Chapter Sixteen
"Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother."
Daryl didn't answer, choosing to continue staring out the window of his truck, watching the road sweep by and paying little attention to just where exactly Merle was taking them.
But Merle wasn't the kind of guy who took well to silence. He always needed to fill it up with something, usually the wrong something too. The kind of something that got him into fights or carted off to jail, and made him seem like twice the asshole he actually was.
"You know what you were to them? A freak. Redneck trash. Some dirty old mutt they dragged in from the cold 'cuz they felt sorry for it. They were laughing at you behind your back, Darleena, I'll tell you that. And one day, one day they woulda just scarped you off their heels like you was dogshit, and you'd have been right back where you are now."
Daryl gritted his teeth and imagined a crater in the road ahead of them, growing larger and darker and deeper and swallowing them up whole.
"Hey—they ain't your kin. Your blood," Merle emphasized, slamming his palm down on the steering wheel. "Hell, you had any damn nuts in that sack of yours, you woulda shot your old pal Sheriff Grimes in the face for puttin' me away."
The younger Dixon stayed quiet, staring off into the distance and letting the white noise of his idling mind slowly drown out his brother's hateful swill.
TWDTWDTWDTWD
They checked into a motel that was dingy at best, just two turns off the side of the highway. The balding man at the front desk asked if they wanted to pay by the hour, and Daryl pressed his nails deep into his palm and tried to pretend he was anywhere else.
After dropping their stuff off in the room, Merle snatched the keys up off the mantle and was out the door again, calling behind him that he'd be back in a few hours with beer.
Hours.
Daryl lay back on one of the beds and pressed his hands against his eyes, willing the world around him to disappear. He found himself wondering what it would be like if he'd never gotten with Shane at all, if the Grimes hadn't taken him in and his dad hadn't been put away. It was a hard sell, but at least without such happy moments for comparison, being on the road with Merle again wouldn't feel so wrong.
Merle spouted out a lot of words about a lot of things, but he'd gotten one thought absolutely right. Merle was his blood, and Daryl couldn't abandon him. If the younger Dixon had stayed with the Grimes, gotten a job or maybe even gone to college, where would that leave his big brother? Back in jail, most likely. This time for something worse, violent and far-reaching. At least by Merle's side, Daryl could look out for his brother in person, and make he didn't ruin his life completely.
And hell, he'd never fit in with the Grimes anyways. They'd cleaned him up a bit and kept him off the streets, but he'd always felt like a circus act to them, some lion they spent years training just to have it nervously pace the walls of its cave.
Convincing himself that Shane hadn't cared was a more difficult matter. And as soon as Daryl's mind reached that impasse, trying and failing to jump the hurdle of the older boy's undeniable affection, Daryl was up on his feet and scratching nervously at his wrists, wanting out of this room and this town and this fucking life. He paced back and forth to pass the time, telling himself that Shane didn't need him anyways. That the jock would get over him, probably already had some busty blonde bimbo in his bed.
But that thought didn't help at all. Daryl's insides lurched and he barely made it to the bathroom before he was puking up the measly contents of his stomach into the porcelain toilet. But even with Merle gone and Daryl's guts trying valiantly to escape his body through his esophagus, the sting of his eyes never progressed to anything embarrassing. The knowledge that he'd fucked everything up seared with a kind of sharpness he wasn't used to, worse than that sick feeling he used to get when he heard the doors of his dad's truck slam shut.
Daryl sat on the bathroom floor for what could have been hours, until true to form, Merle burst back into the motel room with two trashy and piss-drunk women in tow, and beer in his hands. There was a brief flicker of recognition on his older brother's face, when he took in Daryl's bloodshot eyes and sullen expression. But he quickly replaced his pursed-lips with a wide smile.
"Look what I brought ya, baby brother," Merle boomed, "Gonna have ourselves a party."
