A/N: So I started writing this just after "Born This Way" premiered, but never got around to continuing it, until now when I simply could not think about finals any longer! My big Glee story paints Karofsky as such a monster, but I wanted to give him the chance to be something else. As usual, this will center around Kurt, but Dave is the other main character. Two-shot?

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.

On The Right Track

"I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way!"

Kurt sang to himself, grinning as he pulled his French book out of his locker and shut the door, the action echoing in the empty hallway. He swished his hips side to side, humming as he slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced down, for the upteenth time, at his T-shirt with its proud 'Likes Boys' bulletin.

He was proud of Mr. Schue for suggesting the assignment and proud of the glee club for coming through. Of course, Kurt had embraced his sexuality long ago, but it still felt great to wear it across his chest—to be proud of it. He couldn't wait to call Blaine and tell him all about the performance.

Kurt's cell was halfway out of his pocket when he was interrupted.

"Hey, homo!"

Kurt froze. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked up.

Azimio and what appeared to be half of the hockey team were approaching, looking anything but friendly.

Kurt lifted his chin, taking a nonchalant step backward.

"Did you need something, Azimio? Maybe a personality?"

"Shut up, Hummel!"

"Or perhaps a dictionary?"

Azimio growled. "I said, shut up!"

Another step. Another, and Kurt hit something solid. He spun around and found himself facing the other half of the team, blocking his escape.

Shit.

Kurt steeled his nerves and focused his eyes on the floor. His fingers twitched on his bag.

"Well, say something, fag-"

Kurt swung his bag forward as hard as he could. He felt it make contact with at least one jock before he let go and ran, darting through the taken aback mob.

He wasn't fast enough. Not more than a few feet away from his tormentors, a meaty hand grabbed the back of his plaid jacket and pulled him back roughly.

Kurt yelped as he rammed into a bulky frame and hands latched onto his upper arms. Instinctively, he struggled, managing to ram one foot backward into the ankle of his captor. The bully howled and released one of Kurt's arms, which was enough for the smaller boy to wrench away and place a well-aimed kick a bit higher, watching in satisfaction as the jock crumpled to the ground in agony.

His triumph was short-lived when a hand yanked him around.

"You little shit!" Azimio sneered. His fist flew forward and caught Kurt across the cheek.

With a small cry, Kurt stumbled backward into the throng. Someone caught his arms and twisted them painfully behind his back.

"Let me go!" he shrieked, squirming.

Instead, Azimio stepped forward and grasped a fistful of his hair, pulling the countertenor's head back painfully.

"You turned Karofsky all faggy, Hummel. Now you have to pay for that. There's no room for fairies at this school." He nodded at his posse. "Let's take this outside."

Kurt's blood turned to ice and he opened his mouth to scream. A sharp jab to the gut caused him to cough instead, sagging slightly as strong arms manhandled him down the hall and out into the crisp late afternoon. Kurt felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He coughed and managed to gather his breath just in time to be thrown against the brick wall by the dumpsters.

"Ungh!" He bounced down to the asphalt, his palms stinging as they instinctively caught him.

"Where are all your little glee friends now, Hummel?" Azimio taunted.

Kurt looked up to see that the athletes had closed in around him. He swallowed and willed himself not to cry as he stood shakily.

Nobody pushes the Hummels around.

"Leave me alone."

They laughed.

"Hey," one bulky brunette said, pushing his way to the front. "Look what I found in his bag."

Kurt's heart sank. In the guy's hand was the picture of Blaine he always kept with him to remind him of his awesome boyfriend when things got bad.

Like now.

"Give that back," he demanded.

Laughter.

"This your boyfriend? He doesn't look like a fag. Guess it's just incentive to watch out—you never know when the gay will strike!"

"Stop—oof!"

He was pushed back against the building and lifted off his feet. Azimio sneered.

"You're not really in the position to tell us what to do, are you?"

And then Kurt couldn't stop it. He felt his eyes unwillingly fill, and a tear ran down his cheek.

McKinley was supposed to be safe now. It was supposed to be better.

"Aw, look, you made him cry!"

Kurt was slammed against the wall and released, and he crumpled to the ground.

Before he could gather his breath, a shoe slammed into his side and he gasped and curled up, coughing.

"N-no," he forced out, trying to get to his feet.

A meaty fist dragged him up and landed a punch to his abdomen and another to his face, and he fell back with a cry.

"Hold him down," Azimio ordered suddenly, and then there were hands all over the countertenor, pinning down his hands and feet, his knees and elbows.

Kurt panicked. He began thrashing.

"No!" he screamed. "Let go!"

Someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Jesus, we're not gonna rape you!"

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut and forced his breathing to calm.

"Except maybe that's what you want, a cocksucker like you…"

Kurt shuddered and squirmed. When the hand over his lips was removed, he opened his eyes.

"Stop," he panted. A trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth. "You don't—you don't want to do this."

Azimio laughed suddenly.

"You're right. We don't. Cuz we're not fags."

Tears swept down Kurt's cheeks and he strained against the hands pinning him down.

"Let me go."

"Oh, we will. When we're done."

