I don't own 'Glee.' I really wish I could say I didn't own this dream, but, alas, that one I do. Make of it what you will; I maintain that I was just high on cold medicine at the time. Still, it was too cool not to use.

Okay, this is gonna be a bit screwy, but bear with me. Again, I have to extend my apologies to my audience, in this case, particularly Karofsky lovers. This was a frickin' hard chapter to write! Don't hate me too bad, it'll all turn out okay in the end. I'm a sap for a happy ending.

Thanks to all my readers, and all my reviewers! Can you believe that this one, simple story has logged over 3,500 hits and 1,100 visitors this month alone? I'm utterly staggered! And completely humbled. This one is for you, all of you. You keep me going!

Dave woke up, sweating. He'd had the Dream again. Capital 'D,' way different than all the lesser, lower-case 'd's out there. The big one.

The beginning was always different; or at least, the part where he started remembering it was. Always. Sometimes he'd be at school. Sometimes at home, or in some random building that he knew but didn't. Occasionally it started on the football field. Once – and only once, and he firmly believed it was because he'd eaten three chocolate bars before bed because no way was his mind that screwy on its own – he'd found himself on a pirate ship moored in an African version of Atlantis.

He couldn't remember where it had started this time, but that wasn't important. The setting never was. The scenery just shifted around on him so he couldn't recognize it in time to stop it, to wake up.

A man approached. A man always approached. Even when it looked like something else, like a child or a woman or a goat or a tree, Dave knew it was a man, in that curious knowledge that belongs only to dreamers. The man held out his hand (or paw, or fin, or rootling), and bade Dave to take it, to touch his fingers and fly.

Dave wanted to. He wanted to so badly. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. To fly is to fall, and Dave refused to fall. He walked away, leaving the man (or the dog or the deer or the yeti) behind him. Turned his back on him, and followed the road.

Because there was always a road. Right through the middle of whatever scenery his mind had populated the dream with, there was always a broad, wide avenue paved with bricks and beckoning him onward. He stepped onto the road, always, always, and it grabbed his feet and would not let him stop walking, would not let him leave. The man always looked at him sadly as he trudged past, but he would not follow.

On and on and on Dave's dream-self walked, until the road was as wide as a river, as an ocean. Still he walked and walked and walked, until he came at last to a door, as big as the sky and bright as the sun until it opened on black nothingness, a whirling, sucking hole that dragged even light into its embrace and would not let it go. Dave struggled then, as he had not struggled during his eons-long hike, struggled to stop, to turn his feet, to run away, to flee. But the hole had him. It had his body and it made him keep walking, walking, walking, until he had walked right over the edge and plunged down, down, down… The light that had been captured was crushed and warped by the sheer gravity of the black hole, condensing it all into blazing heat but without the intense flame that a conflagration of that size ought to have. His body twisted and warped, dried and burned and wiped out in an instant and Dave screamed with the last molecules of air left in the last molecules of his lungs…

And awoke.

Breathing hard, he looked over at the clock. 5:15. Too late to go back to sleep – even assuming he could, after that nightmare – and too early to wake the family up by showering.

Damn it.

Lying there in sweat-soaked sheets, staring at the ceiling, creepily illuminated by the glowing green of his alarm clock, Dave passed his hand across his eyes. I have got to find some way to get rid of that dream, he thought, not for the first time.

Well. Since he wasn't going to get any more sleep, he might as well get up.

But only as far as his computer. He would kill some time surfing the net, then get ready for school. He messed around on a couple of his favorite sites, but nothing kept his interest. Mentally shrugging, he called up Google, typed in his own name, and hit enter. It was good for a laugh, anyway.

His facebook page was the first hit, followed by a few links to the local newspaper (Now Online!). He skipped those. He really didn't need to read about the "Local Teen Found by Classmate." And reading about past successes on the football field was just painful.

He was about to give the whole thing up as a bad job when his eye fell on another site, a blog from the look of it. Curious, he clicked the link and started reading.

"What the hell…?"

…David Karofsky, the former terror of the halls of McKinley High School here in Lima, Ohio, has been completely ball-busted. Sacked from the football team, his expulsion repealed on the word – or threat? of daddy-dearest, and then he's unhinged enough to attempt suicide! Well, like everything else in his life, Dave Karofsky is a failure at that, too, unable to do more than get himself a quick trip to the psycho ward. Now he's back in school and so pussy-whipped he's been doing nothing more than skulking around, hiding from the real men. Hah! Even prissy Kurt Hummel could beat this big weakling now; rumor has it, he already has! This blogger has it directly from sources in the know that Dave Karofsky is, in fact, gay, and that he loves playing with dolls and dressing up in drag. What's next? Who knows! Stay tuned, and we'll all find out!