The girls got settled and Merle handed Daryl an open beer, which the younger promptly chugged. Never mind the fact that his stomach was as empty as Merle's beat up leather wallet—Daryl would have taken anything, at this point, for the promise of duller senses and an easier night's sleep.
He sat against the opposite wall while the girls fawned over his brother, all hands and too-plump lips. Daryl watched with his eyes half-shut, until the room began to sway back and forth. Only two beers in, he knew it was far too early to have the spins. And then he was hot, so fucking hot he'd have ripped his clothes off in different company. Everything felt itchy and wrong against his skin and Christ, how was it that the rough denim of his jeans was friction enough to have him hard and pressing against the zipper.
"Merle," he groaned, writhing on the floor for any comfortable position, "Merle, what did you do?"
"Nothin' much, baby brother," Merle replied, shooting him a shit-eating grin. And that confirmed it; the fucker had spiked his drink.
"The fuck," Daryl grunted, fighting not to claw at his own skin. "Merle, you fuckin' asshole, what'd you do?"
Rather than answer, Merle wrenched one of the girls to her feet, smacked her on the ass and shoved her in his direction. She landed in his lap.
"Fuck's sake," he griped as she giggled. She slid her hands underneath his shirt without warning, and Daryl smacked his head back against the wall in his effort to get away from her.
"What the fuck," he growled, "Just go back to Merle. He wants ya."
He tripped over himself as he stood, stumbling to his feet and trying to navigate the spinning room. Daryl closed his eyes and hooked onto the wall, attempting to get a hold of his racing heart. But when that didn't work, he snatched up one of Merle's six-packs and B-lined straight for the bathroom, slamming the door shut and snapping in the lock before his brother could put up a fuss.
Daryl stared at himself in the mirror and downed a beer. He stared longer and drank two more. The picture of him was blurry, almost like it was vibrating at too high a speed for his eyes to capture. But the tenting in his jeans was obvious, still, and the younger Dixon was reasonably sure that he wouldn't be able to sleep until it was gone.
Unzipping his fly and pulling out his aching length was an easy move, and a practiced one. He caught his own eye in the mirror, then thought better of it and clenched his eyes shut, slowly running his fist up and down and trying to get this over with as quickly as possible. But the less into this he was, the longer it would take.
He racked his brain for any appropriate material—those magazines he'd found in Merle's room back when he was a freshman, the painfully awkward first kiss he'd shared with Lucy Andrews back in middle school. But all of it paled in comparison to the many, burning, blissful and bright moments he'd shared with Shane. It didn't help at all that Daryl'd had just about no sexual experience before the jock had approached him, or the memories of the two of them together were still so fresh in his mind.
His brain didn't like it. And his heart must not have either, from the way it clenched and fought against him. But the thought of Shane standing behind him, wrapping an arm around his body and stroking him in that perfect way of his had Daryl's cock twitching in approval. He closed his eyes again, and it was Shane behind him, kissing his neck and holding him close. It was Shane's hand bringing him off slow and easy, upping the pace incrementally until Daryl was gasping for breath. It was Shane's thumb that grazed over the head, dipping into the slit and making Daryl moan for relief. And finally, it was Shane's mouth that latched onto his neck as Daryl finally found his release, coming across the sink with a strangled groan.
Daryl's eyes snapped open at the last moment, bleary and unfocused. But even as the aftershocks rocked through him, the sight of himself spent and alone, red in the face from the cocktail of beer and drugs he'd consumed—Daryl thought maybe he'd throw up again. Or finally pass out on the floor, and let the fucked up failure of today be over. But his body seemed to have other plans, making his vision warp and the room shake and the temperature skyrocket. He belatedly wondered just what Merle had put in his drink, and how much of it.
The younger Dixon struggled to tuck himself away, then stumbled into the bathtub, pumping up the cold water and slumping against the opposite wall as the icy liquid seeped into his clothes. He wasn't sure how long he lay there before the sickening noises from the next room stopped. But soon after, Merle broke through the bathroom door with a crack, wood splintering as his eyes landed on his messed up little brother, teetering somewhere between high and grief-stricken.
