Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the characters herein, nor do I gain compensation (monetary or otherwise) from the writing and publication of the following. The characters and general plotline are the intellectual property or Robert Kirkman, AMC, et al.

The sun is bright, even through the canopy of trees, when Daryl opens his eyes. His brother's face is hovering over him, and even though that's not possible right now, Daryl feels relief wash over him at the older man's presence.

"Why don't you pull that arrow out, dummy? You could bind your wound better." Merle tilts his head to the side and a little and allows himself a small smile. He knows that his brother can take care of himself just fine.

"Merle." Daryl can't help the small grin that flits across his face before the constant ache in his side makes him close his eyes once more.

"Hm," Merle lets out a half chuckle. "What's goin' on here? You takin' a siesta or something?"

Daryl blinks a few times. Something about this conversation is starting to feel oddly familiar. The setting is all wrong, but the running water and his brother's hovering are creating a strong sensation of de ja vu for him. "A shitty day, bro," he says, feeling like he's reciting lines that he's rehearsed before.

"Like me to getcha a pillow?" Merle says, and smiles at his small joke. "Maybe rub your feet?"

"Screw you," Daryl says, feeling a heavy sensation in his stomach. He's had this conversation once before. He knows he has. But his head is spinning from his pain and he can't figure out what Merle's doing here, in this ditch, talking to him about pillows and siestas while the heat bears down on them both.

"You're the one screwed, from the looks of it."

Daryl feels like he's going to be sick, but it's not from the pain. The mud feels and smells like vomit underneath of him and there's no longer an arrow shooting pain up his side, but his ass is sore as hell. There isn't a sun shining down on him either, just the bright light of a half dead street lamp creating an eerie halo around his older brother's head. Daryl tries to shift, but his body is heavy with nausea and soreness. He wants to pull his pants up because it's bad enough that Merle's found him here – in the gutter, outside the gang's bar – trussed up like a little bitch with blood between his legs. Daryl ain't no pussy, but he knows that Merle's gonna think he's one when he finds out his gang did this to him.

"All these years I spent tryin' to make a man out of you? This is what I get? Look at you…lying in the dirt like a used rubber." The insult, paired with his current situation, stings more than it should.

Daryl's struggling to piece together what's happening as his mind shifts between where he's currently lying, in the gutter, and where he's currently lying, in a dried up creek bed. This conversation happened years in his past, but the pain feels persistent and he tries to lever himself up, save whatever shred is left of his dignity.

"You're gonna die out here, little brother. And for what?"

Merle's question mercifully pulls Daryl back to present and the sun's heat is a welcome burden on his face. "Girl," Daryl whispers. He appreciates the pain in his side again. He squints, pressing his lips together in a vain attempt to make sense of the conversation – out of place in time. "They lost a little girl."

"So you got a thing for little girls now?"

Daryl manages to open his eyes long enough to glare at Merle, who is either still an opaque apparition or magically present at his side. "Shut up."

"'Cause I notice, you ain't out looking for old Merle, no more."

Daryl is suddenly thrust back into the gutter, the water rushing by his ears and his brother swaying drunkenly over him. He had been looking at the bar for his brother – had to warn him about the gang's anger because of Merle's petty theft. Wasn't right that Merle should pay for being a dumb ass with his life. But instead of finding his older brother, Daryl had run into his gang and been tolled for his brother's poor behaviour. "Tried like hell, to find you bro," he mutters, feeling like he might be sick to his stomach.

"Like hell you did. Ya split man, lit out first chance you got."

Daryl doesn't understand, he presses his lips together. Merle isn't making sense, because Merle wasn't even at the bar. And Daryl had nowhere to run. He had walked through those doors and been grabbed as soon as the gang knew who he was. Merle Dixon's little brother. "You lit out," Daryl says, more tired than angry, confused by the conversation and situation. "All you had to do was wait." He's not sure what he means by that. "We went back for you, Rick and I." He nods in agreement with his comment, even though he's doesn't know who Rick is. "We did right by you."