Kurt was released suddenly and he began to make a move. He wasn't expecting the sharp kick to the head and he yelped as his vision blurred momentarily. His eyes watered with pain.

"Please," he murmured breathlessly.

Then there were blows hitting him everywhere and he curled into a ball, shielding his head.

Help.

:

"It isn't that I don't like Breadstix, but we go there every time…" David Karofsky was saying to Santana as they rounded a corner of the school building.

"It's cheap, it's delicious, and it has breadsticks. Need I say more?" Santana shot back. She narrowed her eyes and jutted her chin forward pointedly. "What has your gang of no-gooders gotten up to this time?"

Dave looked ahead and groaned at the all-too familiar sight of letterman jackets crowded around something. The hockey team had most likely cornered some freshman and were harassing him.

"Hey! Back off!" he called as they got closer. The jocks dispersed quickly, their game forgotten.

A slow breath of air whooshed between Santana's lips. "God. Kurt?"

Dave, who had been debating the merits of running after the others, whirled around. It only took one glance to identify the bloody figure on the pavement as Hummel.

Santana darted to her fellow glee member's side, resting one hand gently on his cheek.

"Kurt? Can you hear me?"

Kurt coughed and moaned.

"…yes."

"Good. That's really good, sweetheart. I'm just going to look you over, okay? Tell me when it hurts."

Dave stepped closer, fascinated at this newer, gentler side of his fake girlfriend. Her fingers ghosted over the damaged boy, moving on quickly when her touches prompted gasps from her patient.

Kurt didn't even seem to notice his former bully's presence. His eyes were squeezed shut and his fists clenched bravely.

"I don't think anything's broken," Santana said finally. "But there'll be a hell of a lot of bruising. We should take you to the hospital to be sure."

Kurt's eyes snapped open and his hand shot out, locking around the girl's wrist.

"No…hospitals. My dad…his heart…"

"Jesus, Hummel…" Dave breathed. Kurt ignored him.

"Please…"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Oh, no. Those blue eyes might work on your boytoy, but not on me. I'm not going to be the first casualty of your dad's infamous shotgun just because you're too proud to get checked out."

Kurt sniffled. "My shirt is ruined," he whispered.

"Oh, please. Like this cotton crap really meant anything to you." Gingerly, she helped Kurt sit up, allowing to lean back into her chest. "Come on, Dave, we don't have all day and Hummel weighs more than he looks."

"I heard that."

Cautiously, Dave approached the two, bending down and hefting Kurt up at the shoulder. He half-expected the smaller boy to flinch away, but Kurt did nothing except make a concentrated effort to breathe through his nose.

"Let's get him to your car," Santana instructed, helping Kurt lean against her other side.

The three made their slow way to Dave's pick-up, where Kurt finally perked up.

"My bag," he hissed. "They left it by the dumpster."

Santana sighed. "I'll go get it."

Dave hesitated. "You sure you should be alone…?"

Sue Sylvester would have approved of the withering look the Latina gave the larger boy.

"Please. I'm no fairy. Give me some credit here." And she took off back across the parking lot.

Kurt laughed softly. "Should I be offended?"

Dave bit his lip and returned his attention to his injured charge.

"Nah," he said, making an attempt to be blasé. "It's Lopez, after all."

Kurt chuckled again, moaning as the movement jarred his ribs.

"I need…to call Blaine," he gasped, resting his head against the truck's window.

Blaine? Oh, yeah, that prep boy, his…boyfriend.

"You can call him on the way," Santana said brusquely as she reappeared suddenly beside them, Kurt's bag hanging off one shoulder with papers and books crammed haphazardly inside.

"Who's going to drive my car?" Kurt asked then.

The corners of Santana's lips turned up. "Well, at least you have the common sense to know it won't be you. Since I wouldn't trust Hefty over here with a piece of fine machinery, I will do the honors of escorting your vehicle to the hospital. And to further protect your, I am sure, pristine seats from the stain of blood, you can ride with Dave."

Dave's eyes widened in protest, but the look Santana shot him was feral. Kurt only nodded wearily.

"Okay…"

Santana snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Hey, Hummel, you cannot fall asleep on me here. You might have a concussion."

She and Dave managed to bundle Kurt into the passenger seat.

"See you at the hospital?" Dave asked. Santana nodded, sending him a look clearly reading 'Look out for him or die,' before fingering Kurt's keys and taking off.

As Dave got behind the wheel, Kurt reached into his pocket and swiftly dialed a number. After a moment, his face fell and he curled the fingers of his free hand under his chin, leaning against his seatbelt.

"Hey, it's me. So, um, don't freak out, but some Neanderthals jumped me after school today. I'm okay, but Santana and Dave Karofsky are taking me to the hospital to be safe. Call me when you get this."

He ended the call and his hand fell limply to his lap.

Dave took his eyes off the road to see Kurt clearly losing the fight to remain conscious.

"Don't do this to me, Hummel," he pleaded. "You still gotta call your dad."

"Can't…" Kurt whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut.

Cursing his luck, Dave reached over and rescued the phone, thumbing through contacts until he reached the one labeled 'Dad.'

He took a breath and dialed.

"Hey, Mr. Hummel? It's Dave Karofsky…"