-Based during season one.-

“This is all your freakin’ fault, Sam.”

Dean sat on the ground with his back against the rough wall, staring at the cell around him. Sam was in the one next to him, separated by iron prison bars rather than a real barrier because old country jails were never too great about renovating. 

“It was a good plan.” Sam argued, pacing slowly from one side of his cell to the other. 

“Yeah?” Dean replied in an energetically pissy tone. “So, how much of the demon’s trap did you get spray painted to the roof of that cop car? All of it, or…?”

Sam muttered under his breath, “Less than half.”

“Less than-” Dean took a second to check himself. “Less than half? You said getting all of it would be easy.”

“I would have.”

“Easier than a whore at a funeral.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You agreed when I said it.”

Sam walked up the bars. “It would have worked if you had signaled me when the cop was coming.”

“I was fighting two demons at the same time, Sam, it’s not like I was watching Oprah while that third guy snuck up on you!”

“I watched Oprah once.”

“Twice, Mr. Two Hour Specials Don’t Count!”

“What are we even fighting about?”

Dean pushed himself up to his feet. “We are fighting about my little brother’s crap idea that got me stuck in jail instead of one step close to finding my dad.”

“It wasn’t a crap idea. And since when have all your plans been brilliant?”

“Since I’m better than you.”

Sam laughed as he grabbed the bars in front of him. “Seriously? If you’re so much better than me, then why did you drag me out of Stanford?”

“Nobody’s around, Sammy.” Dean pointed out, “I can hit you without getting in any trouble.”

“I’ve got the answer, you wanna hear it?”

Dean stepped right up in his brother’s face, voice dropping. “Do you want me to actually get pissed, because I was just letting off steam before.”

“You came to get me,” Sam taunted, “because you can’t hack it on your own. More to the point: you never could.”

The less Sam seemed intimidated by Dean’s glare, the tighter Dean’s fists got. They were both waiting for it - the hit - but he never moved. After a long moment, Sam scoffed, broke eye contact, and started to lean back.

Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s shirt and yanked his face in between two of the bars. Sam’s eyes filled with momentary confusion as Dean inched closer, keeping his grip firm.

In one hard motion they were kissing. Dean braced his free hand on the back of his brother’s head to both deepen to contact and keep him from pulling away when he tried. Their mouths jerked open and closed against each other, the terrific pressure causing more pain than anything else. 

Sam managed to slide his mouth to the side until the sides of their faces were pressed together. They swallowed shallow, rapid breaths. Each of their exhales was deafening in the other’s ear.

“Dean,” he gasped.

Dean couldn’t decipher the meaning.

Shaking slightly, he relaxed his hold. He looked Sam in the eye and waited. For yelling, for silence, for the punch he deserved, anything.

Instead, they grabbed as much of each other as they could through the bars and Sam crashed his mouth onto Dean’s even harder than before. Gripping, ripping, and feeling, the bottom half of Sam’s shirt buttons went flying off as Dean groped his slim waist and pulled him into the bars. Iron dug into Dean’s collar bone and Sam’s hip with neither noticing. Sam seized his brother’s shoulders, forcing a strangled grunt from low in Dean’s throat while their tongues pressed, massaged, attacked. 

A loud CLANG sent them flying apart.

Dean stumbled backward and fell to the ground. He tasted a little blood, but didn’t give it a second thought when he saw the guard standing outside their cells with a nightstick and an incredibly judgmental expression. Sam was off in his own corner staring at the floor. His bangs blocked most of his face.

“You get one phone call between you,” the guard said with a heavy drawl, eyes dragging back and forth between them. Critical, to say the least.

Sam and Dean looked at each other out of habit. 

Dean gave him a nod. “Call Bobby. Get us out of here.”

Sam avoided all eye contact with the guard as he was led into the other room.

Dean laid on the ground and stretched out.

All he could do was laugh.