"This the same Rick that cuffed me to the rooftop in the first place?" Daryl remembers a few assholes cuffing his brother in a few places, but never to a rooftop. Something's wrong. This doesn't feel right to him. He's so dizzy and the nausea is almost overwhelming. He's fighting the constant urge to be sick. "Forced me to cut off my own hand? That's who we talking about here?" Daryl's head is spinning and so is his brother visage, but he manages to hone in on Merle's hand, dangling above his chest. It's there in its entirety – no one made him cut it of. Why isn't Merle helping him up? "You his bitch now?"

Daryl knows that Merle knows what happened. They took Merle Dixon's little brother into the back of the bar and taught him a lesson he'd never let Merle forget. But that didn't make him anyone's plaything. He says the words as angrily as he can in his current state. "I ain't nobody's bitch."

"You're a joke, is what you are." Merle's words sting just as much as he intends for them to, and Daryl pushes himself to pull his jeans up. The energy it takes is incredible and before he can do them up, he finds himself lying in the gutter again, rain water wetting his hair, on the verge of blacking out. "Playing errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, niggers, and democrats." None of Merle's gang were democrats and Daryl wasn't an errand boy for anyone. "You're nothing but a freak to them. Redneck trash." And so what if he was? They were just as redneck as Daryl was. "That's all you are. And now they're laughing atcha behind your back."

If they were laughing at Daryl, it was Merle's fault. It was Merle's fault he was in this position to begin with. "You know that, don't ya?" Daryl doesn't even open his eyes in response. "One of these days, they're gonna scrape you offa their heels like you was dog shit." Daryl lets his head loll from one side to the other as he listens to his asshole brother. He doesn't care what anyone in the gang thinks – he just wants to get the fuck out of this gutter.

His energy and his fight is draining from him – he doesn't understand why Merle won't just help him up. Exhausted from his confusion and pain, Daryl lets his head fall to one side and his eyes flutter momentarily closed before Merle reaches out to slap him on the chest. "Hey," he says, bringing Daryl back around. "They ain't your kin, your blood." Daryl blinks at his brother. If anyone thinks the gang is kin, it's Merle.

"Hell, you had any nuts in that sack of yours, you'd go back there and shoot your friend Rick in the face for me." Daryl stares up, open mouthed at his brother. He doesn't know who Rick is, but at this point, it's Merle who should be doing the shooting. Sometimes, he's such a fucking prick.

"Now you listen to me," Merle says, reaching out to grab his younger brother's chin. "Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you, 'cept me, little brother." His voice cracks a little as he speaks and Daryl knows it's the truth, because nobody else would come and pick him up from this gutter at this shit stain bar, especially not while they were wasted to high heaven. Merle pats his cheek and Daryl lets his head move with the gentle impact. "Ain't nobody ever will." Merle backs away and pats his chest. "Now come on, get up on your feet before I have to kick your teeth in."

The last thing Daryl wants to do is move his own body. Pain is shooting through him, sharp and hot and humiliation is hovering over him just like his brother. His embarrassment almost feels like an arrow in his gut, when his brother kicks his foot. "Let's go," Merle says, tugging on his brother's leg.

Merle lets out an uncharacteristic groan and Daryl looks down to see a walker gnawing on his shoe. It takes a moment for him to realize where and when he is, but the panic sets in and he lets out a small grunt of fear and surprise before backing away and kicking the abomination off of his foot. Daryl tries to reach for his crossbow, but the walker's on top of him before he can make it to the weapon. The sand bears their weight while Daryl rips his hunting knife from its holster and jams it into the thing. It meets flesh, but only the walker's arm. Daryl rips the knife out and flails twice more, finally ramming the knife into the thing's jaw. It isn't dead yet, but as he throws it off of himself, he sees another wandering in through a clearing.

Daryl pushes the first walker down and finishes the job with a stick, ramming it first into the thing's jaw with enough force to break it, and the stabbing it through its skull. There isn't any time to celebrate his victory with the next walker closing in on him. His hunting knife is still rammed into the dead walker's skull, so he grabs onto the arrow in his side – his only bolt – and tugs it free of his body. He can't help the small exclamation of pain, but it comes free, leaving him just enough time to load his bow and shoot the fucker, about a foot away, in the face.

