A brave man once requested me to answer questions that are key, "Is it to be or not to be?" And I replied, "Oh, why ask me?" 'Cause suicide is painless. It brings on many changes. And I can take or leave it if I please. M*A*S*H
.***.
November 2010: Later that same week.
That weekend, everything changed.
After the (cult/church) stood in front of the school on Friday, shouting about homosexuality and making strange parallels between that and kids dying in a school, Eric and Kurt fled school grounds. That was also the weekend Sam jumped off a bridge to kill himself. The weekend Santana went to Artie and confessed her love for his dead girlfriend. The weekend Eric's brother came to the Hummel's house and Finn almost sent him to the ER.
But it all started with that cult coming to the school with signs and anger on Friday morning. Kurt, Finn, and Eric drove together every day except this one, because Finn had crashed at Puck's house after working on a project (and isn't it funny that there are still projects, as if the world hadn't stopped turning a month ago?) Which added up to the fact that Kurt and Eric were alone when they were bombarded by people who thought they were going to Hell, people who thought that they should probably try to get there quickly, so they didn't spread their perversion.
Kurt took one look at the signs, one look at Eric shaking next to him, face white, and shook his head. "School is so not worth this." He said, taking eight seconds to message Mercedes and tell her to meet him at the diner. He paused, and then punched in a few more letters. BRING SANTANA.
He'd had his suspicions about Santana and Brittney. No way she needed to see all this, not with the girl she loved six feet under.
Eric was still staring at the crazy people with their crazy hate, and when Kurt slipped an arm around his shoulder (possessively, lovingly, and suddenly a lot of the shouts were aimed directly at them) he still couldn't rip his eyes from his brother, his mother, out there with their own signs.
"Why do they hate us?" Eric mumbled, the same question he posed to Mercedes, Santana, Finn, Rachel, Puck, Artie, Sam, Tina, when they were sitting at the diner an hour later.
Mercedes pursed her lips. "Those guys should so not be using the good Lord as a cover-up. I go to church, too, and I still think Kurt is pretty bad-ass."
"Thanks." Kurt whispered, smiling at her, "But even I don't pretend to think that every church is like this one. I've known too many nice Christian people to let those guys tell me any different." He shook his head, "They're just…there's so many of them."
"Did they hurt you?" Finn asked, and though the question was quiet, there was so much protectiveness in his tone that Kurt threw him an appreciative glance and Eric almost smiled.
"Not physically."
"This is such bull!" Puck seethed, putting a protective arm around Santana. "What the hell are they thinking? Can you even say that kind of stuff outside a school?"
"You can say it anywhere. That's kind of the point of freedom of speech." Rachel pointed out.
"Doesn't mean you should say it." Artie muttered, hands slapping the arms of his wheelchair. Everyone around him nodded except for Sam, who stood up, looking kind of sick.
"I can't take this anymore." He ground out, eyes darting around the room, looking for a quick exit. He wanted Quinn, needed her, but instead he had a throbbing hand and a ruined life that had been torn to shreds by bullets and hate. So he ran, before any of the others could catch his hand, stop him. He ran, so he didn't have to be a part of this life anymore.
.***.
"Hello?"
"Is this Finn Hudson?"
"Yeah. Who's asking?"
"My name is Dean. I'm Sam's brother. We met on the bleachers that day…?"
"Oh. Yeah. What's up, is he alright?"
"I was actually hoping you knew where Sam is. I just walked in the door and…I'm not crazy, am I? He's a teenager, and God knows I went out to a couple of parties, but his hand is still in a cast and it's so late and…."
"Dude, we'll find him. I'll meet you at the school. We'll start at the bleachers."
.***.
Santana and Puck and Artie somehow gravitated back to the diner that evening. Puck had an arm around Santana's shoulders. She was still shaking.
"Those guys at the school really scared you, huh?" Artie asked quietly, eyes dark and unreadable behind his thick glasses.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Santana asked, biting the words out harder than usual.
"Nothing." Artie murmured, staring back down at the table, hand balling into a fist that he repeatedly hit his leg with. Thump. Thump. Right on top of the bullet that had torn up his knee good, not that that meant anything. One of the perks of being in a wheelchair.
