to challenge that would be attacked by the other hunters before the two brothers turned around.
The one on the right was tall, like those old Greek god statues in the museums. He wore his hair down, shaggy and curling around his temples in a wind mussed way Tom knew wasn't as easy as it looked. He had calm hazel eyes, dimples flashing as he smiled at the crowd, but the lines around his eyes nudged at Tom, made him remember that the Winchesters weren't all spun sugar and smiles.
The one on the left walked bow legged, smiling even as his stance screamed 'attitude'. He had sharp green eyes, flashing in the sun as he turned to his brother, putting a hand over his mouth as he spoke to his brother.
His hair was blond, but the other man's was a dark brown. They didn't look like brothers at first glance, but after some staring you could see the similarities from the curve of their jaws to the concise smile they still wore.
The second they got down to their car and turned their backs for a second, the hush fell away, and suddenly everyone was talking.
"Goddamnit, how are they so YOUNG?" Someone muttered to his right, while another voice joined in.
"Made a deal with a demon, caught the bastard myself. Lying bastards, that's what they are."
"That's them?" Tom whispered to somebody nearby.
"Dean's looking better." Someone said.
"Which one's Dean?"
"The blonde one. Sam's the tall guy."
Oh, hunters. They were a fickle bunch.
The hush came back as the men stood on the hood of the impala, and when they spoke, it seemed to echo across the field, clear and low in every hunter's ear.
"Welcome." Sam said, voice pleasant. "It's good that you've all made it."
There was a brief smatter of applause, and everyone turned to see who it was. Confused, Dean continued as the crowd turned back to him.
"We've got some bad news." He started. "And in bad news, I mean really fucking bad."
There was silence, as everyone took it in.
"There are less and less hunters every day." Sam said, taking over for his brother again as his black t-shirt flapped in the light breeze. "We are getting killed off too easily, and there's nothing we can do about it."
He paused, looking at everyone in a manner that made Tom appreciate the man's speaking skills, like everyone was included.
"We can fix this. Dean and I have a way, but we can't do it alone." He said, and the crowd began to stir.
"How you gonna fix it?" Someone called out. "Damn demons near overrun the country, and you have a PLAN?"
Some of the crowd nodded, looking at the man.
Sam's eyes flashed, but he smiled reassuringly. "We have a way, a surefire way. But we need your help."
"That's where you all come into play." Dean said, and the crowd quieted, waiting for the reveal.
Silence, a quick pause.
"We have a spell that can close the gates of hell."
The crowd erupted, hunters shouting dubiously and affirmatively at the same time, calling out at the Winchesters loudly.
The two of them stood tall on the car, calm and patient as the whole hunting community shouted, shouting at them and eventually at each other.
"You're gonna goddamn save the world again?" Someone screamed. "How'd that go the last time?"
Dean smirked at the person who'd shouted. "I'm still here." He said, pointing a finger and raising an eyebrow, daring the person to argue with him.
Sam looked out over the crowd, eyes patient as he waited for them to calm down.
Eventually, they'd apparently had enough, and Dean grabbed something from behind him and held it in the air.
Tom just had enough time to flinch as the sound of rock salt echoing from a shotgun filled the air.
The whole crowd quieted, but a lot of hands reached towards holsters warningly.
"Listen up!" Dean shouted, and the whole crowd turned.
A/N So, more is promised if people like...leave me a review?