Hunter gatherings were no longer a rarity. They happened often now, and included hunters as well as witches and demonologists and supernatural scholars and occasionally members of the non-human community as well. They were full of conversation and comfort food, the telling of tall tales and the occasional conflict. Lore was shared, spells copied, and valuable weapons exchanged. There were homemade goods on offer, sometimes give freely, sometimes at a price: spell ingredients and blades forged in backyard smithies, and the like. There was laughter and drinking and the mourning of lost friends and the training of those new to the life. And everyone came away with new stories, new resources, some with new bruises.
It started small, nearly unnoticed. Someone would mention they were low on rock salt, and driving away from the gathering the next day, find a bag of it in their back seat. Or someone would mention how a Wendigo had ripped their favorite hunting jacket, only to find it the next morning, on the peg where they’d hung it before bed the night before, perfectly mended. Days, even weeks, after the gathering, hunters would find charms or protection spells at the bottoms of their bags or pockets. A weapon that had been for sale and admired, but determined too costly, would be amongst their gear, and no one the wiser as to who had actually purchased it.
Eventually, one hunter asked another about a roll of cash he’d found stuffed into the toe of his boot. Wasn’t me, said the other. But you know, last time I was at a hunter’s gathering, I made mention I’d forgotten my kid’s birthday, I’m out on the road so much. Couple days later, I get a call from my kid. Apparently I’d mailed them a present, the very toy they’d been hoping I’d bring ‘em home. Now how the hell do you think that happened?
No one knew. But it kept happening.
Always it was something desperately needed, even if the recipient hadn’t known it right away. Something that might save a life, or make this hard scrabble life just a little easier. Sometimes it was an old cassette tape of country music love songs. Sometimes it was the last serving of pie from the party. Sometimes it was all the empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers missing from their car, a pine-scented air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
Sometimes it was just a note, taped to the steering wheel: somewhere out there, someone is alive because of you.
It didn’t happen at every hunter’s gathering, but enough that word spread. From the Canadian border in the northwest, down to the coven of white witches in Sedona, along old Route 66 and the old Men of Letters’ bunker, from the sea wind-blasted tip of Nova Scotia to the old French Quarter down in New Orleans. It became part of the legends hunters told themselves about themselves, a piece of their world, strange and unknowable, that rare something full of grace rather than ugliness or malice. Something that brought them joy. Something that helped them keep on living.
An unknown benefactor, hunters said. And whenever they got together, they’d laugh and raise a drink in honor of anonymous generosity.
Always on the outer edge of every gathering, dressed in their hunter attire, still learning how to be a part of this community, Castiel and Crowley would glance at one another, and smile.
The two always raised their glasses to the toast of the unknown benefactor, sipped at their drinks, silently shrugged off the appreciation, ignored the praise. They refused to make eye contact with Dean, who suspected, and avoided the inquiring looks from Sam and Eileen. Neither the reformed demon nor fallen angel wanted the gratitude. It was never about that.
The hunters and demonologists gave and asked for nothing in return. They risked their lives and their families and their souls for the greater good – and just as important, they gave of themselves to each other. In the open comfort and safety of their homes, in the long nights of storytelling and heaping platters of plenty and buying yet another round. In patching up physical wounds, and tending to those of the heart and mind. In the making and sharing of goods and spells and resources, in the creation of a community at these hunter gatherings. And they counted Crowley and Castiel among their number. Made them family. Gave them somewhere to belong. It was the greatest of gifts.
And so, in their own quiet way, the unknown benefactors gave in return.
Stories about “unknown benefactors” are rather common in communities during times of increasing social and political strife. I heard a number of them in Eastern Europe and then again in rural China, sometimes as memories of older people who had lived through one world war or another, some from younger people struggling through the aftermath of sectarian fighting. The stories were always like the ones told in the supernatural hunter community – someone, or more likely many someones all trying to take care of each other – would leave small gifts or do unexpected favors, without seeking recognition or thanks. Often, these stories included the storyteller saying that it was those small kindnesses that kept them going. Not because they hoped to benefit from it themselves, but because it reminded them that there was, in fact, as much good in the world as there is bad. It is only that we must look for it in ourselves, and offer it up to others. I was thinking about this again recently, and thought it made a nice little ficlet for a Crowley & Castiel team up as members of Team Free Will 2.0.
