“Yeah right. Betcha the first one goes off and you start squealing””
Dean hands Sam the other shoe, grin widening as he kneels down – yeah, that's definitely going to need re-lacing. Maybe one day he should just let Sam go out with them like that so he'll start doing them properly, but there's a routine to this the same way there is to breakfast and dinner and bedtime, to packing before they leave a motel and setting up the next room when they move in.
He pokes Sam teasingly while he waits for him to put the other shoe on, sorts that out as well when he's done tying it, ruffles his hair affectionately when he gets back to his feet and heads off to find the gloves. Dean shoots a glance back at Sam that's part genuinely confused and part what the hell? - Poly-what? - though he decides not to ask, just to go with 'dice'. Because he's resigned himself to not being the smart Winchester, even if it is kinda tragic to be outdone by ones little brother; there's other sorts of smart, other than 'book smart'. And he's kinda proud that Sam's as clever as he is, happy for the kid that he gets to be really good at something that's not got anything to do with hunting.
> Why do I need gloves? It’s not that cold out
“Because” he explains as he searches, weighting his words in that way that's the sign that he's about to explain as only an elder sibling can. “There will probably be sparklers, and you'll want one, and if you don't have gloves it'll burn straight through your hand” Gloves... gloves... right, okay. Gloves.