A/N: I just wanted to note that I decided to raise the rating to T; as the boys get older, more swearing and gruesome hunting ensues. And a big thanks to everyone who reviewed. You guys helped break me out of my writer's block, and now I'm quite pleased with this chapter's outcome. Also, thanks for the input, Pheebs; I definitely agree with you.

Rule Five: Always know what kind of monster you're dealing with.

"She's hot."

It was a typical Dean comment, and as always, Sam had no idea what his ass of an older brother was talking about. Swinging his heavy backpack through the open window of the car, he gave the relaxed teenager in the driver's seat the nastiest, most annoyed glare he could muster. But his horny 18-year-old brother didn't seem bothered; instead, his smirk widened as his eyes flickered to a spot somewhere behind Sam, towards the junior high school where all the students were sauntering out into the warm May sunlight.

Deciding to humor him, Sam swiveled around and peered behind him. There, leaning against the bike rack with several other girls, was Rosemarie: flowing burgundy hair, shocking blue eyes, and a slender figure. Sam had been able to do nothing but stare at her since they'd moved to Crowheart, Wyoming several weeks prior. Blinking his eyes away from the sight of her face lit up with a smile, he looked back at his brother with a glower. "She's fourteen."

Dean rolled his eyes and snorted. "I meant for you, Sammy. She's totally checking you out. Little young for my tastes. I like a girl with experience."

Sam rolled his eyes, understanding his older brother's meaning. "You're such a pig sometimes, you know that? And she was not checking me out."

But Dean didn't say anything. Confusion creased Sam's face as he watched his brother raise his eyes slowly, still staring at a spot somewhere behind fourteen-year-old Sam. The latter stood still for a moment, just outside the passenger door of the Impala, before he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Sam?" It was a pretty female purr. He practically stumbled over his big feet as he whirled around, Rosemarie smiling shyly at him through a pearly white, Cheshire smile.

"Uh… hi," he choked out, feeling as if all the air in his lungs had suddenly whooshed out of him. His insides were as cold and squirming as if a spirit had recently passed right through him. "Uh, this is my brother, Dean," he blurted, unsure of what else to say.

"Hey there," came the predicted suave voice behind him. Sam wished that the Impala would just roll away or something; having his brother sitting right behind him—probably with a smirk still on his lips, watching him stumble over his words in front of a pretty girl—was making his face grow hot.

"Listen, Sam," she began with a gentle smile and a spark in her eyes, "I was just wondering if you were planning on going to the spring dance this Saturday?"

Spring dance? Sam felt his stomach bottom out completely. He'd never gone to a school dance before… and he certainly hadn't ever been asked. Wait—why did she want to know? Trying to turn off his brain, Sam forced a smile. "I hadn't really thought about it."

"Well, would you like to go with me?" Rosemarie asked, twirling a lock of crimson hair between her fingers with feline grace. Sam felt his throat tighten, and all he could do was nod. Her smile widened. "Great! Why don't you pick me up at 7:30? I live at 1430 Buffalo Drive. See you later."

By the time Sam had processed the information, he spotted Rosemarie already sashaying back to her friends like a cat following a dancing feather. He stood stock-still, feeling like a stone statue, until his brother's voice broke his paralysis. "I told you she was checking you out."

Without a second's hesitation, Sam yanked the door open and slid into the seat, still feeling like someone had delivered him a hefty punch to the gut. His mind was swirling with doubt. "Dad'll never let me go. We're supposed to go take care of that—whatever it is—aren't we?"

A glance at Dean showed his older brother flipping through his wallet. Without looking up, Dean replied, "Dad doesn't know what it is yet. All we know is that there've been weird deaths and some freaky noises coming from some abandoned house, the Anderson house I think it's called. And if we don't know what it is, we won't be going after it."

But Sam's mind wouldn't let him drop the subject. He had learned to expect the worst in every situation. Raising his eyebrows as Dean began fishing through his pockets, he commented, "But won't Dad need me to help figure out what it is?"

Dean shot him a quizzical look as he reached over and popped open the glove compartment. "I thought you were the one that tried to get out of hunting as much as possible?"

As Dean's hands rifled through papers and other such garbage, Sam allowed his eyes to turn out the window to where the attractive redhead was still leaning casually against the bike rack. "Well, yeah, but… Rosemarie is… popular," he mumbled the last word, almost ashamed to admit his doubts. "She only hangs out with cheerleaders and jocks." When he glanced back at Dean, he saw that his big brother had found what he was looking for and was pushing the glove compartment shut.

"Well, maybe she wants you to try out for the basketball team. You're getting pretty tall," Dean smirked, polishing the small card in his hand.

"What's that?" Sam nodded to the piece of plastic.

As Dean put the car into drive, he held out a credit card sporting the name Bill Ward. Sam stared at him blankly until Dean stuffed the card in his pocket, pulled out of the parking lot, and replied, "Get your sunglasses, Elwood; Billy-boy is gonna buy you a tux for the dance."

