Someday I'll be Saturday Night. I'll be back on my feet, I'll be doing alright. It may not be tomorrow, baby, that's okay. I ain't going down. Gonna find a way. Bon Jovi

.***.

November 2010

The second week of November was when everything began spiraling out of control.

You could say that things began spiraling out of control on That Day in October when two dozen kids died, when more than fifty were hurt and everyone was scarred, because now they knew that their school wasn't safe. But the second week of November was when Eric got beat up in the streets on his way home, when a girl broke down in a group therapy session and Santana found a heart, when Puck and Artie try to help Sam and end up getting kicked out of his house.

Santana's happened first. Everyone in the school had to go to these group therapy sessions instead of gym. There were so many kids on medical leave from gym that they just turned the room into a doctor's office. From each class, everyone was split into groups of ten or fifteen and were encouraged to "share their feelings."

Strangely enough…it was working. People were getting a load of stuff off their chests, and sometime in around the end of October the new therapy-instead-of-gym thing was really getting into gear. A lot of people were starting to share. Really share.

Santana wasn't one of those people.

In the second week of November, she sat next to a tall, athletic girl, one of those girls that even Santana couldn't mock, because she was so genuinely nice. "Hey." This girl, Bridgett, said to her, blue eyes sad, and Santana nodded her recognition.

People started talking, and Santana more or less zoned out, thinking of Puck and then thinking of Brittney and Quinn and forcing herself to think of Puck again, of his rough hands, his warm lips, the stitches that ran, tight and even, across his chest…

And suddenly Bridgett next to her was talking. Another thing about Bridgett: her voice was beautiful. Quiet, with a hint of humor in every word, and Santana couldn't help listening.

"I've known for a while…I mean the doctor's told me the day it happened, but I guess I was always hoping…it's been over a month, and every day I keep looking for…you know…and it's not there, and I remember all over again." Santana looked at Bridgett. What was she talking about? And was she really crying?

"It's not like I wanted a baby, you know. I'm not one of those people who teachers look at and say 'oh, she's made to be a mother.' My sister's one of those people. But I always wanted the option. And I feel sad all the time." A hiccup, a half-sob, and Santana put her hand reflexively on Bridgett's leg. She, queen bitch, was comforting someone.

"And I see other people in wheelchairs, and Richie's mind is gone 'cause he took a bullet to the brain, and I know that their lives suck more than mine…but I can't help but think." Another sob, and Santana knew that the flood was coming, that it was close. Bridgett had only a few sentences left in her. "The bullet destroyed my uterus. I'm seventeen years old and infertile. How the hell is that fair?"

Maybe it was the fact that this girl, one who was so polite and respectful, had cursed, had yelled. Maybe it was because Santana leaned over to hug her when the tears began in earnest. But everyone left that session thinking that, good golly, perhaps we are all changed. And not just by the bullets.

.***.

When Karofsky found him on the street, when Eric turned and saw three more jocks in their red jackets, Eric knew there was no way to avoid this. He couldn't say he hadn't been expecting it, but he'd been hoping they'd show a little restraint. After all, he'd nearly died a month ago.

"Where's your boyfriend, fairy? Karofsky said, his voice low. Scary.

Eric thanked all the Gods he knew that Kurt had left school early for physical therapy. At least he wouldn't be involved with this. "What's the matter, Karofsky? This school needs more bruises and blood?" He was proud of his voice: hard, angry. He couldn't win, but he'd put up a hell of a fight.

"That blood is on your head, Hartman." Karofsky warned. "And these fellows and I lost someone very important to us in October."

"Look, I'm sorry about Jackson." Eric really was. He was sorry for every single person who'd died because people he used to count as friends turned out to be madmen. "But I had nothing to do with it…Mitch and Brad -"

"Are dead. And they let you live." Eric managed to duck Karofsky's first punch, but didn't have time to feel proud of himself. The blow to the kidneys stunned him more than they could know, and he was grateful for whoever said, "watch it, man, he's got mad stitches. Don't want him bleedin' internally or nothing."

"Why do you care?"

Eric just managed to follow this conversation from his fetal position on the ground, one arm around his side with the stitches, the other thrown over his head. He prayed that they'd lose interest before they actually killed him…before he lost the battle to the blackness already trying to creep in on him.

"I watched my brother die of internal bleeding, dickhead. He got shot through the chest…it was like watching someone drown."

