His eyes sparkling with mischief, Dean aimed the phone at his sleeping brother, contemporaneously keeping a wary eye on the road.
However, it took only a moment to immortalise Sam's face, the plastic spoon caught loosely between his lips.
Dean hadn't been able to resist. His brother's head laid back against the seat, his mouth half-open in sleep, complete with a trickle of drool trailing from the corner had given him a flash of a more 'uncomplicated' time when Sam used to laugh more; his twenty-three-year-old self a bustle of energy and sass, always ready to argue the point with both his big brother and dad.
It wasn't that Sammy didn't laugh now or nail him with a standard bitch-face, but somehow his brother's eyes no longer glimmered with the gamut of emotions they'd once conveyed.
Both of them had changed, Dean was perfectly conscious of the fact, forced by events so much bigger than themselves. Still, he missed the younger version of his sibling, before Hell had come into their lives, when their worst nightmare was a ghost, a witch or a vampire.
Sam probably thought the same of him, the cocky fearless kid he'd once been had morphed into a hardened hunter, any morals or ethics he might have possessed, vanished. The only human Dean cared about was here right next to him.
Time to wake the dragon, he reckoned, poking Sam with a finger.
:
'Dean. What the hell,' Sam cursed, irately spitting out the foreign object.
'You should wear a spoon more often. It suits you, kiddo,' Dean smirked, holding the phone out of range of his brother's octopus arms!