Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2363792.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, Glee
  Relationship:
      Kurt_Hummel/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Kurt_Hummel, Blaine_Anderson
  Additional Tags:
      Community:_blindfold_spn, Crossover, Underage_Sex, Impregnation, Mpreg,
      Soulless_Sam_Winchester
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-07-28 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 2857
****** Please, God, Not Another Pregnancy ******
by Edwardina
Summary
     prompt: During a job in Ohio, Sam has a (dirty, filthy, awesome) one
     night stand with Kurt Hummel. Unbeknownst to either of them at the
     time, Sam's superseed gets Kurt knocked up. Eventually, Kurt shows up
     at Bobby Singer's doorstep either pregnant or with a baby.
Notes
     Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted here.
     I saw this prompt and said, "I feel like... this was meant for me..."
     It's not tremendously porny, so I'm sorry about that, but I found it
     relevant to my interests and fun to write. It takes place during
     Sam's soulless year post S5, and around 212 in Glee, pre-Klaine.
Lima, Ohio is so unremarkable it hurts. Most of it's just never-ending suburbs,
parks with gazebos and elementary schools and supermarkets and little clusters
of corporate hell here and there – coffee shops, Sheets-N-Things, Breadstix.
Samuel was right: it's the perfect place for a siren gone suburban to breed.
It's a lot like where Dean's living now.
Sam checks into the American Family Motel for a base, but doesn't disturb the
bed. He slides into research mode immediately.
He doesn't need sleep, so he doesn't need caffeine, but he goes to the Lima
Bean for the free wi-fi and gets a latte out of habit. His taste buds
appreciate it in a distant, muffled way. It's not that he can't taste it or
feel its heat... he just doesn't really care. Other things occupy his thoughts
now. He isn't distracted for a moment by the routine of eating, sipping coffee,
Google Mapping as he sits at a tiny table with his laptop. He notices, but
doesn't really care, that this place is infested with teenagers in navy blue
private school uniforms, and he notices, but doesn't really care, when one of
the teenagers accidentally whacks him in the shoulder with a leather satchel.
"Oh. Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry," says a lilting voice. "I didn't see you
there, although now that I see you, I don't know how I missed you..."
Sam glances up to see pale skin, piercing blue eyes, and a red mouth quirked at
him. It's a schoolboy, and he touches Sam's shoulder with one light, apologetic
hand. Sam's senses kick into maximum overdrive automatically, flooding his
brain with information in the space of a second. Burberry scarf, black pea
coat. Flushed face. Hips cocked forward unnaturally, shoulders splayed straight
back. A second schoolboy at his side with one hand shoved into his pocket and
the other taking the first boy's arm, on the verge of pulling him away, face
wary for a split second as he sees Sam's dimpled, meaningless smile.
"No problem," says Sam, staring down the boy's company for a harsh second
before looking at those blue eyes again. They're framed with delicate, dark
lashes that bat at him once.
"Yeah, sorry about that. He gets tunnel vision. C'mon, Kurt."
"Yes, pardon my swag," says Kurt, all spontaneous and bright, clutching at the
leather strap of his bag and smiling right at him as the darker-haired boy
leads him away, both possessive and coddling.
Sam watches as they exit the shop and stand together for a few moments in the
afternoon light outside, Google Maps shunted to the back of his brain. The
shorter, darker boy finally leans over, smiling, to kiss the paler boy on the
cheek. It neatly cleans away any doubt. They're definitely together. Uniforms
or no, high school boys don't kiss each other in public unless they're serious
and willing to deal with the consequences. Kurt watches his boy walk away,
turning on the spot and gazing after him, then crosses the street and climbs
into a black SUV.
