A/N: Bonus chapter because I'm still so thrilled that people like the fic! Enjoy! :)

I

Sam knew, every year, that spring had come when the birds would start up at four in the morning, chirping their heads off. Sometimes he wouldn't need to set the alarm on his phone, so the Batman cartoon theme song would go off while he was in the shower. And, if the dawn was pretty, it was much easier to wake up refreshed. The dawn, Sam had discovered, was pretty everywhere - whether you were living in a ramshackle motel in Lima, or in a little white frame house in Nashville, overgrown by morning glory bushes, or in a little wire-fenced brick house just on the border between Ohio and Kentucky. This year, his mother swore, her new morning glories hadn't bloomed, even though she knew he was in Ohio for a perfectly good reason.

Sam liked the dawn. He was probably one of the few teenagers on earth who didn't mind getting up early.

This time, however, he'd also sustained a (slight?) head injury - or so the raw bumps on the back of his head told him, and the bandages, and the soreness - so it took longer for him to come around. Much longer. It was a very groggy process. Sam rolled over onto his side (ow), picked up his phone, checked the time, then threw it to the floor next to the bed. He flopped onto his back again. (Double ow, and a little dizziness.) It literally felt like he'd been thrown into a sack and beaten to within an inch of his life.

He vaguely remembered those two guys from Thurston jump on him, female screaming, firework poppers, Coach barking orders, and Blaine's hazel full moons for eyes, drinking in the sight of drying blood and tears and snot and dirt. That was when everything had finally, mercifully, gone dark. It wasn't dark now. His eyelids fluttered open and shut, taking in the weather outside, and how fresh and brand-new everything appeared. He was a country boy, after all, and he knew that the outdoors mattered.

The sky promised to stay a perfect, clear robin's egg-blue through the glorious sunshine. He sensed the coolness, but it was going to be one of those days where it got much hotter later on, and you'd regret not wearing layers. He gingerly stretched out and pulled his arms out over the covers, wincing painfully; yesterday's fight had apparently been real exciting.

He heard a voice on a phone, Carole's, as she paced up and down in the hallway, rising as she approached, falling as she walked away. "We'll see you in a bit, Mary… yes, oh, oh dear. Be careful. We'll be at the hospital. No, Sam can't eat before the MRI…"

She stepped away. He smelled the waft of bacon and strong coffee stealing in from under the door and from downstairs. Too bad he wasn't going to be able to enjoy it, but the beautiful breakfasty smell was still soul-filling and reassuringly familiar. His absolute favorite breakfast was chocolate chip pancakes with bacon, which his mom saved for Sundays, after church. He remembered how she would put the chocolate chips in the uncooked batter in the shape of a heart, or a smiley face, or a sun. He even remembered that the cast-iron frying pan was Granny's, and that he'd inherit it someday, "when you have your own family, Sammy."

He was glad that she'd been gone to a better place, long before he'd done a backward slide, stripping for cash. He'd looked hella sexy, gotten some awesome tail. But he knew that she'd disapprove of what she'd see as selling his body - even if it was to buy Stevie and Stacy school clothes or help pay the gas bill. He could hear her gentle voice now: "You're better than that, Sammy. Your body is a temple. You're more than you think you are."

Why didn't he actually feel it?

Carole's voice and feet were coming back towards his door. "You don't think anything will…? I hope everything will go smoothly. I know Dwight's upset. No, we have cookout food, but you can pick up a veggie tray at a Walmart somewhere…"

They were coming to see him. He heard Carole say goodbye to his mother, and her heavier step just outside the bedroom door before she knocked. Sam realized, belatedly, that he should be making himself look decent for the hospital visit. He scrabbled around to sit up and cover up before she could come in, avert her eyes (while she'd raised two boys before Sam, she was still a naturally discreet sort of person) and remind him to get going.

II

In the afternoon, Sam's entire family was waiting on the street in front of the Hudson-Hummel home. They'd timed it perfectly. His visit to Lima Memorial, just for the MRI, had taken all morning. In the office, Burt had shaken his head and put a fatherly arm about his shoulders, and Carole held his hand on the other side of his seat. It was nice to be taken care of, even though they weren't always around.

But now that his family wanted to see him, they'd haul ass. It was like them, just not on normal days. They could spend nearly an entire day wandering aimlessly around Walmart or Target, or nearly an entire Saturday nestled in their shabby couch cushions talking about what to do (and then end up just watching movies, big bowls of popcorn in hand, or cleaning out the garage, or playing football in the backyard), but when it came to emergencies, they had hustle. The drive was two hours on I-75S, so 130 miles. If his mom was driving (and Sam was sure she would be), they'd be here a lot sooner than that. His mother was a big fan of NASCAR.

