"Didja see that, Dean? Did you?"
"Yeah I did, Sammy. That goalie didn't know what hit 'em. You shot that ball into the net like a bullet!"
The ten-year-old beams down at him from atop their father's shoulders, gold medal glinting like sunlight in his hands.
Dean grins back, the pride he has in his little brother evident even in the congratulatory fist-pound he reaches up to give him. Even John Winchester, a man known more for his abilities at killing werewolves than for his skills as a father, is beaming with pride.
"We're real proud of you, Sammy," John says as he reaches up with one hand while the other has a firm grip on Sam's leg to ruffle his youngest son's hair.
Dean nods in agreement, glad that today hadn't ended in one of them exploding at the other. He knows that their father's words are honest and sincere from the way John had run out on the field to lift his son high in the air after Sam had scored the winning goal, ending the game at three to two, and garnering his team the title of 'champions' for the remainder of the season.
It had been somewhat surreal, with no monster to hunt or ghost to banish. For once it had felt... normal, with all the shouting and cheering, and being surround by other parents who had leaped out onto the field to crowd their children in loving embraces and offer them words of praise.
It had felt... good.
Usually they were stuck in dingy motel rooms for weeks on end, used to eating nothing but Kraft Dinner while their father was out hunting with other hunters. There was no time for normal, to be a part of something as simple as an outdoor soccer team. Hell, there was hardly enough time for school!
But now the three of them are walking back to the Impala, laughing and smiling and making promises to go out to Sam's favourite restaurant for a celebratory dinner just like any other family would.
In all of Dean's fourteen years of life has he never been so happy.
"Knocked that guy down with one hit and the ref didn't even call it! Hah!" Sam's still happily chatting away as they climb into the old Chevy, hinges squealing as they shut the doors.
"So where do you want to go, kiddo?" John asks, still all smiles, from behind the wheel.
Dean snorts, "You know where he wants to go, dad."
John chuckles as he starts the car. The engine comes to life with a low, rumbling growl, "The usual, huh?"
Sam's messy hair flops around, reminding Dean of a small sheepdog, as he nods in earnest, "Mm-hm!"
And with another growl the Impala lurches from the parking lot and onto the open road.
A few minutes later Sam starts to fidget with his shin guards and cleats.
Dean looks over at the struggling boy and frowns, 'What're you doin'?"
"Taking my shoes and guards off. What's it look like?"
"Do you have to do it in the car?"
Sam gives him one of those 'do-you-need-to-ask' expressions and continues undoing the laces and Velcro.
"Ugh, keep your shoes on!"
"Hey!"
"Boys!"
"Dad, open a freaking window!"
"It's not that bad!"
Dean makes a gagging noise and scrabbles frantically for the window lever, "Goddamnit!" A hiss escapes him when he finds that the lever won't move in his grasp.
"C'mon, guys, it's not bad!"
"Jesus Christ, son; smells like something crawled up into your shoes and died!"
"Dad!"
The rest of the drive is spent complaining about Sam's horrid-smelling footwear and trying to inhale every last molecule of clean oxygen from the open front windows.