Author's Note: I hope you all enjoyed the season finale as much as I did! If any of you want to talk about it, please PM me, I am nearly bursting with excitement. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter. xo.

Warnings: Language (maybe).

Spare Me: Chapter Eleven.

Daryl couldn't sleep. He had been tossing and turning in Merle's jumble of sleeping bags for what had seemed like hours, nose filled with his brother's lingering scent, composed of stale sweat and cigarettes. His body was utterly exhausted but (as he'd predicted), his mind simply wouldn't shut the fuck up. He was thinking about so much at the same time that he really wasn't sure what he was actually thinking about. Everything was just a big fucking jumble in his head and dear God did he want a fucking cigarette. He'd never been a heavy smoker, usually just having a few at parties or with Merle but he felt a nicotine craving hit him with full force and he was immediately wide awake, throwing the blankets off of him so that he could rummage through Merle's backpack.

There were three smokes left in the pack and, despite the urge he had to smoke all three in a row, he only took one, leaving the other two for the future. He fell right back into the routine, filling his lungs with smoke and exhaling in one, long breath.

Just like riding a bicycle.

He was certain that it was nearly dawn; somewhere in between his tossing and turning, he figured that he must have caught a few winks of sleep, even if it was the dreamless variety that made you feel worse than before. But there was no point in him staying in the tent any longer; he was just stewing in his thoughts and they really weren't doing him any good. If he took the final watch of the night, at least he'd have a little bit of a distraction.

Hell, even if nothing happened and he was stuck with his thoughts again, at least he'd be stuck with them outside rather than somewhere that smelled like a biker joint.

It was as he stepped outside, crossbow slung over his shoulder, that he heard it. On first listen, he thought it was a Walker and he immediately snapped to attention, his muscles stiffening as he stood stock-still, looking for a flicker of movement. After the noise came again, however, Daryl pinned it as coming from the RV and felt his stomach sink as his mind made the connection. He wasn't hearing a Walker moving about the camp; he was hearing the dying moans of a man who was about to become a Walker.

It was almost enough to make you sick.

Apparently, he hadn't been tossing and turning nearly as long as he'd thought; the sky hadn't even begun to lighten along the edges of the horizon, meaning that it was still, effectively, the middle of the night. Nonetheless, he didn't have anything better to do; he was already awake and out in the refreshing air and he was sure that whoever was already on watch would appreciate the chance to get away from Jim's desperate groans.

To his surprise, it was Glenn who was on top of the RV, wrapped up in a threadbare blanket, Dale's old hunting rifle resting across his lap. For a few long seconds, Daryl considered trying to slide silently back down the ladder and make his way back to his tent but he decided to man up; he was going to face this situation head on, just like he did everything else. Besides, Glenn had already seen him poke his head over the roof and, despite the shit Daryl had said to him earlier, he was smiling slightly.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Daryl nodded and settled himself down beside Glenn's chair, his knee bumping against the kid's foot.

"Don't think I've slept since this whole thing began," he muttered, bringing his cigarette back up to his lips. He was surprised at how casual Glenn seemed, like the events of earlier hadn't even happened. Was he honestly that forgiving? If so, he was like the goddamn modern-day Messiah.

"I can take over watch for you if you want," he said after a few moments of silence, blowing smoke out along with his words. "Better than sitting in that fucking tent."

"Do you mind if I stay?" Daryl tilted his head up to see Glenn looking down at him, practically buried between his hat and the blanket he had pulled up to his neck.

"'Course not. Up to you I guess." One of those spine-chilling moans came from below them and Daryl felt himself involuntarily shiver. Sounded like something right out of one of the fucking horror films he'd watched as a kid.

"What do you think is going to happen to him?" Glenn asked quietly. For a few seconds, Daryl felt the urge to make a smart-ass remark comment but he swallowed it down. It was obvious that Glenn wasn't stupid; he knew that Jim was going to turn. He was wondering what the group was going to do to him.

"Dunno," Daryl sighed, taking one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it over the edge of the RV. "I imagine there'll be a big shitstorm about shooting him, puttin' him out of his misery but no one will step up and actually do it."

"Would you do it?"

"Absolutely." There was no questioning it; Daryl knew that if it came down to him, he would dispatch Jim just like every other Walker he'd taken care of. Glenn didn't answer and when Daryl twisted his neck so he could look upwards, he could see that the kid was staring off into the distance, deep in thought. Daryl didn't like what was in Glenn's eyes; they looked positively haunted, like he was seeing ghosts in the forest. He needed to distract him somehow, but the only thing he could think to talk about was what had happened earlier in the truck.

Well, it had to be said sometime.

"Listen, kid, I'm sorry 'bout earlier," he said, fingers clenching into fists at his sides. "Just... it's a little weird, y'know?"

"And you don't think it's weird for me?" As soon as he snapped, the kid looked like he regretted it; he grew sheepish looking, sinking even further down into the blanket. Daryl was actually flabbergasted; he knew that he'd only known the kid for a little while but to hear him actually get angry was odd, to say the least. It totally broke his image of Glenn being the modern day Messiah, which he had to admit was probably a good thing.

