Author's Note: Just a timestamp to the Conscience Verse. You don't have to read that to understand this, unless you want to hear a passing mention of my OC in Part III, Chapter 2. If you have a specific request, just PM me or tell me in a review and I'll try to make it happen if it catches my interest(: I'm sure we can work something out.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I own the OC, but you can have him if you really want, 'cause I don't.

Requested by platowasabore, who requested the full story on Kurt's Uncle Dylan. Hope you enjoy!


"Uncle Dylan's coming to visit," Burt told his son brightly on Saturday morning. He was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out in front of him next to an omelet his son had made him before getting his own cup of coffee.

Kurt's hands tightened on his mug. "What?" He raised large, panicked eyes to his father's face, but Burt was immersed in the sports section and didn't notice.

"Yeah. Said he wanted to be around for...y'know. The anniversary." A muscle in Burt's cheek twitched. Breakfast passed silently after that, Kurt internally panicking. Why now? Not again, please, not again. But his quiet begging to whatever deity was out there went unheeded, because roughly three hours later there was a harsh knock on the door.

Burt didn't notice his son's flinch, too busy getting up to get the door. "Hey there, Burt," came the gruff voice that always haunted Kurt when he was most vulnerable. No, not again. I'm not that weak little kid anymore, he chanted internally as he stood on unsteady legs and made his way to the door.

"Hi Uncle Dylan," he said, voice meek and head bowed.

"Look at me when you're talkin' to me, boy." Uncle Dylan's voice was rough and loud, but that wasn't unusual. He had a hard time believing that this oaf and his beautiful mother had come from the same uterus. Kurt glanced up and forced a smile.

"Hi Uncle Dylan," he repeated, voice wavering only slightly.

"Hey there, Lady." Burt raised a disapproving eyebrow, but didn't comment. That hurt, Kurt had to admit. Dylan had been calling him insulting names since he was an embryo, he was sure. As long as he didn't say fag, it was okay in Burt's mind. They all made their way back from the entryway and entered the living room, Dylan throwing his bag at Kurt, who caught it with an 'oomph!'. "Take that upstairs, Lady."

Kurt wanted to growl, he was so frustrated. Instead, he just smiled tightly and took the bag, gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. Escaping up the stairs, he took his phone out of his back pocket and fired a text to Mercedes. HE'S here.

She replied quickly, as always, and Kurt found himself wondering how he'd managed to catch such a great friend. Maybe this was the universe's way of paying him back for years of being friendless: giving him someone as amazing as Mercedes. Come to my house.

I can't. He told dad he wants to bond. Oh god, what if it's like last time?

Mercedes didn't answer, but the silence was clear: come to my house if it goes screwy, white boy, or I will cut you. He tucked his phone away and set his uncle's bag on the bed in the guest bedroom before trudging back downstairs to see Burt smiling sickeningly and Uncle Dylan looking at him smugly.

"Dylan's gonna take you to see a movie and get some dinner, okay?" Burt asked, but Kurt knew there was no way he could refuse.

"Sure," he answered, voice small and lifeless.

"Great, have fun." Kurt found himself wondering when his father had become so oblivious.

Dylan clamped a meaty hand around Kurt's thin wrist and practically dragged him from the house. When they got to his uncle's beat up Ford F150, all that was said was, "Get in, fairy." Kurt shuddered, remembering the last time Dylan had bonded with him. That had gone over fantastically. He had lied to his dad and said he'd run into a wall. What the hell would he say now?

Dylan was a big guy, and a huge homophobe. Worse than Puck, even. After getting to know Kurt, Puck was even comfortable enough to make cracks about dating him, calling him honey, or teasingly putting an arm around his shoulders. The opposite was true for his uncle; the more Dylan was around him, the more he seemed to hate him. Kurt had never known he was so unlikeable.

They drove out of the town limits, pulled over to the shoulder of an abandoned back road, and Kurt was shivering so forcefully that he could hardly breathe. "Please don't," he blurted. He hated to beg, but he didn't want to hurt, and he didn't want to lie, and ohgodpleasedon't. Notagain. But then Dylan was up and out of the truck, opening Kurt's door and yanking him out of the car so hard he tumbled onto the ground.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and at this point, Kurt has no idea what he's done besides be himself, but that's always been enough. Dylan yanks him up by his shirt and slaps him so hard his head snaps around.