Google gives him the school: Dalton. It's in Westerville, at least an hour
away. Some patient hacking gives him the license and registration info on the
SUV. It belongs to Burt Hummel. Back to Google for the address. Kurt lives
here. Sam finds his Facebook profile and a blog dedicated to men's fashion with
a generous side of royal wedding news and celebrity trend-spotting. Sam's never
seen anything so gay in his life, and he watched Point Break with Dean about
twelve times, experimented rebelliously in college, and went to a convention
where half of the people there were gay couples dressed up as him and his
brother.
Kurt Hummel, who was born when Sam was twelve, is no siren – and frankly Sam's
working this job because a siren would have no effect on him – but he sure as
hell sets off whatever mechanism's in Sam that demands satisfaction. Sam
doesn't bother to wonder what it is about him, exactly. He doesn't care. He
doesn't care if Kurt has a boyfriend. He doesn't care if Kurt will want money.
Kurt is his reward. Once the siren's off his plate, Kurt's on it.
Sam scavenges for the siren at night and all morning for a week. He doesn't
even need to pretend to sleep. At four-thirty every day, he stops to sip coffee
and stake out the Lima Bean for his extra mark. Kurt and that same boy stop in
every day, religiously, and when Kurt steps into the place, it seems to become
more colorful. He seems to change the stale coffee-scented air, sweetening it
with whatever scents he's wearing – cologne and hairspray and a longing for
dick he doesn't know how to translate into reality. Luckily Sam's efficient at
that.
The day Kurt notices him is the day he steps in without his boyfriend, Blaine,
and looks around the place as if lost. He sees Sam and smiles awkwardly,
recognizing him.
"Well hi there, tunnel vision. I'm just leaving," Sam lies, without pause. He
remembers how a convincing, just-a-nice-guy voice felt in his throat and
pitches it there as he stands. "Here! You can have my table if you want."
Kurt's brow arches and he smiles, speaks to Sam like they're acquainted just
from having bumped into each other. "Thank you. But I'm kind of flying solo
today, so I may just take my medium drip to go."
"No arm candy today, huh?" Sam shuts his laptop and smiles.
"No. Not today. He has an audition."
Sam moves in seamlessly. "Audition? What for?"
"A Westerville community theater production of The Secret Garden. Between you
and me, he's no Dickon, but I'm sure he'll get it. He gets everything he goes
for."
"Including you?" Sam says, cocking his head.
"Oh, no. No, unfortunately. He's not into me like that."
"So are you saying I have a chance?" asks Sam, pulling the flirt gear
confidently.
Kurt's eyes are wide, but there's a knowing ghost of a smile on his mouth. "A
chance? At what?"
"To buy you a coffee. What did you say your order was? A medium drip?"
"Actually," says Kurt, looking up at him and biting down on his smile
deliberately, "I really prefer a grande non-fat mocha."
"I would love to buy you one."
"My, you're just Finn-ishly tall."
It's that easy. Two hours later, Kurt's late for dinner and Sam's got his phone
number and knows that Finn is Kurt's tall step-brother he was once madly in
love with, that Kurt has no hope Blaine will ever return his affections, that
he's ticklish, that his mother died when he was eight, that his dad and Dean
share a love of Clint Eastwood movies and Mellencamp, that Kurt is fluent in
French and kissed a girl last year but it was "uninspiring." He also knows that
Kurt briefly thought a boy at his old school named Sam was gay but never could
figure out whether he was or not; he laments, "Sam. Maybe I'm just a sucker for
guys named Sam. If you're not gay, I'm sorry, but I will cry."
"I'm into guys," promises Sam.
"Thank God. I thought my gaydar was busted, between Sam dating Quinn and Blaine
falling into The Gap."
Sam can run his game all evening; he knows like he knows how to breathe that
teenage boys like Kurt, too smart for their own good and destined to leave this
place for better things, need an outlet. He lets Kurt guess how old he is –
twenty-three sounds so incredibly young, but maybe Sam looks it, clean-shaven
and smiling – and fills in the blanks with half-truths and lies, name-dropping
Stanford and saying he's writing, articles for free-lance and a fantasy novel
for fun. He hasn't spun such stories in a long time. He just gives hookers cash
when he wants pussy and nails them to the mattress. But right now he wants a
particular slice of underage twink ass, so he has to play it right.
