Everyone knew the Winchesters were crazy.
It was practically synonymous, in the hunting world. 'Well, that was a Winchester move' to describe something crazy and reckless and usually that somehow, inexplicably, worked. They had a reputation, and while it was generally one of 'stay out of the way and don't get involved' there was also a certain amount of pride involved, in one of their own who managed to so frequently and spectacularly beat the odds. Thus, glasses were raised when word of John's death spread, when Dean and Sam went to prison, and-
Wait, what?
"I'm telling you, I know what I heard," David, hunter of twelve years, was saying. "I heard he was dead, the younger one. Dead. And guess who I just saw driving through town as pretty as you please?"
Rumor, it was dismissed as. Obviously a rumor. They happened all the time, with Winchesters. John had been dead four or five times according to rumor before it'd been for good, as confirmed by the Harvelles.
Except then it happened again. A little over a year later.
"He was a goner," said George, hunter of fourteen years. "Confirmed deceased. Did you see his brother? No way that was just a rumor. And just the other day I was in a bar and there he was, two seats down, ordering a beer. Dean fucking Winchester. Tell me how you fake that?"
Maybe it was a mistake?
The thing was, though, this wasn't just one or two people. Dean Winchester had been dead like a doornail for four months, pretty much confirmed. As confirmed as you could get, with Winchesters. And now he wasn't. The murmurs began to grow.
They didn't die. It didn't matter the reason, though there were a number of them that were suggested. Winchesters were devils. They were demi-gods. They had made a deal with death. They were God's favorites.
(There was a lot of laughter over that one.)
You didn't go after Winchesters, though, whatever they were, because it was just fact that they were going to come back to life and kick your ass. And probably kill it, too.
"They're dead all right," Reggie claimed loudly in a hunter's bar at one point. "Checked, too. Shot point blank. Right, Walt?"
"Right," Walt said, "Dead for sure."
No one saw Reggie and Walt after that. No one else went after the Winchesters after that either. It was just not a good idea, and definitely not worth the potential cost. You couldn't kill a reaper. And you couldn't kill a Winchester.
It just didn't stick. Struck by lightning. Dragged to Hell. Shot in the chest.
So when word came that Sam Winchester was dead, no one believed it until they learned that Dean Winchester had retired, and then they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"That'll be the end of it," it was generally said. "If Dean's done it must be over. Winchesters finally met their match."
A group of hunters were discussing it in a bar when a long shadow fell over their table. "Just a beer," said a low voice, and one glance up revealed that Sam Winchester was watching them.
Not dead. Not even a little bit dead.
He didn't stay long, and silence ensued until Richard, hunter of almost twenty years, spoke up. "You know," he said, "Can you imagine if their daddy came back?"
More silence. Then shaky laughter, and Ben, hunter of five years and already as well versed in Winchester lore as he was in witch lore, said, "Thank god for small mercies."
"Amen," it was generally agreed, and they all tossed their beers back.