At noon the next day, as Dean yawned his way out of the bathroom, still half-asleep, Castiel returned.

He was in the boots again, but now there was more. The jeans were half-covered by tanned leather chaps and held up by a belt, the buckle in the shape of a rough brass horseshoe, and he had ditched his dress shirt and coat. In their place, he wore a dusty-red collared shirt and a faded suede vest which hung loose and unbuttoned from his shoulders.

The first thing Dean saw, though, was the hat.

A white felt Stetson that just looked so damn out of place on him that Dean found himself at a complete loss for words.

In the middle of their motel room, Sam stared at him, his face puckered as he just barely contained his laughter. Castiel seemed not to notice, and he looked at Dean seriously.

"There are demons in this town. I sensed them earlier this morning. I think they-"

"What's with the getup, Cas?"

Castiel shifted, visibly uncomfortable, and chewed on the inside of his lip before completely ignoring Sams' question.

"There are seven of them, holed up in the woods behind the highschool."

Dean tried his hardest to stop staring. It was a losing battle. His eyes trailed up and down the angel's legs, over the chaps that hugged his thighs and down to the boots that he was really starting to like, and the open collar of the shirt that gave way to smooth, pale skin. He cleared his throat.

"Um... okay," he blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on Castiel's face, "Why don't you just smite their asses, then?"

"I think they are connected to those witches from last night."

"Alright, well just let us get dressed and we'll meet you there."

With a nod, he was gone. Dean shook his head and looked at Sam.

"I think he'd lost his goddamn mind."

Sam just grinned as he pushed his way past Dean into the bathroom.

"Yeah," he said, "Something like that."

Twenty minutes later, Dean pulled into the narrow street that separated the local highschool from the dense woods, and killed the engine. He glanced at Sam and gestured toward a tree on the edge of the woods, where someone had nailed a sign that read RIP WOODY.

"Dude," he grinned, "check it out."

Sam just rolled his eyes and climbed out of the car, leaving Dean to mutter to himself.

"You wouldn't know funny if it bit you in the ass."

After collecting Ruby's knife, a pocketful of salt rounds and the trusty old sawed-off from the trunk, Dean and Sam made their way into the trees. Five minutes in, they reached a small clearing and Dean stopped.

"Wait," he said quietly, holding up one hand as he cocked the shotgun with the other, "there's something out there."

Twigs were snapping somewhere nearby, the heavy footfalls of something big coming steadily toward them through the trees. Sam stared between the branches, holding up the knife in preparation for a fight as Dean stood at his back, scanning the treeline.

"I was wrong."

They heard Castiel's voice carry out from the trees before they saw him, and the unexpected sound started them both. Dean jerked his head around, looking for the angel. What he saw was not what he expected. Castiel, still wearing the hat, sat atop a huge chestnut stallion, it's nostrils flaring as it stared down at them with wild eyes.

Castiel spoke as if he was barely aware of the horses presence, looking around the little clearing with an air of utter disinterest.

"They weren't working with the witches," he said, then added almost as an afterthought; "They're all dead, now."

Unable to hold it in any longer, Dean spluttered loudly.

"What the fuck?"

Castiel frowned, looking back over his shoulder toward the place where he had, presumably, just smited a half-dozen demons.

"They saw me. I had to kill them."

Dean shook his head, pressing his fingers into his temple.

"No, Cas... why the hell are you dressed like the Marlboro Man? What's with the horse?"

"I thought you liked cowboys."

Dean blinked, not entirely sure what he was supposed to make of that, and Castiel pulled the hat from his head.

"You... thought I..." he shook his head again, and Castiel stared at him.

Sam looked like he was about to rupture a major organ from trying not to laugh, and when he couldn't hold it in any longer, it came out loud and raucous. Dean was still staring at Castiel with a mixture of utter confusion on his face, and after a moment, an embarrassed expression came over him and Castiel was gone, leaving the horse and the hat behind.

Dean blinked again, completely bewildered as he bent down to pick up the hat from where it had landed at the horses feet.

"What..."

Sam, managing to surpress his laughter for a moment, turned to his brother with tears in his eyes.

"Jesus, Dean, do you need him to spell it out for you?"

With a frown in his direction, Dean opened his mouth to speak, then stopped as it dawned on him.

I thought you liked cowboys.

Dean's mouth fell open.

"Oh," he said, then remembered the conversation about his totally non-existent cowboy fetish weeks earlier, "oh."

His face flushed red as he stared at Sam, eyes wide.

"Did you know about this?"

"I had an idea, but no, not really."

"Huh," said Dean, absently reaching out to pet the horse on its glossy flank, speaking almost to himself, "what do you think I should do?"

Sam's face twitched into a grin that he tried, and failed, to hide.

"I think you should call him."

"And?"

"And I think I'll get my own room tonight."

With that, Sam turned on his heel and hauled ass out of the clearing, back toward the car. Had he not been thinking the same thing, Dean would have been tempted to throw the hat at him. Instead, he shoved his free hand into his pocket and looked up at the horse, settling the stetson onto his head.

"Between you and me," he said quietly, "I'm just glad he didn't find out about my thing for lacy underwear."