They traded off for a while, when they started, but they don't anymore. One time when it was Dean's turn, Sam just stopped him, took the lube and the condom right out of his hand, pushed Dean on his back and fucked him instead, Dean staring up at Sam with a what-the-fuck expression on his face the whole time. Then Dean came all over himself without a hand on him, and stared down at his own dick completely baffled after, maybe even a little betrayed. Sam just yawned and went to sleep, satisfied, and since then, that's just how it is.
Dean wants it at least three—okay, four—okay, five, so what, he's a healthy young man in his sexual prime—nights out of the week, and it's not that Sam won't, but he's a freaking girl. He'd be just as happy getting laid once a week, and he needs about an hour of warm-up time, with tongue and fingers and lube and sometimes the freaking vibrator—what guy has a vibrator? jesus—before he's really in the mood to get topped, and yeah, that's plenty fun, but sometimes Dean just wants a quick fuck before bed.
On the bright side, it doesn't take more than about five minutes to get Sam revved up for a ride, even if he's messing around on the internet and batting Dean away at the start. If he's a little annoyed when they finally get down to it, that's almost better, because he doesn't get hung up on the prep as much, and since Dean's not a prissy tightass bitch, he's more than happy getting on with the main event, and Jesus, Sam's got a beautiful cock, and it's even more beautiful when it's sliding into him, good sweet burn on the edge, Sam braced over him muttering, "You're such a slut, Dean," and nosing at him with these little stupid half-kisses, and Dean just sets his hand on the small of Sam's back and coaxes him on a little quicker.
even switching (well, theoretically)
"Okay, come on, best of nine," Dean said.
Sam rolled his eyes. "You know what, forget it, Dean, let's just go to sleep."
"No, nevermind," Dean said, sulkily, and started unbuckling his belt. Sam went and got the lube.
"It's just," Dean said, a while later, grumbling, "sixteen freaking times in a row, and—"
"Hey, it wasn't my idea to rock-paper-scissors for it," Sam said. He thrust in hard.
"Yeah, you wanted to talk about it," Dean said, and groaned.
Sam's never going to tell Dean this, because that would blow the whole thing, but the reason he likes it better is Dean gets a little soft when he's on top. When Dean's taking it, he's all, "C'mon, give it, Sam, fuck me for real," but the other way around, he presses in slow and careful and slick, wraps his arm around Sam's waist and fits their hips together and nuzzles at him, smooths his hand down Sam's side, murmuring, "Yeah, that's good; how's that, baby?" almost wondering, like he can't believe it's happening. It sounds stupid, but that note in Dean's voice just makes every last muscle in Sam's body unwind, like he's safe; like they're both safe, together.
Sam's a selfish little bitch who just never lets him have a turn, goddammit.
= End =
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