They make Saturday plans to check out the new bookstore two blocks over and
grab coffee again.
At last, when Kurt says his dad will kill him if he doesn't get home, he thanks
Sam "so much" for the coffee and gives him a hug. He's lithe and tiny and has
to stretch, up on his toes, to get his arms around Sam's neck. Sam could
literally pick him up with one arm and toss him over a shoulder and carry him
off like a rag doll if he wanted. Instead, he just strokes Kurt's spine
casually and feels Kurt swoon for a moment against him.
Friday night, Sam's just slit the throat of the last remaining siren-child with
his bronze dagger laced in the blood of the child's own father when he gets a
text from his mark: Looking forward to tomorrow. I can't help but wonder, is
this a date?
Sam, getting his phone sticky with blood, texts back, Yes. In case it wasn't
obvious, I want to screw your cute little ass till you've creamed yourself so
much you're coming dry.
After about ten minutes of radio silence, it's just starting to occur to him
that he may have come on a little strong in the heat of the moment, every gear
in him pistoning so efficiently that his response to Kurt may have been too
accurate, too on-point, too much. Or hell, maybe it's the kid's bedtime. Normal
teenagers have those, don't they? But Kurt doesn't leave him hanging much
longer.
You could come by my house... but you'd have to be quiet...
Sam deigns to wash his hands.
What's your address?
Kurt's house is nice, the kind he would've done just about anything for when he
was a kid, all upper middle-class. Kurt, red-faced and in a silk robe Hugh
Hefner would've worn with a nautical hat or something, lets him in through the
weirdly pristine garage and whispers again, insistently, hands catching the
front of Sam's tan jacket, "You have to be quiet. Finn's down the hall, and I'd
be so dead if my dad caught a guy in bed with me..."
"Are you a quiet little mouse when you get your ass fucked?" says Sam under his
breath, nasty. He knows perfectly well Kurt's a virgin. He reeks of it. Sam's
going to be his first.
Kurt shivers and closes his eyes momentarily, jaw dropped as he backs them both
through the dark living room. "I can't believe you're saying that to me."
"You like it," Sam replies certainly.
He follows Kurt up to his bedroom, containing himself and moving silently.
Kurt's bedroom is white and fussy, with shelves full of books and stacks of
Vogue, and the furry black blanket on his bed is disturbed, a bedside drawer
left hanging open the one thing that seems out of place. The door's not even
shut behind them yet when Kurt practically climbs him like a tree, catching
Sam's face and kissing him pleadingly. Sam has him up in one arm in a second
flat, carries him over to the bed and throws him on it and climbs on him, hands
pulling apart his silky robe and flimsy satin pajamas.
"Oh my God, you're huge," Kurt huffs. In comparison to his slim shoulders, Sam
really is; he's not just taller, he's broader in every way, more muscular than
men way closer to his size, let alone a teenage boy who's a lanky slip of a
thing, at least three of his inches impeccably-styled hair.
"You like that? Like that I'm bigger than you? Older?" Sam demands.
"That sounds so wrong..."
"Wrong? Bad? Dirty?" Sam's sure Ruby's words are coming out of his mouth, but
he just finds them useful now. "How's this for wrong and bad, Kurt? You're
gonna take my cock in your little ass while your step-brother just snores down
the hall, not knowing what he's missing by not fucking you every time your
parents go to bed."
It's like hitting a reflex, the way Kurt jerks underneath him and moans, "Oh,
God."
Sam's hard as fuck, his body responding to everything quivering underneath it.
"Bet you'd love that, huh. You're gonna love going to Dalton tomorrow with your
hole still leaking my come, and Blaine won't know a thing, will he? He won't
know you let a guy come fuck you in your own bed, you just want dick that
fucking bad."
"Jesus," Kurt squeaks, and Sam covers his mouth tightly with one hand.