With those words, the kicking stopped, and the group ran away from the crumpled teenage boy, but not before Karofsky balled up another one of his (cult's/church's) bulletins and wrapped Eric's limp fingers around it, not before he took out his pocketknife and carved three letters into the back of Eric' hand, not deep enough to sever nerves but plenty deep enough to scar for life. FAG.

.***.

Puck had to carry Artie up the couple of steps to Sam's front door, but he managed to do it in such a way that Artie didn't get embarrassed. One of the few nice things you could say about Puck: even before Glee, he'd never, ever hurt Artie. He'd throw Kurt in the dumpster every week and slushy Rachel, no problem, but he always drew the line at hurting the cripple.

"You sure Sam would want to do this? I mean, bowling's one thing, but I'm pretty sure he can't hold a bat with his hand still busted." Artie said.

"It's not about the batting cage, it's about hanging with the guys. Plus, the dude's been moping around ever since Quinn left." There was an edge to his voice, and the knuckles that rapped, hard, on the door, were white from where he had them in a fist.

Sam opened the door, hair still messy from sleep, wearing only jeans. "Hey, guys." He said, opening the door wider so they could enter. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice cast." Artie commented, pointing to the orange cast that covered Sam's hand. "I thought you had blue?"

"Had another surgery yesterday. No big deal, they just needed to put a couple more pins in. I guess I'm not healing just right." Sam looked down at his cast, twisting his arm thoughtfully. "I'm sorta glad, though. I was getting sick of blue."

"Can we sign?" Artie asked, pulling a Sharpie from his pants pocket. Everyone carried Sharpie's now – there were just so many casts to sign.

"Knock yourself out." Sam said, extending his arm. "Still haven't answered my question, though. What are you guys doing here?"

"Puck wants to drag you to the batting cages with us." Artie said, bent in concentration as he drew a pretty good caricature of Sam.

"Yeah, and you better not say no 'cause I know for a fact you haven't done much since Quinn left." Puck said.

Sam used the hand that wasn't casted to rub his neck. "I don't know, guys. I mean, I can't really hold a bat and my hand's been killing me since yesterday –"

"Bullshit!" Puck exclaimed, so suddenly that Sam yanked his arm away from Artie and Artie turned in his chair to stare at Puck. "Bullshit your hand's hurting."

"Screw you!"

"That's not the reason you won't come out with us. You can't stop thinking about Quinn. I get it. I knocked her up last year, I know how she is, and at least I got Santana. But you've locked yourself away in here."

"You don't know anything about me." Sam said, meaning it. Only Quinn had really known him.

For someone who had over sixty still-to-come-out stitches in him, Puck moved fast. He had Sam up against the wall before the quarterback could move out of his way. Artie yelled in surprise, wheeling forward, but he couldn't insert himself between the two and he couldn't haul Puck off.

"You're depressed, Sam. You think I haven't seen this before? And damn if I'm going to let another one of us die because of all this. We already lost too many."

"Get off me!" Sam said, bucking his body, but Puck had all the leverage, all the right angles, and he wasn't going to move until he got some answers out of Sam.

The front door opened and Dean walked in to find his kid brother – his hurt kid brother, his kid brother who'd had surgery yesterday – pinned against the wall by someone twenty pounds heavier than he was. Dean didn't have to think. He ran forward and yanked the guy off, planting himself firmly in front of Sam even as he punched out in the place he knew it would hurt most.

Puck almost blacked out when he got punched in the kidneys by this older guy who'd flown into Sam's house. The only thing that kept him upright was Artie's chair, and he had to lean on it heavily.

"Get out." Dean said, and Puck wondered vaguely if he could ever master a tone like that. Authoritative, angry, chilling to the bone. "I don't know who you are and I don't care. If you don't get out I'll kill you." This wasn't exaggeration, or something to add effect. This guy would actually kill Puck if he stuck around, and they both knew it.

"Dean…" Sam muttered from behind his brother's body, but Puck and Artie were already on their way out the door.

Dean turned around, expert eye surveying Sam's body for injuries. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head before leaving the room, leaving his confused brother to stand in the doorway, trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.

And he had this horrible feeling that he would never figure it out. Could never. Because there are some things you just don't understand unless you were a part of them. Love triangles and war and conspiracies. And waking up one morning thinking your school was the most boring, safe place on earth and going to bed knowing that you didn't know anything at all.

On that wonderfully upbeat note...Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!