"And Dean—I want your ass right back here after you drop Sam off. We've got to figure out what this thing is," John called out after the two brothers as they pulled open the car doors.

"Yes, Sir," Dean replied as Sam was situating himself in the passenger seat, tugging at his stiff, uncomfortable, as-good-as-stolen tux. Dean revved the engine, and the car peeled away down the street.

"You know, Dean, you'd be a sucky chauffeur," he commented with a nervous smile, trying to crush the butterflies that furiously flitted in his stomach.

"Why's that?"

"Because you drive like a maniac."

Dean cracked a smile and peered at a passing street sign. "Well, it's either this or you're walking to the dance, and somehow I don't think your little date would like that too much. What'd you say the address was, again?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "1430 Buffalo Drive. And somehow I don't think Rosemarie will appreciate listening to the dulcet sounds of Black Sabbath."

Dean's response was to crank up the music. Ignoring his older brother for the time being—as well as the hard rock blasting through the speakers—, Sam gazed out the window into the darkening streets that passed by in a blur. As the car turned down Buffalo Drive, the reckless driving slowed significantly. He could hear his brother murmuring, "1430… 1430…" under his breath as he searched for the address, but Sam was too busy focusing on the somewhat decrepit street. He'd never pegged Rosemarie to live in a place like this, but then again, looks could be deceiving.

The car slowed to a crawl as Sam's gaze washed over a grassless lawn and a hunched, mangy Black Lab with glinting, yellowish eyes slinking away into the shadows. Shaking away the eerie sight, he looked up at the house that the car had come to a halt before.

Shingles missing and worn with age, the roof appeared to be sinking into the ramshackle house—if one were so inclined to, indeed, call it a house. The building appeared to be crumbling in on itself: its windows were caked with dust and long spidery cracks, and dead shrubberies clung to the decaying wooden walls.

But the worst thing about the house, including its dilapidated appearance, was the crooked mailbox at the end of the driveway mockingly sporting the four-digit number that now sent Sam's stomach into a churning mass of regret. 1430.

"Sam…"

Dean's voice trailed off, and Sam found himself unable to look at his older brother—unable to turn his eyes upon Dean, who could probably get any girl he wanted, who had surely never ended up the butt of a cruel joke.

"I'm sorry, Kiddo… You know, you're too good for her, anyway—"

But Sam didn't want to hear it. Still not looking at Dean, he pushed open the car door and stepped out, sauntering numbly over to the driveway. He heard the driver door creak open as his brother stepped out, and he heard Dean calling for him to get back in the car, but he didn't want to hear it. Instead, his mind was busy putting together a couple of puzzle pieces. "This looks like the Anderson house," he said, his voice a low monotone.

There was a pause. "You're right. Shit, Sammy, I should have recognized the address. I knew Buffalo Drive sounded familiar… Hey, what are you doing?"

Before he knew it, Sam found himself standing over the open trunk of the Impala, staring down at a multiplicity of weapons. Picking up a shotgun, he checked to see that it was loaded, muttering quietly, "There's something in there that we've got to hunt. We're already here, so we might as well hunt it."

"Sammy, I'm sorry about Rosemarie, but we have no idea what's in there. Now get back in the car." Dean's voice had taken on the harsh tone of authority that John usually used when speaking to Sam. But Sam hardly listened to his father anymore, so he decided not to listen to Dean, either. He knew that when he shut himself down and became a hunter, everything became numb. It was his job. And right now, with all the hurt swirling around inside of him, he welcomed that numbness. So he slammed the trunk shut and strode deliberately up the driveway.

"Sam, you get your ass back in that car or I'll leave without you, do you hear me?" Sam didn't look back as he pulled open the front door of the shack, hearing his brother's angry "son of a bitch!" behind him, as well as the footfalls of a panicked brother hurrying over to the weapons trunk.

The inside of the house was just as bad as the outside suggested; cobwebs clung to the edges of the darkness, tattered furniture—which looked as if it had been purposely clawed to bits—sat overturned in the rooms, and light fixtures hung cracked and broken from the caving ceiling. Sam held his gun out in front of him as he crept up the stairs, scoping out the area for telltale sights and smells.

A large shadow moved on the far wall, and Sam whirled around, brandishing his shotgun at a dark, looming face. But two rough hands swiftly attacked—one knocking the wind from his gut and the other twisting the gun from his hands. Sam, who was doubled over and on his knees, lifted his head and moved to the side so that the faint light filtering in through the dusty windows caught the figure. Unable to stop himself, Sam let out a gasp.

It was a man. His graying hair was frail and bedraggled, skin was wrinkled and sallow, and his clothes were almost tattered enough to be a matching set to the house's furnishings. "You lookin' for trouble, kid?" the man spoke in a rough, sandpapery whisper.

"Sammy?" Dean's distant voice called from downstairs. The man shook the gun slightly, a warning for Sam not to reply, and the young man in a dirty tux complied.