"Shh. Don't want Finn to hear, do you."
He isn't that surprised to get Kurt's pajama pants down to find his ass
slightly prepared, lubed as if in anticipation but still so tight, he's not
sure whether Kurt knew what he was in for or if his young body was just that
quick to tighten up again. Sam gives him two fingers and shushes him repeatedly
as he works Kurt's ass more open, which Kurt just seems to get off on if the
helpless rolling of his eyes and suffocated moans and hard teen dick are
anything to judge by. Sam doesn't even ask about condoms. He wears them
habitually – the only STDs he's ever had were angel-given – but Kurt's never
done so much as kiss, and now this. The feeling of finally sinking his dick
into Kurt, the kid flipped onto his belly and burying his sobs into fancy
pillows, and touching nothing but slick hot insides is amazing. It's not like a
routine coffee that does nothing to wake him up or staring up at the stars and
expecting to see something. It's not even like screwing some random girl. He
comes before Kurt does, even though Kurt's been crying and on the edge for half
an hour, and it takes him totally by surprise.
But the night is young, and so is Kurt. Sam skewers him deep and lets
everything off, breaths hitching, and after the peak of it, his body
automatically resets itself for more. He comes again after Kurt does for the
second time, too, cock untouched except for the way Sam's rutting it into the
sticky mattress. By the time Sam's done, Kurt can't come anymore, is just
trembling all over uncontrollably, literally shaking with exhaustion and pent-
up emotion or whatever it is that's making him cry. Sam lets him cling for
about an hour, then slides away and hikes his jeans up again. He never even
took his boots off.
Lima, Ohio has been out of his rear-view mirror for three hours when he gets a
text from Kurt.
You blew your wad in me like four times and left me in a puddle of my own jizz.
Can I get a last name?
Sam blocks the number.
Six months later, summer is bleaching the midwest, and while Sam is no longer
friends with Bobby like he once was, he still takes the call when Bobby's
number shows up on the screen, stepping out of the Campbell compound so Samuel
won't overhear him.
"So, you wanna tell me why there's a desperate kid on my porch claiming he
Ouija-boarded our names out of his dead mother?"
"Uh, back up, Bobby," says Sam cluelessly.
"You back up! Go all the way back to February and tell me what the hell you
were doing in Lima, Ohio."
"Lima? Taking out a family of sirens."
"Uh-huh, and now the part where you were getting your kicks knocking up a
teenage boy."
"Bobby," laughs Sam, utterly without humor, "come on."
"Listen up. This kid is in his second trimester. He looks like he's smuggling a
beach ball under his sweater, and I gotta tell you, it looks damn weird, and he
is damn insistent, and I am not dealing with your mess by myself, so you get
here – now – and maybe I won't be yet another hunter blacklisting your ass!
Hold on."
Sam cocks an unsentimental eyebrow. He may not feel much of anything at all
these days, but his memory works fine, except for the whole Hell portion. He
remembers Kurt with an eerie clarity, especially since the few women he'd paid
to fuck since were, as the kid had once said with his own brow arched,
uninspiring.
"...Okay," says Bobby, muffled. "Suit yourself, kid. I warn you, he ain't the
most cooperative person I ever met."
"Bobby," Sam barks over a bit of static.
The voice on the other end of the line is sweet, smooth, and perfectly-pitched.
"Why, hello, Sam Winchester."
Something in Sam clicks in sudden response. "Kurt?"
"Baby Daddy."
"Are you at Bobby's?"
"Yes. It's very Hoarders-chic. With all the trucker caps and pleated vests,
it's like I never left home."
Sam is walking toward his car, parked under a tree off the dirt road that's
been worn into a driveway, before he can really stop himself or ask himself why
he doesn't just hang up – he doesn't have time to deal with this.
"Stay at Bobby's, okay? Don't go anywhere. And don't touch anything. And don't
talk to anyone. I'm on my way."
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