"Daryl…" Merle sighed, and the archer didn't need to look up to know that his brother's expression wasn't jovial anymore. He took a deep breath to collect himself, then crept closer. "Alright, baby brother. Let's get you to bed."
"No," Daryl replied flatly, in a voice so low he wasn't sure Merle had heard him. So he turned his head to look his brother in the eye. "Get out, Merle."
Because Daryl didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be warm or comfortable or dry. No, Daryl needed this, the dull sting of frigid water cracking against his skin, and the harsh lights, and the pain.
"Yeah, okay Daryl. Let's just—"
"No! Get out!" Daryl spat, cutting him off.
"Daryl…"
"What, are you fuckin' deaf now? I said go! I don't want you here!" Daryl nabbed a bottle from off of the ground and chucked it at the wall. It shattered next to Merle's head, raining glass down all over the floor. "Get out! Get the fuck out!"
His brother hesitated a moment, and Daryl snatched up another empty glass, throwing it at Merle's head this time. The elder had only a second to dodge out of the way.
"Fucking go!" Daryl screamed, begged.
A familiar scowl fell across Merle's face. "Ya know what—fine! Have it your way you annoying little shit! See if I care if you fuckin' drown!"
He stomped out of the room and slammed the half-broken door in his wake, and Daryl tipped his head up towards the spray and willed the cold water to freeze over his rattling mind.
TWDTWDTWDTWD
Daryl didn't have a strong memory of it, but at some point during the night he must have managed to get up out of the tub and find himself some dry clothes. There was a wisp of recollection in the back of his mind, a scene where Merle helped him back out of bed after he'd finally returned, and got him to the bathroom before he puked all over the carpet. It must have been a dream, because the Merle that Daryl almost remembered had soothed him in a gentle voice, pet his hair and gotten him to drink some water, then all but carried him back into their room. Dream Merle had tucked him into bed, piling every spare blanket he could find on top of him when Daryl had started shivering.
When Daryl woke up, noontime light was streaming in through the paltry curtains, and Merle was already awake. He'd cleaned up the broken glass from the bathroom, and the empty bottles from their disaster of a night. Whether or not that surprised him, things went right back to normal when Merle announced, "We need money, little brother. And I got us a job."
"What kinda job?" Daryl croaked. He fought to sit up, and the world spun on its point.
"The kind ya don't tell no one about, that's what," Merle laughed, "Old friend from inside's gonna run it with us. Easy as pie."
Daryl finally sat up and ground his palms into his eyes. His head was pounding, and since he knew they didn't have the cash to procure a couple Aspirin, let alone a whole bottle, Daryl muttered, "Yeah. Yeah, alright Merle."
TWDTWDTWDTWD
Long past midnight, and out south of Atlanta again, the Dixon brothers met up with the type of man Daryl had always feared his brother would turn into. His head was shaved and his knuckles were cracked, and the swastika on his wrist was one of many hateful, permanent adornments he'd paid to have stamped across his body.
Cash had apparently been Merle's cellmate during his last stint in prison, and had come up with the plan for this particular robbery after watching an old western train-heist film during his first week out. But this wasn't a train heist. If anything, it'd be a hit and run, because Cash's plan depended almost entirely on their ability to get in and out fast as lightening.
"Man, this is gonna be the easiest money you've ever made," the skinhead bragged, "Security guard comes 'round at 1am. We knock him out, break those windows and grab the jewels, then book it out of here before the cops show up. See? Easy."
"Cameras?" Merle asked.
"In this Podunk town? You bet your ass there ain't."
"Well, fuck. They're practically askin' for it then. I say you and me bust inside, Daryl's behind the wheel. We jump back out that window, he pulls up, and we're out of there before the cops have even gotten the call," Merle proposed, and Cash nodded right along.