As he knelt there, hands held up at his sides, the numbness melted away into raw pain. Oh god, why had he gone running in there with a gun? Now he was trapped with some old guy who had been staying in the abandoned house because he probably had nowhere else to go and was now pointing the gun at Sam, and oh god, why hadn't he listened to Dean? Now he was going to get both him and Dean killed, and it wouldn't even be from the thing they were hunting.

"Sam, where are you?" Dean's voice was farther away now, moving in the opposite direction of the stairs, and Sam prayed that his brother would turn around and go in the right direction, or that the man would just shoot him already.

"Looks like I got me some fresh meat tonight," the man growled, his eyes shining almost yellowish in the dying sunlight that peeked out over the horizon and slipped in through the solitary window.

Sam felt his heart speed up as panic welled within him. What was this guy planning on doing? But then a miracle worthy of keeping candles lit for eight days and nights occurred: hasty footsteps pounded up the creaky stairs. As the door to the room burst open, Sam felt the man's calloused hand grab him by the collar of his tux and pull him to a standing position in front of him. The icy barrel of the shotgun met Sam's perspiring temple.

But it didn't matter—Dean was standing in the doorway (surely having kicked his way in), clad in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, face hard and determined, aiming a pistol at the man. "Drop him," he ordered in an even voice.

"You take one step and I'll blow his brains out," the man hissed, and Sam could feel hot, stale breath on the back of his neck. The gun pressed harder against his head, which was being held in place by the chokehold that the man had on him.

For a moment, time was frozen. Sam watched Dean with wide, petrified eyes; Dean stood still, his grip on the pistol unwavering. But then Sam's eyes met Dean's hazel ones, and he understood the silent message they were sending. Sam wasn't sure what Dean was going to do, but he knew that he had to loosen the man's grip on his neck in order for Dean to move without the fear of Sam getting shot.

Lifting his leg slightly, he brought his heel down sharply on the man's shin, eliciting a cry of surprise. The chokehold fell away, and Sam dove to the side. He landed on hands and knees as the crack of a gunshot filled the air, causing him to look up just in time to scramble out of the way of the collapsing body.

There was a soft thud, and dust rose in soft clouds around the body. One strong hand grabbed Sam under his arm and hauled him to his feet, turning him around so that his gaze was torn from the old man with the tiny bullet-hole in his head, from which a tiny stream of blood dribbled almost innocently.

"You all right?" Dean asked, his voice quiet. Sam took a breath, unable to get the image of the dead man from his mind, as he looked up at his brother.

"You… you just shot a man," he whispered, not trusting his voice, refraining from adding, and it was all my fault.

"He was gonna kill you," Dean replied resolutely, as if that answered everything. "And besides, he was a skinwalker."

"What?"

Dean grimaced. "See for yourself."

Sam turned around to look upon the old man's body—yet he was startled and somewhat sickened to see a scruffy Black Labrador lying sprawled out on the floor, a puddle of crimson liquid forming around the motionless head.

"But—how did you know?"

"Saw paw prints turn into human prints downstairs." Dean tucked the pistol firmly into his jeans.

"Yeah… and his eyes…" Sam murmured, breaking off with a shiver. "Guess that explains the killings." When he looked up, he saw that Dean was staring him square in the face, his features set like stone. But when he spoke, his voice was incongruously gentle rather than accusatory.

"You know, Sam, that could have gone a lot worse if I hadn't shown up."

Sam looked at his shoes. "I know."

"…Because if you don't know what you're up against, you're probably not gonna know how to stop it. You've got to always know what kind of monster you're dealing with. Always. It's just lucky we figured this one out before it was too late."

Turning his eyes back up to his brother, who had always been there for him, Sam couldn't help but be filled with a fierce urge to listen to him this time. Thinking back to the two monsters he'd dealt with that day, he mentally noted down Dean's advice, wishing he had known what he was up against before saying yes to Rosemarie and swearing that next time he would. Without another word, the two brothers made their way out of 1430 Buffalo Drive.

"Dad's gonna have a cow when he hears about this," Dean commented with a smirk as he swung himself into the driver's seat. Sam's heart clenched momentarily. "But he'll be pleased that we took it down."

Sam allowed himself to relax as he settled into the passenger seat, shrugging out of his stiff tux jacket. "Yeah, thanks to the great directions we got."

Dean shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition, allowing the engine to rumble to life like a waking lion. "Man, what a lame prank. Telling you to go to an abandoned house? Pathetic."

A smile quirked up on Sam's face. "Yeah, I bet we could come up with something better."

"I'm thinking something with guns and crazy dog-men," Dean offered, turning the car onto another street. "Anything's better than what that Rosemarie chick came up with—though it did help us kill the bastard."

Sam smirked and turned his gaze out the window, watching the darkened streets blur past. "Remind me to thank her on Monday."

Dean's response was to crank up the music.