They unrolled the windows down to get the spring air into the car. As Burt carefully drove down the street towards the house, Sam and Carole could see the family standing anxiously on the sidewalk. His mom and dad had their heads turned, looking down the other side of the road. Their body language was stiff and concerned. So, it was the kids who saw them first. Stacy shrieked like a banshee, braids bobbing up and down, as they approached:

"They're here! Sammy! He's here!"

Both his parents whirled around and walked quickly to the car. While Burt parked, Stacy kept on screeching excitedly. Sam had forgotten just how loud she got when she was happy, like she wanted the whole world to know just why everything was so amazing.

Stevie tried to hold her back, protectively, away from the car door. "Don't run into the road, dummy!" Stevie was looking considerably more down, but there was a gleam in his eyes: he was glad to see him.

Both kids were a lot taller, more than he'd thought they'd be. Sam recognized the hand-me-down plaid shirt that Stevie was wearing. His mom and dad looked… older, and threads of gray hair shot through the blond. They looked smaller and sadder. He had no idea how all those tears got into his eyes.

He didn't have time to cry. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled from the car, or he flew out of it - neither Burt nor Carole stopped them - and it hurt, ow, ow, ow - but the hug was more healing than all the doctor advice in Ohio. Sam put his face in his dad's shoulder and he felt his mother's warm arms circling them both, and a soft, slow Tennessee drawl breathed out in his ear: "Sammy." It sounded like sweet tea, and barbecue, and a little white frame house overgrown by morning glories, and home. He closed his eyes. He vaguely remembered saying "You wanted it to end like this," a long, long time ago, but no, that wasn't really the case, not completely. He hadn't wanted to it to end like this without seeing his family again. Blaine and Tina and the New Directions were wonderful, really wonderful, but they could never take the place of his family. So, if he'd had his mom and dad and Stevie and Stacy there, in the choir room, what he'd said would have been truer. Even though Sam hadn't wanted to die, it would have been more comforting to go on to the next world with them instead of apart from them.

III

On the patio set, Burt and his dad were talking about sports (probably; they both liked sports), beers in hand. The grill lid was down, and they all smelled the first waft of hot dogs and burgers. It wasn't hard to notice that the men were eyeing each other, sizing each other up like - like they were about to fight. Sam would glance over at them worriedly, now and then, but right now he was too busy trying to catch up with Stevie and Stacy. Carole and his mom were walking in and out of the kitchen with trays and food and tall glasses of soda. They opted for the high road, white wine instead of Coors. The ladies seemed to be getting along a lot better. After all, they were astonishingly alike.

Sam and the kids were lying in the lush grass, staring up at the sky. All three of the Evans wore sunglasses, and Sam had to shift over a bit to accomodate Stacy, who had nestled her warm blonde head in the crook of his shoulder. The sun spread over all of them, and they felt the hot warmth seep through their skins. It felt good. It felt so good.

"You're getting big, kid. You both are," Sam said fondly. He reached out to touch Stevie on the shoulder.

Stevie had separated himself, Sam noticed, and he wiggled away from his hand. "Yeah," he said, but the monosyllable was flat. He reapplied sunscreen conscientiously.

"Sammy! Hey - I have a boyfriend now." Stacy giggled into his chest and her pink sunglasses poked into his armpit. It was cute. She still had the same laugh, a ripple, hee hee hee.

Sam blinked, but he kept his tone light. "Do I have to come over and make sure he's good enough for you?" She's eight, for crying out loud.

"His name's Josh. He looks like Harry from One Direction. He - " Stacy lowered her voice to a whisper, conspiratorally - "He kissed me on the cheek."

Stevie huffed, but he said nothing, burning in a mix of scorn for Harry from One Direction and scorn for Sam. His little brother tossed the sunscreen bottle aside - wow, that looked like something he'd do - and inched closer, but he kept his arms crossed, tight to his sides, and looked petulant.

"Stevie. Come on, I haven't seen you in months and months. The least you can do is to c'mere."

"Not until you tell me what's going on." Stevie's mouth thinned, in a creepy imitation of their mother, when she got mad.

"Stevie! You promised!" Stacy cried. "You'll make him stay away more!"

"What? No, no! Stacy, no - " Sam half tried to get up, but Stacy wriggled in closer and put one small hand on his chest.