Ta,

Jacob Ben-Israel

"What the fu…?" 'Sources in the know'? 'Real men'? 'Failure'? 'Pussy-whipped'? Oh, fur-head was going down, he was going down hard. Dave Karofsky was back, and with a vengeance. Ben-Israel would learn the meaning of pain for this.

But another, sicker feeling churned in his gut. Who'd blabbed? No one knew his secret.

…No one but Kurt…

~~~glee~~~

But there was no sign of Jacob Ben-Israel at school that morning. A few intimidating inquiries – and he'd been pleased to note that he hadn't lost his touch, he could still glare the freshmen into wetting their pants – had ended up confirming that the creepy geek was out sick today. He'd slammed his fist into the wall in frustration. Still, there was always the phone book. He could hunt Ben-Israel down at his leisure, after school, and without prying eyes to report back to Figgins. It was a plan. It still made him sick every time he thought about that blog, but, he swore, Ben-Israel was going to pay.

End of fourth period and time for lunch. Dave stopped by his locker long enough to stash his books and pick up his wallet, intending to get straight over to the cafeteria – it was pizza today, and the crummy version that the school system served was lousy unless you got one of the first slices. And Dave Karofsky wasn't about to let himself get served crummy pizza.

A muffled cry grabbed his attention. Uneasily, he shoved his notebook atop the rest of his books, moving slower, making no noise. The cry repeated itself, and Dave's head swiveled, looking for the source. None of the other kids in the hallway noticed, or if they did, they were ignoring it.

And no wonder. The sound was coming from the bathroom. Nicknamed 'Bully's Alley,' no one went in there who had any sort of bodily function on their mind. Dave Karofsky had spent a good lot of time in there, himself. Stuffing Ben-Israel's head in the toilet and giving the flusher a good pull had always been good for a laugh.

His lip curled, and his decision was made for him. Whoever had whatever geek in there, that geek was about to get a hefty dose of Karofsky. Let them say that Dave was pussy-whipped, then! He was done skulking! Time to get his rep back, he'd been licking his wounds long enough!

The door bounced off the wall as he barged in, slamming back into place with a hollow thud. Azimio glanced over, surprise replacing the annoyed look on his face. The expression was swiftly followed by veiled suspicion.

"Dave. What are you doing here?"

"Came to see if you needed a hand," Dave replied, swaggering over. "Which idiot have you got this time?"

Azimio shifted, hauling a cringing figure forward. "Just the little faggot. You want a turn?" He jerked his head towards the sinks, where two full slushies stood waiting.

Karofsky stopped, horrified. Kurt. Azimio had grabbed Kurt. How had he gotten past the glee-goons? Why hadn't they been protecting him?

Because they weren't protecting him. They were watching me.

The thought made his sick to his stomach.

But Azimio was watching him. Gauging him, judging him. What Dave did in the next thirty seconds would cement his reputation either way, someone to be feared or someone to scorn. A bully or a fag… his inner voice whispered. And, damn it, he'd done it to himself.

Kurt's eyes rose to meet his. Red-rimmed, scared, begging for mercy. "Dave," he croaked. "Please, don't…" His hand reached out, pleading, take me away, make it stop.

"'Dave, stop'," Azimio mocked. "Do it already. You a fag-lover or what?"

That did it. "Hell, no," Dave growled. "Gimme." Not waiting, he wrenched Kurt's collar free from Azimio's grip and hauled the smaller boy up. The footballer handed him the first cup, and Dave dumped it, straw and all, down the back of his shirt, dribbling down into his designer jeans. Kurt flinched and gasped. Azimio handed him the second cup, a grin on his face. "Welcome back, Karofsky," he said, clapping him on the shoulder with a free hand.

Dave froze. What was he doing? Kurt's face was inches from his own, his eyes no longer terrified, but deeply, deeply hurt.

But Azimio's eyes were on him too, watching.

Dave upended the slushie, not on Kurt, but into his open backpack. "Get lost, loser," he said softly, releasing him.

With a sob, Kurt grabbed his syrupy backpack and ran.

Azimio clapped him on the shoulder. "Nice touch, there, my man. Glad to see you're still the same old Karofsky."

"Yeah," Dave managed to choke out. "The same old Karofsky."

God, he hated himself.