The road is dusty, fences and fields lie beyond it. A hunt out in the country country was something new to Dean. Kind of like a daydream in his little niche fantasy corner of the world. Old-timey westerns flood his memory as he passes stagnant cattle amidst the scenery. Baby rolls up, plumes of dust disperse behind the wheels, squandering off with the wind.

He arrives at the ranch and hops out of the Impala, checking the place out. Whoever made this call must have some hunting connections since they’re out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. He had indulged a bit, put on some cowboy boots before he left and he had to mutter a swift ‘fuck you’ to Sam when he laughed at his excitement to play cowboys.

He approaches, kicking up dust in his wake and stops at the weathered wood porch that creaked when he stood on it. He knocks on the door and sways on his feet, staring down at them and suddenly rethinking the cowboy boots. His head shoots up when he hears the sound of hinges swinging. My my the person who opens the door…

Adorned in that classic cowpoke hat and cowboy boots—Dean thinks he just found his huckleberry.

“You-…Are you the one who…” Jesus get it together, “You made the call? I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.” He holds out his hand, more like excitedly juts it out in front of you, a bit too hopeful you might shake his hand.

Dean’s only got one slogan on his mind right about now; Save a horse, ride a cowboy.