"Don't talk to him. He moved away and then he got hurt. Stop getting hurt." Stevie was angry. Storm clouds gathered on his brow; he was going to start yelling soon, and then there'd be a tantrum. Ordinarily, if there was a TV around, he'd put in Lord of the Rings, if they had a DVD player that year, or electricity running; or if their parents hadn't managed to scrape together enough that month, Sam would just play guitar, or sing with them, and that would be all he'd have to do to help calm the kids down. But there wasn't any TV, and he didn't want there to be one, anyway. He really wanted to talk.

"No, no, no - " and Stacy started crying, marking his t-shirt with tears.

"Okay, I'm listening," Stevie said grimly. Goddamn it if he didn't look like Mom, and he raises his eyebrows like her, too. Stacy snuffled into his chest, which smothered her sobs a little.

Sam used his free hand to shake out his hair. "My friend Blaine was hurting, you see? I thought of a way to help him. I helped him stand up to some bullies."

Stacy raised her head and leaned up on her elbows to rest her pointed chin on Sam's chest. "Bullies?" she squeaked. "Did they do bad things to him?"

"Very bad things," Sam said. "They backed down. They hit me, though." Ow.

"You don't have to be a hero for people to love you," Stevie said evenly. His bangs, too, looked like they were long overdue for a cut, but his sullen glare cut between them, just as his words punched Sam in the gut. "People aren't as helpless as you think, Sammy."

"I had to help him, " Sam said defensively. Why was he justifying his actions to a ten year old?

"Is he better?"

"I think so." The smell of sizzling meat got stronger, and it sounded like dishes were being put on the table.

"So, good for him. But why couldn't you stay with us until you graduated and then gone to Ohio?" His little brother finally relented, and got close enough on Sam's other side to curl a plaid-clad arm about his waist.

So, there it was. Stacy's lip wobbled again.

"We've been over this, Stevie. The Glee club at McKinley needed me, or they wouldn't have been able to compete."

"It's just a club. There's Glee clubs in Kentucky, too. What's wrong with any of them?"

What was the Glee club to him? He tried to explain, and in the end, just like writing (which was also hard for him), it was a matter of pinning down his feelings. It still felt vague and imprecise, but it was all true. He said, "Because they're my friends, and I've never had better friends, even when we were fighting. We all support each other. Not better than you guys. Just different. You guys had Mom and Dad. They didn't have anyone."

Stevie mulled it over and went silent. He was always the quietest one, the thinker of the three. Sam had been eight when Stevie was born. He'd been jealous of the growing thing inside his mom, and then of the squalling red-faced thing taking up all his family's time. It hadn't been until Sam had sneaked in to look at the sleeping baby they'd named Steven - after his mother's father - that he'd realized that he wouldn't lose his parents' love after all. They were too different. Stevie was more self-contained, so getting to know him had been difficult. Sam had been the one to teach Stevie how to play Magic the Gathering at age four. That was when the family had realized that Stevie had a liking for nerdy games too, and they'd been real brothers after that.

"And you can date them," Stacy said wisely. Stacy was a little more flighty, but she got on with people better than Stevie. She wrote. She wrote stories at school that made adults sit up and take notice. There'd been talk of putting her in a program for gifted children. Boy-craziness had taken over her stories, as his mom had told him. "People like to pair up together."

He laughed. "That's right. You can date your friends."

"Mom said you dated a lot," Stacy giggled. "You gave some of them rings, but you didn't get married."

"When you love someone, you want them to know that you think they're special enough for you."

"You don't have to give anyone a ring to make them love you more or make yourself feel better," Stevie said.

"Yeah," Sam said, a little heavily. "I know. And I don't have to be a hero, either. I don't know why I do."

"Just love yourself and then it'll all fix itself," Stacy said solemnly.

Out of the mouths of babes. Sam hugged them both a little tighter, and it made a perfect day even more perfect.

IV

The sun was just going down, and Stevie and Stacy, crammed full of food, had been carried into the Hudson-Hummels' living room; it'd been a long, long day, and their energy was completely burned out. Stacy fit into the loveseat, and Stevie had snuggled into Carole's mom's white knitted crochet blanket. The happy wreckage of the cookout sat on the table, but no one was getting up to clear it away. This was too important. Carole had turned on the porch lights and lit paper lanterns, and they gently illuminated the backyard with a soft yellow glow. Moths flittered through the evening air. It was peaceful, but the ensuing conversation didn't start out that way. It was tense.

"So, son, you going to tell us what's going on?" his dad asked.