"Shut up!" he roars, flinging Kurt away from him like a ragdoll. He falls back onto the ground again, cutting his hand on a shard of abandoned glass, and crying out. Kurt stayed completely still on the ground, though he couldn't quite control his tremors. He knew that if he moved, he'd be in for it worse. Maybe Dylan just wanted to yell at him; he could live with that just fine.

"You killed her, you know. You killed Grace. My baby sister Gracie." His eyes were wild, and Kurt tried to shift away slightly. Dylan noticed and hauled him up by his forearm. Kurt winced, knowing he'd have hand shaped bruises for a while and would have to watch his sleeve length.

"I know. I'm sorry," he whispered. He'd learned that it was best to just pacify Dylan when he was like this.

"Get in the car, fairy." He shoved Kurt into the side of the truck, and Kurt hurriedly opened the door and got in, shaking so violently that it took him four tries to buckle his seatbelt. When they arrived back at the Hummel household, Kurt was out of the car and into the house in under a minute, ignoring his father's questions to lock himself away in his basement. He couldn't pretend anymore.

There was pounding on his door, but he couldn't answer, couldn't even breathe, he was crying so hard. "Kurt? Kurt, I know you hear me! Open this door, right now! Open it! What the hell happened?" When he didn't answer, everything went silent for a moment. Then he heard his father unscrewing the hinges of his door. Seriously, Papa Bear? he thought sourly, wiping his face hastily as his father set his door against the jam and stomped down the steps.

"What happened, Kurt?" he asked, eyes scanning his son for signs of injury. Thankfully, he'd changed and washed his face before his tears.

"We saw - a sad movie," Kurt answered, his voice breaking on a hiccup in the middle of the sentence. Then he noticed the bruising on his arm peeking out from beneath his sleeve. He tried to discreetly pull it down, but Burt's eyes snapped to it.

"Kurt...what happened there?" He move to his son, gripping his boy's wrist and pushing the sleeve up all the way, revealing a brilliant blue-purple ring around his arm. "Was this...no. Please tell me he didn't do this to you."

Kurt looked away, shuddering with suppressed sobs. He found himself in his dad's lap, being rocked like an infant. "Go to sleep, baby," his dad whispered, running his fingers through his hair. "It's okay."

When Kurt awoke the next morning, it was to a screaming match. He rubbed his bleary eyes and hurried upstairs to find his father pointing one of his hunting rifles at his Uncle Dylan.

"Dad! What are you doing?" he demanded, eyes wide and hands twisted together.

Burt didn't even acknowledge him. "Don't you ever come back; Grace would be ashamed to be your sister. How could you hurt her son? Your nephew? She wouldn't ever forgive that."

Dylan only rolled his eyes. "Your son's a fairy, Burt," he snapped. "The sooner you get him to a priest who can heal him, the better he'll be and maybe you could do it before he's damned to Hell?"

Burt cocked an eyebrow. "If you come to my house again, I'll shoot you in the face. Get off my property before I forget my manners."

Dylan shrugged, bent, picked up his bag, and turned to the door. Before he left, he turned and spit at Kurt, "Thank God your mother's not here to see her son be a fag."

Kurt sank to his knees and cried. "What if he's right, Daddy?" he asked, in that small voice that always scared Burt. His son was strong, he never had anything less than total control, and when he did, it was frightening.

"You're not damned. Your mother would be proud to see you be yourself. You know she loved you no matter what. She's the one that bought you your heels when you were three. She was even better at this understanding thing than I was. And she loved you Kurt, so much." He picked his boy up (Kurt was so light, Burt was determined to make him eat more), and settled them both down onto the couch, getting Kurt comfortable against his side. His son fell asleep in the crook of his neck, dried tear-tracks on his face. Burt ran fingers through his hair soothingly and smiled at the steady rise and fall of Kurt's breath.