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Real Hunters don't brag about their kill numbers when they converge at designated rural roadhouses and urban dives. They talk about football scores and construction on interstates and gun shows and their favorite brands of canned chili. Talk about their kids, if they have them, and swap school pictures and complain about the cost of braces.
Talk about their day jobs–the ones that pay the bills. Surprisingly, most Hunters don't engage in identity theft like the Winchesters did before Charlie Bradbury magicked their bottomless credit cards and bank accounts. Most have blue-collar work. Some live off of their veteran's benefits. It's enough.
Some survive, barely, with a little help from their friends. A couch to crash on, a place to park their truck. A decent breakfast. A few bills stuffed into the pocket of their jacket to discover hours later when they pat themselves down, looking for forgotten change to plug into a vending machine.
The Winchesters and their "real" father Bobby Singer are notorious for being soft touches. If a Hunter has to ask, he or she is stretched to the limit. No questions, no need to explain. And always a little extra, because the one asking, eyes staring at the ground, is too embarrassed to ask for what they really need.
Dean will say, "Keep the change".
Sam will say, "Good luck".
Bobby will grunt. Says it all.
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But civilians don't get it. After the Great Reveal, the Hunter community, nicknamed by the new fandom the Hunter Clan (made a great t-shirt slogan) was the target for amateur sleuths. [See The King.]
Are you a Hunter? Then you know. It’s easier if you carry a wound, a scar that cuts to the bone for the world to see. People want evidence why it hurt, why it still hurts. Badges of honor, they call the ugly tattoos of altercations with monsters, with claw and tooth, from being thrown across an unfinished basement into a concrete wall once a week, or so it seems.
They're eager to hear the details of cracked ribs and a broken leg, the reasons for bandages and a plaster cast. The ghost of a zipper in the skin, leftover from crude stitches stitched with dental floss. Had no time for pretty.
Amazing what a civilian will ask you once they find out to you are a real live, rootin' tootin' Supernatural Hunter.
They aren't interested in knowing about the nightmares, the guilt, the terror, given the terrible things you did, even when possessed and not in control of your actions, even after 30 years of torture in the depths of hell, even when your soul was left behind and you had no choice, that somehow, without cause, you will revert.
Most of the tragedies that befell Hunters, as you know, were never covered in the Winchester Chronicles. Chuck the Author focused on his faves, the brothers, the rest of Team Free Will Plus, and Hunters and allies who happened to be in their vicinity. But there were more possessions, more roundtrips between Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, and the haven called Earth.
More big mistakes.
More good men and women, a little dead inside, but they keep going.
But they can't see your monster, the one that squats behind your chest, waiting, eating away at your heart. The invisible blood on your hands, the souls butchered, the wounds that don't heal, secrets that will stay with you forever.
So you tell entertaining stories of mayhem to wide-eyed tourists, no worst than the latest horror flick. Roll up a sleeve to display a bite mark, nothing to scare the kiddies. Sign an autograph, pose for a selfie.
The Hunter fans want it real, they say, they want the truth, but they aren't really interested. Not really.