Sam sat, all alone, on a plastic chair, and he felt like when he was younger and he'd broken a house rule. Burt and his dad were still sitting opposite each other at the patio set, but they'd drawn their chairs out to face him, and his mom and Carole sat together on a little wooden bench.

A steely look darted, like the moths, between Burt and his father. "I've half a mind to drag you back to Kentucky with us." His mother nodded and looked worried - so worried. She wrung her hands and crossed her legs.

Burt stiffened, and an undertone of danger ran through his voice. "You saying there's something wrong with my supervision? Because he's like a son to us."

"I'm saying this happened under your watch, Burt," his dad snapped, giving the other man a pointed glance. Burt lifted the brim of his brown cap and matched him, glare for glare. His dad kept on, as if they weren't fighting a war. "And he's not your son, he's our son. You should have been keeping tabs on him better."

"Dad, no - " Sam stepped in before Burt could interject with something a little more inflammatory. "They didn't know anything about it. I'm eighteen, Dad. And they were away - "

"And if you'd been with us, this wouldn't have happened," his mother said, in that tone which meant don't argue with me.

Carole deftly slipped in her own two cents. "Maybe not a fight at a game, but something else."

"Maybe not," and his father relented just a little. "But at least we'd be closer to you, son. You have no idea how we felt when we heard, Sammy. It was our fault you got hurt, and we've never stopped thinking about you."

"It's parenting," Burt said. "You don't stop thinking about your kid whether they're there with you or not."

His father glanced at Burt. "Yeah. But still. I still don't like him being so far away. We're okay with you staying in Ohio until graduation, maybe even stay the summer if we visit, but - son, you should think about going to college in Kentucky. Your mother hasn't stopped pacing the floor since you left."

College. In Kentucky. Why not New York? And at the same time, a small part of him sighed in relief, because despite Glee club, despite his friends - he did miss his family, his own family, desperately. Stevie and Stacy were growing up way too fast, and his parents were getting older also, way too fast.

It was all too much to process, though. Sam rubbed his temples tiredly - ow. "I can't even think about college right now."

"It's something you'll need to consider," his dad said, firmly, in the tone that said That's that, Sammy, you think about this hard.

"We need to talk about why this happened in the first place." his mother stated flatly, cutting through the bluster of the men in one fell swoop. She was determined and she'd set her chin in that gesture which meant Don't you cut me off, Dwight Evans.

His mother was a gentle soul, but just because she spoke softly didn't mean she was weak or shortsighted. She was, uh, what did Blaine call people like his mom? A prag - pragmatist? Sam remembered when there'd been a bully of his own, some kid who'd kept on taking his lunch money in middle school and who'd jeer at his mended jeans and unfashionable shoes. His mother had been the one to sit him down and talk about being polite and telling adults about any trouble - and getting fit. His bully left him alone after that.

And then there was the one and only hunting trip with his dad and their friends, when he'd thought being a man meant showing off how powerful you were. He'd hit the little spotted doe. The blood and its pain had made him sick, and he'd cried, like a weak, helpless little kid. And even though his dad had been sympathetic, Sam had known, or told himself (which was the same) that his dad's opinion of him had dropped, in disappointment, because his pride and joy, his oldest son, hadn't had more guts.

That was when he'd fallen in love with sports, because sports didn't care if you were poor, or if you were chicken (because you could hide it), or if you couldn't read as well as everyone else. Sports made you a man. He lost his baby fat, got tall, and later, he began lifting weights. He got more confident, because his mirror image looked good, so he felt good. At home, he felt confident enough to pick at his dad's old guitar, and taught himself how to play. And then, he found out he could sing. He loved listening to his Granny's Barry Manilow records, and his parents' old classic rock, but he discovered more and more music in a little shop, far away from the school, where he'd hide for an hour or two every weekend afternoon or late, after football practice.

Sometimes he'd give the guitar a rest, and practice his impressions in the mirror. He'd first started the impressions to make Stacy and Stevie laugh, because sometimes they wouldn't have cable (bills again), and it kept them entertained, and helped him to laugh, too, and forget the threat of food stamps and thrift shop clothes.

He'd hidden the guitar, and the singing, and the impressions, from kids at school, because somehow, it didn't feel like the right place to be yourself there. All of that stuff made you stick out, and that was high school suicide. To make things more complicated, he then got popular. Because that's how high school worked: when you look good, you're popular, and when you're athletic, you can take care of yourself, so he did whatever he had to do to look good. Guitar and singing and impressions didn't help a guy's image. It didn't help you to be a man. So he played guitar, sang only at home, did impressions for the kids, and saved sports mostly for school. It worked.