"I'm sorry Daryl," he muttered, words nearly indecipherable, "but you're not the only one who's new to this thing. I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing but I don't run away from it! Just..." Glenn dropped out of the chair, practically tumbling into Daryl's lap. Although Daryl could feel his blood seething (who the fuck did Glenn think he was?), he let Glenn get close, knees resting against his thighs, warm palms on his neck, gently turning Daryl's head towards him. As pissed off as he wanted to be, Daryl quickly felt his anger ebbing away from the sheer look on Glenn's face. Everything about it was genuine; his emotions were written there as clearly as if they were written on paper.

Quite frankly, he cared.

"Just... please, talk to me Daryl," he said quietly, letting his palms drop back into his own lap. "I know that might be hard or something but can you please try to? It'll make this a lot easier."

Much as he wanted to agree, to say that he would give it a shot (even though it went against absolutely everything he'd ever learned), Daryl's body decided that yawning was far more important at the moment. For a few seconds, he was afraid that Glenn would think that he was bored, that he was just blowing him off but instead, Glenn just chuckled and shucked the blanket off of himself, draping it over Daryl's shoulders.

"You're right, it's way too late to be talking about this stuff," he said, reaching for the rifle again and laying it across his lap. "But maybe I could ride with you to the CDC?" All Daryl could do was nod; it seemed that his entire body had suddenly been drained of energy and it was all he could do to hold the blanket on his shoulders. Walking down the ladder didn't seem like a particularly safe idea, as he really didn't relish the idea of having to run away from a bunch of Walkers with a broken ankle. So instead, he stretched out on the roof of the RV, adjusting himself so that he wouldn't roll off.

He was asleep within minutes, but he was still conscious enough to feel Glenn wriggle over and pull his head up into his lap. He just wasn't conscious enough to resist it.

"Daryl."

His eyes snapped open and he sat up straight, quickly glancing around, momentarily confused as to why he was smelling vanilla (or something) rather than beer and sweat. It took a few seconds for his mind to completely throw off the curtain of sleep and only then did he realize that he was still lying on top of the RV, still wrapped up in Glenn's threadbare blanket. The kid, for his part, hadn't moved an inch, although he looked much more tired than he had before Daryl had shut his eyes.

"Sorry to wake you up," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "but we gotta go." Although the sun was just beginning to peek up (finally), the camp was already full of hustle and bustle as the rest of the group took down their tents and piled them into the various vehicles. The RV kept shaking beneath him as people constantly walked in and out of it and Daryl decided against standing up to stretch.

Despite the fact that he couldn't have slept more than two or three hours, he actually felt... rested. For the first time in weeks, he had slept deeply, even hitting that dream phase. He couldn't remember exactly what his dreams had been about (only that they'd mostly been nonsensical) but the fact was that they'd happened and he was almost positive that Glenn has been the main cause of that.

"Need any help taking your tent down?" he asked, gesturing over at Glenn's sagging shelter.

"Nah. Pretty sure the stupid thing is about to fall over anyways," he said. "Can I throw it in the back of your truck though?"

Right. The kid had asked last night if he could ride with him. Although Daryl supposed there was no going back now, he still couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive about the situation. He'd promised the kid that he'd attempt to talk to him but what the hell did he really have to say to him? He wasn't exactly the most exciting guy in the world; he didn't have any exotic tales of travelling or any impressive shit he'd done. Wasn't that the kind of stuff people wanted to hear about?

Thankfully, he didn't have to cross that road immediately. Almost as soon as they hit the road, their tents and Merle's motorcycle secured in the back of the pickup, Glenn had fallen asleep, head leaning against the window, hat pulled over his eyes. Much as Daryl didn't like being left to his own thoughts again, he couldn't help but like the weird half snore, half gasping noises Glenn was making as he slept. It was comforting, not being alone for once.

Two hours into their drive to the CDC, they had to pull over. For all intents and purposes, Jim was on his deathbed; he was sickly pale and sweat streamed off of his forehead in rivulets. His breath was rattling in his chest, mingled in with those awful groans that had only gotten worse. He couldn't even walk the short distance between the RV and the large tree Rick propped him up against; his legs gave out halfway there and he had to be dragged.

Daryl thought that he was going to be sick. It was one thing, seeing Walkers roaming the streets; it was an entire other thing to see someone slowly being claimed by the fever. It was a cruel, vicious way to die, to practically be tortured to death by your own body. Glancing around at the others, he couldn't help but scoff at the two or three who were visibly praying quietly.

God wasn't going to do anything to help them. They were the only ones who could do anything about the situation. Jim coughed out another sentence, blood spewing from his cracked lips and Daryl had to avert his eyes to the ground. He wasn't going to watch the man die any longer.

God wasn't going to save them from the painful death that they were witnessing. The only saviours they had were themselves.