Daryl lets himself lay back, safe for the moment, and takes a few a deep breaths. He's not out of the woods, yet, so to speak, but the adrenaline has him thinking more clearly. He can remember seeing Merle, clear as day, above him. And having almost the exact conversation with Merle that they had when he was found, four years ago, lying bloody and used – like some common whore – in the fucking gutter outside of Merle's gang's bar.

He's not sure why he remembers that night, but the illness washes over him once more and it's all he can do not puke, right there in the creek bed. He remembers trying to fight off five gang members – all strung out on something and stronger than he was – and failing miserably. He remembers promising himself he wouldn't scream and keeping that promise. He remembers those fuckers taking him out to the street and telling him they'd call him a ride. He remembers the roiling fear in his gut that someone might find him, but not having the energy to move. He remembers how Merle was wasted as sin and made him feel like shit for letting himself be used that way.

Daryl remembers how that night, at home in the shower, he promised himself he'd never need anyone's help getting up again. So Daryl forces himself to get up and properly bind his wound before scaling the cliff side that brought him to the creek bed to begin with.

Only when Daryl's halfway up the slope, huffing and panting from exertion, does Merle reappear. "Please," he says, "don't feed the birds." Daryl knows he's just a figment of his imagination, he's not really there. And Daryl doesn't need him anyways, he can get up and out of here just fine on his own.

He looks down and Merle laughs. "What's the matter Darlena, that all you got in ya?"

Daryl's mind flashes back to that night, when he was trying to lift himself from the gutter. He focuses on his current task and drags his body up the side of the cliff, grunting with the effort.

"Throw away that purse and climb."

Daryl has to keep himself in the present. He can't go back there. Not again. "I liked it better when you was missin'," he mutters, ignoring the crack in his own voice.

He continues to struggle in the dirt as Merle laughs. "Now come on, don't be like that. I'm on your side."

"Yeah, since when?"

"Hell, since the day you were born, baby brother. Somebody had to look after your worthless ass."

Daryl ignores the memory of shoving himself up out of the gutter, clinging to his brother's arms for support. He grips onto a vine and pulls himself up, panting. "You never took care of me," he says, remembering how Merle backed away as soon as he was standing half upright. "You talk a big game, but you was never there." He would have been better off that night, if Merle had never come. Merle always held it against him later on. Would never let go of the night he saved his little brother.

"You ain't here now," Daryl reminds himself. "Some things never change."

"I tell you what," Merle says, tilting his head to one side. "I'm as real as your Chupacabra."

Daryl wants to tell him to fuck off. He wants to tell him to get lost. But he just adjusts his weight against the wall of dirt and grunts. "I know what I saw."

"And I'm sure them 'shrooms you ate had nothin' to do with it, right?"

Daryl isn't high right now. His brother's apparition is caused by something else entirely. "You best shut the hell up!" he spits. Daryl's anger is getting the better of him. Merle wasn't there for him then, when Daryl needed him the most, and he sure as hell isn't here now.

Merle puts his hands on his knees and bends over, taunting his younger brother. "Or what? You gonna come up here and shut my mouth for me? Well, come on and do it then, if you think you're man enough." Daryl lets out a huff of pain and grabs onto a root to lever himself up. Merle laughs, "Hey! Kick off them damn high heels and climb son." Daryl grips a skinny tree trunk and tests its strength before swinging himself up. "You know, if I were you, I'd take I pause for the cause, brother. 'Cause I just don't think you gonna make it to the top." Daryl continues to struggle with the tree; it's too weak to hold him and is rocking under his weight. "Come on, come on, little brother."

Merle holds out a hand. "Grab your friend, Rick's, hand."

When Daryl reaches out, all he grabs is dirt. He struggles to lift his body up over the ledge, lets out a groan and finally climbs up. Merle is, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be found.

Daryl glances around the wooded area, wild eyed, before squaring his shoulders. "Yeah, you'd better run," he shouts. Merle wasn't there for him then, and he isn't here for him now. Daryl doesn't need him anyways.