Rule Two: Shoot first, ask questions later.

"Okay, Sam. You're in the middle of the woods. You have one silver bullet left in your gun. The werewolf comes charging at you – what do you do?"

Dean leaned back, letting the grass tickle the back of his neck as he laced his fingers behind his head. The sky above him shone brilliantly blue, with only a few puffy white clouds to mar its otherwise flawless surface. He felt warm and at peace in the late-spring Texas afternoon. Really, thinking back on it, Texas was quite a smart choice – and he had to give himself credit there, as he'd suggested it in the first place. Wherever you happened to rent out a house in the county they'd come to, there was a spacious backyard that came with. Plus, everyone else in town had a gun, too. Imagine that.

Rolling his head to the side, Dean glanced over at his kid brother, an awkward nine-year-old with scruffy, too-long chocolate hair and an already clever, too-smart brain, if you asked him.

"What do you mean, what do I do?" The nine-year-old asked, his frown and furrowed eyebrows conveying naïve confusion. Dean smirked as he turned his eyes over to his dad, who was already wearing something of an exasperated expression on his face.

"I mean, what do you do? A werewolf is coming at you, you have one shot left. What do you do?" John enunciated from his place several yards from his youngest, who was standing in front of the bundle of hay meant to be a werewolf with a gun dangling loosely from his right hand.

"Well, what are the circumstances?"

"The what?"

Dean had to hand it to him; Sam certainly was precocious. Even at thirteen, Dean didn't come up with the kind of things Sam did. And he was all right with that. In fact, in this particular situation, he was downright amused. He could see the train wreck waiting to happen, but he was enjoying himself too much to turn on those flashing light things.

Sam scratched his unkempt hair with his free hand. "I mean, who's the werewolf? Is it some mean old guy or a little girl? Where are you and Dean? Do you two have guns? Is the werewolf going to attack me or the rabbit behind me?"

Unable to help himself, Dean let out a loud, bark-like hoot of laughter, quickly clamping his lips shut when he saw the infuriated look on his father's face. He looked back over at Sam from where he was laying on the grass of the huge backyard to see if the boy had realized how badly he was annoying their father. From the innocent shine in his eyes, it was clear that he either hadn't or was far too clever to let it show.

"Come on, Sam, focus here. After that thing in your closet three weeks ago, I expected you to be more worried about your poor aim and inability to make quick decisions in these kinds of circumstances," John reprimanded firmly, striding over to the bundle of hay and giving it a kick for good measure. "Now," he continued in a voice of forced calm. "There is a werewolf coming at you… yes, you, not the rabbit behind you. Dean and I are nearby, but we have no guns. And it doesn't matter who the werewolf is; it's a werewolf, and you need to kill it before it kills you. Now… what do you do?"

Dean propped himself up on his elbows for a better view of Sam and the hay. There were other things he should be doing about now – like homework, or getting dinner ready, or even cleaning up the mess of salt in Sammy's room that still hadn't been removed from several weeks ago. But, sitting there watching Sam, whether purposely or not, bug the crap out of his father was too entertaining to pass up.

"Well…" Sam seemed to think for a moment, tightening his grip on the gun but still not raising it. "Then I'd have to figure out if I should shoot it in the head or the heart. What works best? Or I could shoot it in the paw, so that it's just incapacitated until it's a human again."

The urge to laugh was overpowered by how utterly floored Dean was. Incapacitated? Where did his brother get his vocabulary from? Still, he grinned and looked over at his dad to see the effect of that comment.

John scrubbed two hands over his face and looked as though he were trying to resist the urge to strangle his son. "By the time you ask yourself those questions, the werewolf will have eaten Dean and be working on me for seconds."

Ouch. Dean was sure that would get to him… yet not even the idea of wolf-bait brother seemed to faze the kid. Dean didn't know whether to be proud or offended.

"I thought you said it was going to attack me?"

"Sam!" John shouted in a no-nonsense voice. Dean abruptly tensed from reflex, his eyes darting over to Sam and hoping that the kid would cut the crap before their dad went berserk with frustration.

"Sorry… but I don't know which is better. The head or the heart?"

John let out a long breath through clenched teeth. Dean winced with the knowledge that the tactic was being used because of Sam. When their dad didn't answer, Dean spoke up from where he lay. "The heart, Sammy. For werewolves, it's always the heart. Head for shapeshifters."

Dean glanced over at his father, who was still taking in deep breaths and letting them out slowly. Well, it sucked for him that he was a man of little patience, but what did he expect when teaching a nine-year-old how to kill every evil beast out there? Sometimes, Dean had no sympathy for his father. He loved the man, and he would follow him over a cliff, but… sometimes it was hard to empathize with him.

"Okay," Sam replied in a small voice, clearly having finally gotten the hint that he was being obnoxious. He held up the gun in front of his face, aiming for the stack of hay thirty feet from where he stood. But after a pause, he hesitantly lowered the gun again, looking around at his dad. "Um… How do I know," he began, motioning with the gun towards the haystack, "where the heart is?"

With a groan of frustration, John turned around and stormed off into the house, slamming the door shut behind him. Sam turned meekly to Dean, who was still lying on the grass, half-propped up by his elbows. The confused, hurt look on his little brother's innocent face stabbed him in the heart, and he slowly rolled over and stood up to walk over and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Why does Dad have to be like that?" Sam asked finally. Dean didn't ask what he meant by that; he already knew.

He let out a breath. "Well… I guess because he wants you to be a good hunter, and good hunters can't waste all their time asking questions if something's about to come eat them."

Dean's eyes searched his little brother's face for some sort of comprehension, but the latter just frowned. "Why can't he just tell me what to do, then?"

Hmm, that was a tougher one. Taking his hand off Sam's shoulder, he crossed his arms. "I think it's because he wants you to figure stuff out for yourself." He turned his gaze off to the stack of hay, lit up by the afternoon sun, and motioned towards it with a slight nod of his head. "When you've got to make a quick decision during times like that, you can't be looking around for help. You've just got to make a choice and go with it. And, when that happens, sometimes you just gotta shoot first, ask questions later. Know what I mean?"

Sam's frown slowly rose into a thin line of determination, and Dean watched with a burst of warm pride as his little brother's eyes lit up with fierce understanding. Sam nodded slowly, raised his right arm, and shot the gun. When the bullet buried itself into the very center of the haystack, sending fuzzy, golden bits of hay exploding into the air, Dean beamed widely and patted Sam roughly on the back. "Nice one! See, you've got good aim after all. Hey, Dad!" he shouted, turning his head in the direction of the house. "Come see what Sam did!"

As the door opened and their father emerged, Dean sighed and took a step back, imitating his father in rubbing his hand over his chin. It was tough work, being a thirteen-year-old and trying to teach his kid brother what his father wouldn't or couldn't. He only hoped he was teaching him the right things.

"Good shot, Sammy; you sure got the target. Now I won't expect any less of you from now on, you hear?" John announced with a firmly proud smile.

"Yes, Sir."

Dean patted his little brother on the back again. "So, Sam, what should you do if a werewolf is coming to attack you?"

As Sam's eyes turned up to his, Dean winked and smirked, knowing that the kid would get the message. With a smile, Sam turned back to their dad.

"Shoot first, ask questions later?"

John chuckled dryly, and Dean could see the uncertainty etched in Sam's face for a brief moment. But then their dad leaned over and ruffled Sam's disheveled hair with one hand.

"Well, at the very least, it's good that you listen to your big brother."