Puck stiffened, wrapped his arm more securely around the girl. He'd had his suspicions about Santana and Brittney – hell, once or twice he'd seen them full-on making out. At first, he'd just thought it was another stunt – thought the two would do anything for attention. But the way those guys were railing against queers – sorry, homosexuals. Finn told him that if he ever said 'queer' around Kurt again he'd rearrange his mouth, and Puck believed him – anyway, the way those guys had been outside of the school, the way Santana'd reacted to it...
"I never wanted to be labeled." Santana said, her words dripping with ice, daring one of the boys to contradict her. "That's why I never told anyone about me and Brittney. She wanted to. She was so damn sweet…after I told her I wouldn't go public with it for the fourth time, she went back over to boys. Started dating our resident cripple here."
"We wouldn't have thought any less of you, 'Tana. You know I love me some girl-on-girl." Puck said, squeezing her shoulder.
"I've seen the crap Kurt takes. I never wanted that to be me." Santana buried her head in her hands, "I thought we had our whole lives left, you know? That we'd get out of high school and me and Britt would be together. And then she just…she just died and I don't know what to do. I loved her."
Artie put a hand on her leg, patting it awkwardly as Puck swung the now-sobbing girl onto his lap, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Shh…" He muttered into her hair, eyes focused on some distant point in time where all this would stop making him feel like there was a hole in his soul that could never be filled. "Shh…we loved her, too."
"We loved her, too."
.***.
Somehow, they made their way over the bridge after searching the bleachers, the fields, the school, the diner, and assorted friend's houses. It was midnight. Dean was frantic.
"He's all I have left." He muttered, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he gripped it tighter. "He's the only person left in the world I really give a damn about." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wild.
"We'll find him." Finn placated, but he was less optimistic than he had been hours ago. Suddenly, little things Sam had said and done were starting to come together to make one big depressing picture. Quinn left, and Sam's hand was shattered, no way he could ever play football again. And he'd been good. Better than Finn. The town he'd just moved to after the deaths of his parents was blown apart by a horrible day, and factions were now attacking what friends he had left.
Everyone's lives sucked since That Day, but it was only now that Finn started to wonder why Sam didn't try to off himself before now.
"Woah!" He yelled, and Dean jerked the wheel, pressing on the gas so they skidded to a stop three feet away from where Sam was calmly looking over the edge of the bridge he was standing on top of.
"Sammy!" Dean roared, running out of the car before it had even really stopped. He blinked in the rain that had started an hour ago, but kept his distance from his little brother, trying his best to remember the psych rotation he'd done three months ago. He'd had three suicidal patients on that rotation. Two had died.
He was not going to let his brother become a third.
Sam turned, saw Dean and Finn standing there, and looked completely confused. "Hey guys."
"Get down from there!" Finn yelled above the rain. "We've already lost Mike and Quinn and Brittney and Schue. There's no way we're losing you, too."
"It doesn't matter." Sam said, sighing, tilting his head to the side as if they were having this conversation in the hallway, the locker room, not with him standing inches away from death. "Really, it doesn't. Everyone I love dies. It's kind of a fact of life."
"I'm still here, little brother!" Dean said savagely, pounding his chest with one hand.
A ghost of a smile grace Sam's face. "You've been so good to me, Dean. And I'm upset that this is going to upset you. That's why I haven't done this for the last month, even though I feel like I'm drowning awake. Do you know that feeling, Finn? The feeling of being terrified and depressed and in agony all at once?"
Finn managed a nod. His throat was constricted by the sight of another person he loved so close to death. When was this going to stop happening?
"I thought I was over it. This drowning feeling. I almost felt alive again – all because of Glee. Because of you, bro. I was going to make it…until today."
"What happened today?" Dean asked, bewildered. Finn wondered when harried interns ever watched television or caught up on the news.
"A bunch of people from that crap church turned up at the school, telling my brother and all his gay friends to burn in hell." Finn said matter-of-factly, eyes still trained on Sam.
"Yeah. And I realized that nothing had changed. Two dozen people dead, fifty physically hurt, an entire town emotionally scarred…and there's still so much freakin' hate in this world." Sam choked, blinking on tears. "And I'm so damn tired of feeling sad and hurt all the time."
