
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/511791.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Weechesters, Underage_Sex, Preseries, PWP
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-04-23 Words: 2150
****** Jock Itch ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     Dean's ultimate fantasy had been more like, "So me and Claudia
     Schiffer are on this desert island..." But Sam's was just, "I wanna
     blow you in your baseball uniform."
  This work was inspired by
      Summer_Blackout by Nutkin
Crack!
It's good. It's good. It's good! Well, it's okay. He coulda got to second base
on that hit, probably.
Dean's got sweat trickling down his temples, and it feels like the dust he's
kicked up from jogging all over the field is sticking to his face. Even though
the sun's going down, now, leaving the sky this violent pink, it's still too
freakin' hot. For a while, Sam was cooperatively pitching for him, but it's
been at least an hour since Sam swiped the damp hair plastered to his forehead
aside and panted, "I'm gonna finish my book, Dean. In the shade."
"Wuss," Dean had said, but he's feelin' the heat, too. Screw this. It was
supposed to be like practice, but he's given enough of a performance. Even his
coach would be satisfied.
He wades out into the grassy outfield to get the ball, then gathers up the bat
and glove and meanders toward the bleachers, where Sam's been parked, holding
his book up like people on TV do when they're pretending they're reading but
they're obviously not. Jeez, Dean's surprised he's not holding it upside-down,
too. He eyes Sam deliberately, bat over his shoulder.
"You not done yet?"
"Nah, it's - pretty long," says Sam, eyeing Dean over the spine of the book.
"Yeah, I bet," snorts Dean, and drops his bat in front of the little set of
bleachers.
Behind him, the field and almost the entire park is deserted, except for a
chorus of crickets and a couple of dedicated joggers, 'cause it's about eight-
thirty and 90210 or whatever is on. He collapses down onto the step below Sam
and leans back on his elbows, splaying his body out lazily. Sam sits there,
silent, as Dean pulls off his cap and pushes a hand through his hair, which is
hot and damp, and hopes for a breeze to come along and cool his face. He's
pretty aware that Sam is watching his every move, but he doesn't give him the
time of day - just lets his knees hang wide open and the sweat roll down his
back under his shirt as he tucks his cap back on.
"Man," he drawls tiredly, "it is too damn hot for this uniform."
Sam studiously turns a page in his book.
"I need a cold friggin' shower."
Nothin'. Crickets. Dude, this was Sam's idea. How many more lures does he have
to cast?
"... I gotta get outta this jock strap."
"You wore that too?" Sam blurts, and Dean grins, canines a-plenty.
"'Course I did. You don't wear a uniform without your jock strapped."
That's it. Sam's finally lowering his book, and when Dean glances up over his
shoulder - yeah. Sammy's eyes are definitely glued between his wide-open legs,
and he's got this stupid expression on his face. He smirks and sways a knee,
just casual-like.
"You wanna see it?"
And Sam - he just sits there for a few seconds, then shoves his book into his
black Jansport and nods, earnest-eyed and lip-biting.
Dean casts a look around the field again, this time looking at it with eyes
that are used to scanning for temperature fluctuations and orbs and the shadows
of things that go bump in the night. They're pretty damn alone; not a single
rugrat on the big toy or swings or slides, just a couple of people taking
leisurely evening strolls past the field or jogging along with headphones and
heart rate monitors on. It's pretty obvious by now that no Little League has a
game tonight, or they would've been here already. They could totally get away
with this.
Sam's on his feet, his long tan gazelle legs sticking out of his dorky khaki
shorts, his sneakers dusted with dirt. He's skinny and growing like a weed and
his hair's way too long right now, and it's just this tousled mop of waves with
little sun-bleached places that glint in the twilight. He looks like he's in a
hurry as he leaps off the bottom bleacher, and Dean's cock, under his cup,
suddenly flushes. Yeah, now he's really gotta get this jock strap off. Jesus.
"Hey," he says, sitting up straight. Sam looks at him, and for a second,
there's just the orange blare of the last sunlight of the day and the two of
them staring at each other. Dean jerks his head at the bleachers. "Under
there."
Sam's grip on the strap of his backpack works awkwardly, and as his eyes widen
and peer over the expanse of the seats, Dean can just hear it: Dean, no. We'll
get caught!
But instead, Sam says, "Okay."
And Dean's cup is suddenly way too freakin' small.
He follows Sam silently around the bleachers, wiping his sweaty hands off on
either side of his own ass, hardly believing they're doing this. That this is
all Sammy's idea, what he'd said he wanted. Dean's ultimate fantasy had been
more like, So me and Claudia Schiffer are on this desert island... But Sam's
was just, I wanna blow you in your baseball uniform.
Under the bleachers, it isn't exactly cooler, but it's darker and it feels like
a cave, especially with the big old elm trees that loom around it to give the
seats shade. There's long, faded grasses that nobody's thought to trim, some
weeds growing up in twists around the poles holding up the seats, and one of
Dean's cleats hit what feels like a glass bottle -- probably a beer bottle,
'cause nobody drinks Coke out of bottles anymore. There's probably cigarette
butts and stuff, too, but most of what Dean can see is just snatches of Sam's
red Mossimo t-shirt and his ruddy hair and long slices of the park toys, if he
peers out the slits between the stacks of seats.
When they're well under -- well-hidden -- Sam turns, and that little perv says,
"Lemmie see this jock strap."
Dean obediently slumps against the nearest pole and shoves his hand into his
pants, past his tucked-in uniform shirt. As Sam creeps toward him, he digs and
struggles for a second, then pulls out the rubber cup, his sigh coming out more
tense than relieved.
