The Walking Dead is property of its respective owners
I own my OC's Afton and Brian
Up until that moment, Daryl never realized what absolute hatred he held for his brother. He suspected that it had almost always been there, simmering under the surface, pushed to some dark and hidden part of his mind, covered under weak excuses: he's your big brother, he's only trying to teach a lesson to that stupid fuckin' head of yours, you know it's your fault for the way he acts anyways- placating thoughts used only to justify his unquestioning acceptance of his brother.
But seeing the sickly smug look gleaming in Merle's eyes as he gripped Afton tightly about her neck snapped the last sliver of affection Daryl had ever held for him. It was like a fucking dam busting, and all that hate, all that black loathing that he had tried, subconsciously or no, to hold back came rushing violently forward.
Anger and spite thrummed across his muscles like electricity sparking across a power line; his whole body tensed with the ferocity of it. Everything around him blotted out and all he could see, all he could focus on, was the fact that Merle was hurting Afton. His Afton: the only woman he'd ever had any right to love. His heart seemed to stop momentarily then jackhammer double-time to catch up with itself at the sudden realization.
Love. He could be an obstinate ass, he was fully aware of that fact, but when push came to shove he knew where he stood. He had given more of himself to her than anyone had ever even bothered to ask of him, and he gave it feely. And he knew, knew, that she was his only reason for living. He loved her, was in love with her, would always love her, and he'd be damned if he let Merle think, even for a second, that this was gonna be another situation where he'd bend to him, not when his life was literally on the line.
Daryl fisted his hands at his sides and drew a shallow breath through flared nostrils. "You let her go right fucking now, you son of a bitch." His voice was low, and steady, and dripping with murderous intent.
Merle chuckled and adjusted Afton under his arm. She rasped in a sharp breath and looked at Daryl, her eyes wide and pleading, her hands pulling uselessly at his brother's forearm.
Merle only continued to laugh, the sound throaty and maniacal. It was then that Daryl felt the heat of fever baking off of his brother. He looked to the arm settled across Afton's neck and saw a blood soaked gauze bandage wrapped haphazardly around the stump where is right hand had been. And visible, even in the dimly muted light cast by the moon, were the vibrant red lines of infection aggressively snaking up his forearm from the saturated dressing. Merle was, literally, a dead man walking, and with absolutely nothing to lose, was more dangerous than he had ever been.
He suddenly stopped laughing and swung his left arm up from where it had been hanging limply in the shadow at his side, a Baby Desert Eagle gripped in his hand, finger already resting on the trigger as he thumbed the hammer back and leveled the barrel at Afton's temple.
Merle's eyes glinted with grim madness. "You better watch what you say, brother, since we's both son's of the same bitch." He turned his head and spat into the grassy riverbank where Daryl had just made love to Afton moments earlier.
Panic swirled fluidly with the anger pumping through him. He had thought that he might be able to overpower Merle, to at least give Afton a chance to get away, but now, with the gun pointed at her head and fever-induced delusion canceling out all rational thought in his brother's brain, Daryl feared, his heart squeezing painfully, that he might not be able to drag her way from Merle unscathed.
He inched closer, hands held out in surrender. "Merle, please, just let her go. You can have it out with me. But she ain't got nothin' to do with this."
"Do with what?" Merle asked, seeming to be genuinely fucking perplexed by his own surroundings. He blinked once then smiled, rumbling out that maddeningly broken chuckle. "Oh, right. For the hand, you mean? I already took care of that. Took me all fuckin' afternoon to get those goddamned Walkers into the truck ya'll left for me. They got pretty riled up with the smell of blood and all."
Daryl swallowed hard, his mind reeling. Merle did bring his vengeance back to camp, in the form of a fucking zombie mob.
"How…" Daryl began weakly, suddenly feeling nauseous, forcing his eyes to continue searching subtly for a weapon, any weapon, within arm's reach.
"Never mind the how of it, brother!" Merle shouted, pressing the muzzle of the gun tightly against Afton's temple. A single tear tracked down her cheek and she closed her eyes. Daryl's heart dropped and he struggled to fight back his own tears. Impotent rage bubbled inside him. He'd trade places with her in an instant if he could.
"How many fuckin' times do I have to tell you that?" Merle continued. "'Sides, I just wanna have a little fun with her like you did." He nuzzled into Afton's hair and breathed in deeply, never taking his eyes from Daryl's. "Then I'll have it out with you. I'm thinkin' you deserve a good fuckin' beating anyways, leavin' me in Atlanta like you did." He grinned wide, shadow distorting his face into an inhuman mask.
"Merle, please." Daryl was not above begging at that point. It would not be the first time he begged his brother for mercy, but it would be the last.
Afton shifted under Merle's meaty arm and looked Daryl straight in the eye. "Cowboy, you really need to stop." Her voice was thick and smoky. The hands that had just been struggling against their captor stilled and began sliding seductively up the forearm and bicep curled around her neck. "Why have one Dixon when I could try two? And I bet Merle really is the big brother, isn't he?" Her voice trembled ever so slightly, but Merle didn't seem to notice, or care. His eyes were already dark with lust, a look Daryl had seen plenty of times before when his brother had set his sights on an unsuspecting woman in one bar or another.
His gaze slid, disbelieving, back to Afton and he started forward, heart thudding heavily in his chest. He could not, would not believe that she would abandon him for his brother.
She dropped a hand from Merle's arm and held it out before her, stopping him short, a tear rolling down her cheek as she mouthed the words it's okay. She smiled weakly then squeezed her eyes shut as she slid the hand behind her, groping at Merle, the other slipping into her hip pocket.
Daryl swallowed hard, completely dumbfounded, until he saw her left hand draw a small pocketknife from her jeans.