Daryl looked between the two of them, biting at his lip and ignoring the icy dread that was pumping through his veins. Disagreeing with Merle wasn't the best of ideas on a good day, and Cash didn't look like the type of guy who would listen to reason. So the younger Dixon took the car keys from Merle and shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping that the next time he saw Sheriff Grimes wasn't down at the county prison.
Merle and Cash took off towards the jewelry store, and Daryl sat in the truck. He watched as Cash skulked up behind the guard and clocked him with the butt of his gun, dropping the man in a heartbeat. He watched Merle drag the guard's unconscious body into the alley, and out of the sights of anyone who might pass by on the street. A waste of time, by Daryl's reckoning, considering that their next move was to smash in the windows at the front of the shop. And Daryl could hear the alarms even with the doors and windows of the car locked up tight. He fidgeted in his seat, and waited for their signal.
It was five of the most brutal minutes of Daryl's life, heart hammering against his chest and knuckles going white against the steering wheel as he waited to see his brother's head pop back into view. And Daryl didn't realize just how still he'd been holding his body, breaths shallow and silent, until Merle jumped out through the windowless frame and waved him over. He jerked the truck into gear and pulled up right in front of the store.
Daryl jumped out of the truck to help them with the haul, and had his back turned to the shop when an unfamiliar voice from behind ordered, "Put your hands in the air."
He swallowed hard, and turned around slowly as his hands rose above his head. It was the guard. Of fucking course it was the guard, somehow awakening from his slumber and getting his bearings quick enough to nab them before they could escape. He had his gun pointed at the three of them, and there was blood dripping down the back of his neck. Daryl looked to Merle out of his periphery, and when he found that his big brother shared his expression of panic, Daryl knew they were fucked. But when he looked to Cash next, the man was grinning.
"I said hands in the air!" the guard shouted.
Cash smiled all the wider and reached behind him into the space between his belt and his shirt.
"I've got a gun," Cash announced, "Don't shoot me, alright? I'm gonna bring it out nice and slow for ya. Officer."
He pulled the pistol out from behind him and began to raise both hands slowly into the air.
"Just wanna show you my gun. See?" Cash cooed in a voice that sent chills down Daryl's spine, "Nice and easy. Ain't that right, officer?"
The guard's hands were shaking. Daryl was sure he'd never actually had to arrest a robber before, let alone gotten stuck in a Mexican standoff. And Cash saw it, that flicker of fear. And the fucker latched on hard.
Cash's hands dropped and the gunshot rang out before either Dixon could flinch, let alone move to stop him.
"Wait!" Daryl shouted, knowing as the word left his mouth that it was already too late. The guard went down with a thud, blood spreading rapidly from the hole in his chest.
The younger Dixon immediately lurched forward, rushing to the man's side and pressing his hands over the wound. The man was staring up at him with a look of terror on his face, gurgling blood and looking to Daryl as if he, a fucking teenager, could fix this.
"Merle, get an ambulance!" Daryl cried, looking to his brother who was still frozen by the truck. He pressed harder against the man's chest and tried not to think about how warm the blood was between his fingers. "You're gonna be okay," Daryl told him softly, "Everything's gonna be okay, alright? I promise. Gonna get you some help."
So wrapped up in soothing the man, his first and only indication of danger was when the guard's eyes went even wider in the half second before Cash's gun went off next to Daryl's head. He flinched instinctively, slamming his eyes shut and trying to surpass the painful ringing in his ears. When Daryl opened his eyes again, the guard's face was covered in blood. The hole at the center of his forehead seemed to be spouting out all the available fluids, until there was no face left to see.
"Daryl, we've gotta go!"
He couldn't stop staring, sitting on his knees next to the guard and holding his hands out away from his body like they didn't belong to him.
"Daryl! Daryl, get the fuck up! We're going!"
