The day is March 5, 1861. Castiel, reluctantly, sent you and the Winchester's back to retrieve the ashes of a Phoenix. After watching Elias Finch be hanged for the crime of murdering his wife, the three of you entered the local jail.

"Sheriff?" Dean asked, rather gruffly, causing the man to turn around from his fellow officers. And drinks. "Can we have a word?"

The sheriff tilted his head upwards, looking down his nose at Dean. "Depends who's askin'." The southern accent was drawn out. Almost fake. You knew Dean was losing it on the inside.

*Dean gave a swift nod, motioning to himself. "Marshal Eastwood." He paused, a slight smirk creeping onto his features. "Clint Eastwood. This here is, uh, Walker." He gestured to Sam, and Sam audibly sighed. "He's a Texas Ranger." He nodded toward you. "And that's Vienna. Saloon owner just down a bit."

You nodded after Dean spoke, hoping it was convincing enough.

The sheriff narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Was he buying it? I mean, the movies didn't exist yet, so... one would hope so. "So, what can I do for you three?"