Sam carried that lesson with him to Ohio. You make it look good and no one will notice that you're someone that you're not. It just doesn't help you feel good, but as long as you look and act the part, no one else is going to notice.

It had been a little show choir in a hick town that had shown him the way - that you didn't have to pretend, that you didn't have to lie or hide, that you could say what you wanted to say, and trust enough that he wouldn't get hurt. That you could pick up a guitar or sing Copacabana and it was okay. That you could be Taylor Lautner and Evan Evans and it was okay. It had been that little show choir that solidified all the messages his parents had given him all his life, about being a man, which had always made sense, and which he'd tried to follow, but until then, hadn't held as much meaning and truth as they did now.

And if he'd had a lapse in the choir room during a freak accident with a gun, it was actually… okay. He was human, instead of superhuman. Now, he had to finally be a man, and that felt much more difficult, because it was more than putting on a costume and a fake voice.

"Sam, care to explain, then?" his father asked.

V

Grow up. Take responsibility. And stop hiding.

Maybe it wouldn't happen all at once, this self-esteem stuff? But he'd start here. He took a breath. It was actually easier than he'd thought.

"Dad. Don't blame Burt and Carole."

That wasn't so bad.

"They didn't know that any of this was going on. It's not their fault."

So far, no one looked angry. Burt's shoulders relaxed visibly, and Carole finally took a sip of her wine.

"Whose fault is it, then?"

Sam took in a deep breath. "It's mine. I had to be the hero, because I wanted to help my friend."

His mother's face uncreased, and she gave him a tentative, sweet smile.

"I got hurt. And it wasn't your fault, either. This was something I decided I would do."

"Is he better?"

"Yes."

"Was it worth it to you?"

"Yes."

But his dad didn't give a Stevie kind of response. "Why did he need you?"

"Because you taught me to help other people, Mom. Dad. I thought I could help him, and I did."

His dad gave him a look.

"I can't hate that, can I, because we've tried to raise you right… I'm glad you listened."

"You need to know why I did it."

Because Sam wasn't much of a story-spinner, it took over an hour to get out a coherent re-telling of Blaine's experience at the first Sadie Hawkins dance. He found he still got upset, and then he'd have to take a breather, or get up and walk around to clench and unclench his fists, but haltingly, slowly, he managed to explain just why Blaine had needed a friend.

The sun had fully gone down by the time he was finished. Burt and Carole were holding each other tightly by the end, and Burt had taken off his cap to wipe at his eyes.

His parents looked at each other and there was a collective, silent, sigh of relief. A cool little wind came by to ruffle the edges of his mom's favorite dress, and it brushed across the lingering fever of Sam's brow.

"The poor thing," his mom said finally. "I'm glad you could help him, but oh - I'm still sorry you got hurt. You're still my baby, Sammy, my first-born. You'll never stop being my baby. But you're so grown up now - you're a man."

His father gave Sam a searching look, glanced over at Burt and Carole, then back at his son. He got up, stiffly, and pulled his chair towards his son, and sat. He draped his arm around his boy's shoulders and looked at his son, straight in the eyes.

Sam didn't look away. It was a moment, and he knew he would never see his father in the same way again. Time slowed down and stilled, and there was a hum of insects, and a gentle touch of evening breeze on his cheek.

"I understand it better. But, look. You'll never stop worrying us - but you have to take care of yourself. You are a man."

Yes. I am.

Sam felt lighter.

"If you play sports, or you play guitar, or you sing, or you put on a damn costume and fly around like Superman, it doesn't matter. You're our man and we're proud of you. And real men take care of the people they love. But they also take care of themselves."

Their hug was the best hug Sam remembered, and for whatever reason, hugging him didn't hurt at all. it felt like resolution, like when his mom told him he'd started to walk for the first time. He'd fallen over and cried, and then bumped into the corner of the coffee table and scraped his elbows, and then Sammy, I helped you up, and after that, when you fell down, you got up by yourself. You just did it.

He could do it again, except it meant dealing with bigger questions than just the simple act of walking. But it was a good start to have, out there in a little backyard on a beautiful spring evening in Lima, Ohio.

He didn't know what was going to happen to him. He didn't know if he was going to college in Kentucky or New York, or what the hell he was actually going to do with the life he was given. And he'd only just begun to grasp what being a man was really about. He was really glad that he'd have his family there to help sort it all out, and his friends too - help him finally learn to love himself, so that he could finally fix himself.