"Okay." Dean said, climbing up on the bridge next to Sam. Sam stared at him, eyes wide. "Okay," Dean said again. "You're right. You win. We'll give up together. Why not? Mom and dad are dead. Our crappy excuses for family stole all their money that was supposed to be ours. We're barely scraping by, and now I nearly have a heart attack every time you go to school, because I'm afraid my stupid little brother is going to guy because an idiot with gun has something to prove against the world." Dean reached out and snagged Sam's wet hand. Sam didn't pull away.
"Let's jump together." Dean said, holding Sam's gaze. Finn lunged forward, screaming, but his hands grabbed only air. Sam and Dean were both gone.
.***.
Finn had been looking forward to a relaxing Saturday night after the heart attack that was Friday. Dean had pulled Sam out of the river, which was his intention all along, and Finn had driven the brothers back to their apartment. Sam was sobbing in Dean's arms the whole way home.
The house had been quiet all day, strange for a house with three teenage boys in it. Kurt and Eric talked quietly in the basement most of the day, and long hours of hushed murmurs were punctuated only by quiet drum beats and Kurt's high, arching voice as they took breaks to let themselves go.
But by the evening they'd gathered themselves together. Eric had run down to the supermarket and had come home with a DVD copy of Clue, which he said, excitedly, was his absolute favorite movie.
"Let me guess," Kurt had joked as he pushed the play button, "The butler did it?"
"You'll just have to watch and see." Eric retorted, sticking out his tongue. Finn grinned, and volunteered to make the popcorn, which is why he was the one who answered the door. He was already on his feet.
The boy who stood on the doorstep looked like a bulkier, meaner version of Eric. "I know he's here." The kid said without preamble. "Mom wants him back. I need to bring him out of this perverted life style."
"Hold up," Finn said, stretching out an arm so his body completely covered the doorway. "You're not taking anyone from this house."
His mind whirled. Burt and his mother were out on a date, the first they'd gone on in a month, and they'd only gone out after repeated assurances that the three they were leaving behind would be fine alone. Of all the nights to be proven wrong…Finn would have done just about anything to have Burt's reassuring presence at his shoulder.
"Finn?" Kurt's unmistakable high voice sounded from the living room, and Finn turned around a second too late, a second too long.
"Don't come in here!" He yelled, and Eric's brother took his lapse in attention as an opportunity to duck under Finn's arm and get into the house.
Before Finn could catch him, the boy had punched Kurt in the face. Kurt fell back, landing on his injured shoulder and crying out in pain. "You're trying to send my brother to Hell! You deserve to go there! You're a freak!"
"Joshua!" Eric yelled, running in and kneeling next to Kurt, who lay in a heap on the floor, clutching his shoulder and moaning with pain. "What are you doing?"
"Mom wants you back. She said I have to get you away from this evil house or you'll burn in Hell." Joshua curled his hand into a fist. "I need to get you back to her, Eric. You know I do."
"You hurt my friend!" Eric yelled, his face red, eyes blazing as his hands ran over Kurt's body, trying to find something he can help. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
Joshua swung out again, breaking Eric's nose.
Finn, who had been transfixed by this bizarre scene, finally found his feet again. He took one look at Kurt, huddled on the floor; at Eric, holding his bleeding nose, and knew that he was the only one here who could do anything. It was wrong, it was stereotyping, but in that instant Finn found himself stepping into the role of the man of the house.
He caught Joshua's shoulder and spun him around. "You want someone to fight, big guy? I'm right here. Didn't your momma ever teach you not to pick on kids smaller than you?"
"I need to get my brother home!" Joshua shouted, looking completely crazy. "I need to save him from your perversion!"
That was it. Finn had ten years of football, eight years of wrestling, and a year of beating up the jocks that made fun of Kurt on his side. He also had the burning of his blood every time he looked at Kurt and Eric, hurt in their own home. The kid never stood a chance.
When Finn finally kicked Joshua out, telling him never to come back again or he was calling the police, he felt dizzy, exhilarated, sick to his stomach. Numbly, he reached for the telephone, eyes sweeping over the wreaked room.
"Dean?" He said into the phone to the man who owed him a favor. "It's me, Finn. Look, I need a doctor, and I'm pretty sure these guys don't want to go all the way to the hospital. Can you help me?"
When Finn finished the brief conversation, he sat down on the floor, one hand on Kurt's shoulder, one hand on Eric's, and wondered, vaguely, if his whole life was going to be variations on the theme of his life crumbling to pieces at every turn.
Santana and Brittney are so freaking sad. This whole story is freaking sad.