He looked quickly back to Merle. His arm was still looped around Afton's neck, but the hand holding the gun had found its way across her breasts. His eyes had slipped closed and he moaned under Afton's hand.
"Turn me around, Merle. Lemme see what I'm workin' with," she coaxed softly.
Daryl tensed, trying to ready himself for whatever might happen next.
Merle chuckled darkly as he turned her in his arms. He crushed his lips against hers as soon as she was facing him. Daryl's guts twisted up with jealousy and disgust, and he was about to rush forward when Merle suddenly jerked back from Afton, a blackish stain beginning to bloom across the shirt covering his lower stomach.
"What the fu-" Merle muttered, shock plastered across his face. Afton stepped back from him slowly, her tiny pocketknife trembling and covered to the hilt in blood.
Daryl took full advantage of his brother's surprise, dashing forward and tackling Merle to the ground. They landed on the soft earth of the riverbank with twin grunts. Daryl straddled him, one hand clamped around Merle's neck, the other straining to wrestle the gun from his grasp, thoroughly amazed at his brother's strength despite his wounds. He was acutely aware that Merle's fever had not abated; it had seemed only to have intensified and Daryl very nearly drew his hands back from the disturbingly scorched heat of the skin under his palms.
Merle choked out a laugh as he stared wild-eyed up at Daryl. "You always was such a pussy," he wheezed. "Never could win a fight against yo' big brother, could ya?"
"Fuck you!" Daryl cried. "You think you were doing me a favor, beatin' the shit out of me almost everyday?" He crushed his hand over Merle's windpipe, unable to stop the memories from flooding back. "You were supposed to look out for me! We're brothers, goddamn it!"
He tried shaking Merle's wrist to release the gun, but his hand slipped off his brother's sweat-slicked skin. Merle wasted no time in smashing the butt of the pistol against side of Daryl's head, the brute force of it momentarily blacking out his vision. He keeled sideways into the shallow creek, his knees scraping painfully on the sharp river rock. He dazedly brought his hand up to his temple and was absently surprised that the fingers came away with fresh blood.
He looked up slowly to Merle just as his brother was gaining his feet. His infected, disfigured arm was tightly pressed against his belly, covering the knife wound Afton had inflicted.
Afton. Daryl turned his muddled head to the left, hoping like fucking hell that she had run back to camp, to safety.
He just about wept with relief seeing that the bank was cleared but for him and Merle. He would give his life for Afton if it came to it, and now it looked like Merle would be the one he'd be giving it to. But he didn't really give a damn, as long as he could take his brother down with him, as long as she was safe.
He looked to Merle standing doubled-over little more than an arm's reach away. Pain and madness were etched roughly across his face as he panted hoarsely, never diverting his gun's aim from Daryl.
A menacing smile broke across Merle's lips and he began laughing as Daryl attempted to stand. His foot faltered on the slippery creek bed only once before he was on his feet again, unsteady, but standing nonetheless.
Merle stepped forward, laughter fading, until the gun in his outstretched hand was pressed solidly against Daryl's heart. "Guess that little slut of yours left you high and dry, didn't she?" he croaked out through bruised vocal chords. "Funny how you even thought you could hold onto a hot piece of ass like that. I am gonna have to teach her a lesson though, stickin' me like she did." He glanced down as he pulled his stunted arm away from his stomach, exposing a shirt saturated with blood.
Daryl looked from the wound back to Merle's face. His vision began to blur and he blinked, trying to bring the world back into focus. He shook his head brusquely, relishing in the tremendous ache it bought, and with it, the momentary clarity. He could suddenly hear the subtle watery rush of the creek, the soft questioning of an owl far up in the trees, the commotion of panicked voices nearing.
He grabbed handfuls of Merle's shirtfront and yanked him forward, feeling the sharp angles of the gun muzzle digging into his chest and not caring, seeing the shocked expression wipe across Merle's face knowing he'd never forget it. His face was inches from his brother's. He was instantly enveloped in intense fever-heat and he could smell the bitter tang of blood and sweat, the pungent reek of infection, the darkly musky scent of imminent death.
"I think it's time someone taught you a lesson, brother," Daryl ground out through bared teeth. "After all those years, after all that shit, it's finally your turn." He pulled Merle closer, overcome with the intention of pounding his face until his fingers simply refused to form a fist anymore.
Merle's eyes rolled wildly and he tried futilely pushing Daryl back. The gun at his chest jerked violently as his brother pulled the trigger.
The hollow click of the dead-fire had Daryl's body tensing so fiercely that he was sure his heart really had stopped beating. They both looked down at the pistol wedged between them in amazement. Merle fumbled the hammer, readying the second round and Daryl knew he might not be so lucky twice. The dry rustle of river reeds in front of him wrenched his focus over Merle's shoulder.
Afton had somehow appeared from the shadows, his crossbow drawn and steady in her hands. She stopped short right behind his brother. "I'm so sorry, Daryl," she whispered, her tear-filled gaze never wavering from his.
The arrow entered Merle faster than he had time to react, to think, to speak, and traveled at such a great velocity and from such a short range that the arrowhead protruded from his chest and deeply pierced the muscle stretched between Daryl's ribs, very nearly puncturing his right lung- the wound leaving a scar that he'd carry for the rest of his life. The perfectly executed kill shot brought Merle down instantly.
Daryl sank to his knees in the mud beside his brother, no longer able to keep his vision from blurring, no longer able to stay upright.
The last thing he remembered before the empty, echoing darkness took him was Afton's hands on his face, her lips on his mouth, her voice in his ear, "Stay with me baby, please." It was a request he wasn't entirely sure he could deliver on.
