Love, family, whatever it is

"you get these tits for me, sammy? you knew your big brother's a sucker for 'em, wanted to welcome me home with something nice?" and sam's kinda snippy, mostly shy, insisting that "they're not - they're not tits, dean-"

genuinely feel like

Sam at fifteen, eighteen, twenty-two would’ve never let Dean do this. 

Would’ve scowled at the first hint of Dean’s hand on his thigh, would’ve brushed that hand away with an annoyed, “Knock it off, dude.”

And Dean at nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-six wouldn’t have minded - would’ve grinned and patted his knee with a cheerful, “Later, then, little brother?”

Sam at thirty-six lets Dean do everything. 

Spreads his legs as Dean slides a hand up his thigh, bites his lip as Dean lazily drags his knuckles against the wet heat he can already feel through Sam’s jeans. 

And Dean at forty keeps his eyes on the road, the other hand steady on the wheel as he slowly rubs at his brother’s dick until he comes with a whisper of a moan. 

Keeps rubbing through the aftershocks, and only when Sam’s pressing his thighs together does he pull away to tangle that same hand in Sam’s hair and pull.

Sam comes to him easy, fingers practiced and graceful as he undoes Dean’s jeans and leans over to mouth gently at Dean’s cock. 

“That’s it,” Dean says, as gentle as he ever is nowadays, “that’s it, Sammy. So good for me, little brother.”