When a heavy hand grasped him by the shoulder, Daryl startled noticeably. He looked up and saw his brother's mouth moving, fast and wide like the man was shouting, but he couldn't hear much over the high-pitched hum of his eardrums.
Merle finally seemed to put two and two together, and instead opted to drag Daryl to his feet and throw him into the truck. He jumped into the driver's seat and they took off, with Daryl only noticing belatedly that Cash was nowhere to be found. Not that it made much of a difference, now.
They drove and Daryl maintained a resolute silence, staring at the blood on his hands as it dried and cracked. He knew Merle was talking to him, some frenzied mess of words to his left, but it took a while for Daryl to make them out. And even when he could, the younger Dixon provided no indication that his hearing had returned. He just stared down at his hands until they finally came to a stop at a roadside motel with a neon sign.
Merle got out of the truck and checked them into a room. He carried their things inside, including the single bag of jewels that Cash had left behind in his rush to escape the murder scene. And once everything was settled, once Merle had sat down on the bed and wasn't watching him anymore, Daryl plucked the car keys up off the bedside table and turned for the door.
"What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Merle's gruff voice stopped him.
"You can keep the loot," Daryl said to the ground, refusing to turn around fully. "And whatever money we've still got. I don't want it."
"So, what?!" Merle growled, bouncing up to his feet and beginning to pace. "You're just gonna leave, that's it? You're gonna leave your blood?"
Something in Daryl snapped apart.
"Blood? You wanna talk about blood?!" Daryl shouted. "How 'bout the blood I got all over my hands right now? The blood from the man your buddy just fucking murdered! You always go on about kin and family and blood—but it's all bullshit! You don't give a shit about your family, and you sure as fuck don't give a shit about me. Know how I know that? 'Cuz if you cared about me, you never woulda asked me to do this tonight. You never woulda asked me to leave the Grimes, and you wouldn't have left me alone my whole fuckin' life! So don't you fuckin' talk to me about blood. I'm done."
Daryl was shaking, fists clenched at his side and pupils blown when he realized that sometime during his rant, Merle had stopped moving. His older brother was ogling him with a look somewhere between confusion, guilt, and frustration. It was the only time in his life that Daryl had rendered Merle speechless. He took the opportunity to make for the door, one last time.
"Where you goin'?" Merle called. Daryl flinched when his voice cracked, like he was desperate. Hurt, even.
"Back where I belong," Daryl grunted, and looked at his brother one last time.
Merle's eyes darted around the room, searching for an excuse, or a bribe, or any reason really to convince his brother to stay. "I can't go with you," Merle finally rasped, "Damn near tried to kill that muscle-head friend of yours, and the Sheriff ain't never gonna let me back near ya after what I did. I just…I can't go with you."
Daryl picked up his bow from where Merle had propped it by the door and threw it over his shoulder. "I might be the one walkin' away, but you're the one that's leavin'…again."
And when he pulled out of the lot and back onto the highway, Daryl didn't look in the rearview mirror once.
TWDTWDTWDTWD
It was after 3am when the insistent banging at his front door woke Shane with a jolt. He eyed the clock and groaned lowly, but managed to roll himself out of bed and onto his feet. A house visit at this time of night didn't foretell of good things. And he had half a mind to grab a baseball bat before swinging open the door, and facing whatever demons had come knocking.
In the end, he was glad he didn't.
Daryl stood on his stoop in clothing soiled with blood. It was splattered across his arms and his face. Caked under his nails. And even though there were a million things Shane wanted to say to him, he couldn't seem to suck in the breath to get them out. Instead, he stared at the boy he'd been missing for almost two weeks now. Stared hard, like he was searching for that flicker of a lie that would tell him this was just another nightmare.
But then Daryl looked up at him, sought out his eyes with that combination of hesitance and fire that had drawn Shane to him to begin with. It was real. And even when Shane couldn't speak, Daryl somehow managed to.
"Please."