"Is that it?" Sam, who didn't even want to play t-ball in third grade, seems
wary.
"Cup," Dean says lowly. "Goes inside the strap, for protection. Was gettin'
tight in there."
Sam sighs, then, and it hits Dean's face like a warm breeze; damn, he got close
fast.
"I wanna..." he murmurs, and then his hand is on Dean's hip and sliding down to
squeeze at the bulge of Dean's prick through the uniform's clinging white pants
and the pouch of his jock strap, which is quickly getting filled with the curve
of his cock. Under the touch, Dean groans, sharp and throaty, and fills out
further, going from a cover-it-with-your-Trapper-Keeper chubby to full-on hard,
stretching out his pants and the strap awkwardly. Sam's hand squeezes him, and
-- how was this Sam's fantasy and not his? God, this is fucking hot. Sure, the
park is pretty empty, but there are joggers just across the field and they have
no clue he's under here, hard as hell, about to get his cock sucked by his kid
brother. He clenches his sweaty cup in his hand and pants up at Sam, who's all
standing up straight and taller than him.
"Gonna suck me, Sammy?"
There's a shudder in Sam's voice, and Dean can tell it comes directly from his
shoulders. "Yeah."
And he just kind of folds down in front of Dean, and there's this thump of his
knees hitting something that Dean thinks is the canvas of his backpack, and
then, he buries his nose in against the bulge of Dean's cock and sniffs, loud.
That little move has Dean's dick twitching, moving in the confines of the
strap, and he knows Sam can feel it against the bridge of his nose. He probably
smells sweaty and like the plastic of the cup, but Sam sighs out and his breath
bleeds hot and wet through the material and into Dean's skin as he mutters, "I
can smell your cock."
"Jeez-us," mumbles Dean desperately, his tongue clumsy and his teeth clenched.
Sam's fingers are working his pants open, then, brown and long and nimble,
popping open the double buttons and pulling apart the fly, and Dean can feel
him huff out on the bare skin revealed by the way his cock is shoving his jock
strap up and off his body, ridiculous and heavy.
"Oh my God," Sam moans, nosing at him again and making Dean grit right back,
"You like that, Sam?"
Instead of answering, Sam's hooking his index finger into the pathetically
stretched pouch and tugging it aside, making Dean's prick pop out and strike
him on the cheekbone.
It hits Dean all over again, right then -- they're at the fucking park, under
the bleachers where the parents of Little Leaguers sit and eat hot dogs and
yell encouraging things at their future lawyers, doctors, and presidents of the
United States, and Sam's on his knees just about worshipping him, all over this
lame, too-tight baseball uniform. This is going to be just about the quickest
blowjob ever, he realizes dully, the blood that's rushing around in his ears
this loud roar not unlike the air conditioning unit back at their apartment.
Sam's panting like he just scrambled around all the bases at top speed, and he
just slowly fists Dean's cock with his knuckly hand, staring -- he must be
looking at the way it's poking out from the white material of his pants and
jock strap, Dean guesses, then has to grit his teeth, because Sam's thing for
blowing him in his uniform's sorta starting to become his thing, too. He shifts
his feet against the ground, trying not to pump up into Sam's warm, sweaty
fingers, and then Sam shocks him by totally bypassing his cock in favor of
smashing his tongue in against the short wisps of hair at the base.
"Dude." Dean's aching in Sam's hand, now, and vaguely aware that he could
possibly be whining, and then Sam slurps up his dick like it's one of those
Dole things he obsessed on last summer and just does it, right then, all sudden
and hot. Just goes right down on him in this wet sucking slide, taking him in
with a tight exhale and then glaring up at him with eyes that are too dark to
see, except for the dangerous glint of them.
Kinda like he gets good at most things, Sam's pretty good at this by now. Way
better than he has any right to be, especially when he gets into it, and he
knows just how to breathe, just how to pull up and suck at the same time and
make Dean's eyes roll back in his head. He knows, whether by instinct or 'cause
he's gotten ahold of porn, how to pump Dean's prick at the base and suck in
tandem, and even when he's sloppy, it's still good just 'cause it's Sam.
"This what you wanted, huh?" Dean mutters, staring down at Sam, unable to look
anywhere else at all.
When Sam pulls back, Dean's cock glistens with his spit, and Sam breathes,
throat thick and congested, "God, you don't even know."
Dean bites down into his lower lip, and Sam's tongue is this shining, cotton
candy pink flash around the blood-darkened head of his cock, and Jesus, he's
going to come just looking at it.
"Back off," he grinds out, and after way too long a minute of totally not
backing off, Sam pops off him with a smacking noise, precome clinging in the
corners of his mouth, and darts up to press his mouth to Dean's. Their hands
are both scrabbling over his cock, then, tugging and clumsy, and Sam's tongue
tastes like him only muskier, somehow sweaty and sharp and like his fucking
jock strap -- and at that, Dean's buckling at the knees and shooting off, thick
and wet, all over their fingers for what feels like a year.
"Dean," hisses Sam intensely, "jeez."
"Shut up," wheezes Dean, and pulls down his cap over his eyes.
Sam's just given him the best blowjob he's ever had.
It's silent for a minute, except for Dean's ragged breaths and some nearby
cricket that's inspired to serenade them, and it lingers on in this endless
twilight, just him and Sam, hidden away, breathing together.
Then Sam mutters, "I like the front of it."
With Herculean effort, Dean focuses and looks down to where Sam's index finger
is snagging at the pouch of his jock strap.
"Yeah?" Dean hooks him in by the belt loops and chuckles, breathless, as he
pulls Sam into his hips and feels how freakin' hard he is in his schoolboy
khaki. "Well, just wait 'till you see the back."
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