This is my first Walking Dead fic. And, obviously, it's Daryl/OC. I would absolutely love and appreciate feedback! Good and bad!

Just a little side note: POV will switch around a bit, but only from 1st to 3rd.

It's a short beginning, but I would love to continue it given that enough people like it.

Thanks, and I hope you enjoy! :)

I do not own the Walking Dead. Only characters you do not recognize.

"Just do it, Brin!" he nearly screamed. I didn't bother wiping away the tears that were quickly cascading from my eyes as I gripped onto the shovel he had pressed into my hands moments earlier.

"No," I cried desperately as I repeatedly shook my head. "I can't!"

"Do it now, Brinley!" he cried desperately. "You do it now, or you do it later."

"Please," I begged while sobbing.

"I'm asking you to help me, Brin. You have to do it now, before I come back and hurt you."

I looked down at my brother who was lying on the linoleum floor of the convenience store, blood seeping from his side. Beside him lay the motionless body of a walker whose head I'd been forced to skewer.

I looked into my brother's eyes and for the first time I saw fear. It'd been months since the outbreak and he had stayed strong for the two of us. Until now.

"You have to, now," he said calmly. I nodded and took in a few ragged, deep breaths and stepped over my brother, place a foot on either side of him, and he tightly grabbed onto my bare calves.

"On 3, okay?" he instructed calmly. I sputtered out a soft sob, but nodded none the less.

"I love you, James," I said as I trembled, lifting up the shovel in my hands and not breaking eye contact with him.

"Love you too, Brin," he sniffed lightly. "Now, remember, you've gotta hit the brain."

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply as I heard him count down. "One," he said with a strong voice.

"Two," I cried and felt his hands grip my legs even tighter.

"Three-"

I pursed my lips tightly and screamed as I head the sickening crunch and felt blood splatter against my already dirty flesh. I fell to my knees, sobbing so hard I could hardly breathe, landing into his blood.

WDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWD

Daryl Dixon was not the kind of man you would call nurturing. In fact, some- if not most- would take his disregard for selfishness. It was that in and of its self that made Daryl the man that he is. The camp didn't have his back; hell his own brother barely had his back, so Daryl watched his own.

He tried though. He fed the camp; he went on hunting stints for days just to bring back a line of dead squirrels for those ungrateful beings. He watched out for them, staying up at night to keep an eye out, but no one noticed, being too caught up in the fact he didn't like to converse all that much and the fact his brother was more or less borderline sociopathic.

They judged him, the others in the camp; thinking he must be just like his brother Merle. But they were wrong. The similarities stopped with the ability to hunt and track well. Merle was a loud, racist, coke-head, pill-junkie asshole. Everybody knew it, and they all knew he didn't play well with others. But, Merle was Daryl's brother and that meant more than anything else. 'Blood was thicker than water' he'd tend to say; like it was something to excuse all of the bad behavior.

And Daryl was no saint, he'd often remind himself. Most of the judgments and assumptions of the other survivors were called for. He was rude, standoffish, and all around unpleasant, most of the time. The problem was that no one gave him a chance. No one wanted to believe that he wasn't so bad on the inside.

So when Daryl Dixon returned to camp early from another hunting session with a petite, and very bloody, unconscious girl in his arms, you could say the camp was more than surprised.

He had found her while walking the tree line of the back roads near camp. He had been tracking a deer for miles and was rather ticked off when spotting, what he assumed to be, a walker coming up the windy dirt road. Daryl had stopped and brought his favorite crossbow up; locked, loaded, and ready to fire one straight into that filthy bastard head.

He watched her for a moment; why, he didn't know. Nearly head to toe, of what could've been an attractive woman, was splattered and smeared with blood; even her dark hair was matted with it. She was moving slowly, dragging a backpack in the dirt behind her. Maybe that's why he had stopped. Most walkers don't carry things with them. And, most zombies don't fall to their knees with the saddest fucking cry that Daryl had ever heard. She had completely crumpled to the ground then, passing out.

More than curious, Daryl jogged out of the trees and approached what he then realized was an actual, living and breathing woman, not a walker. He nudged her with his foot, turning her onto her back when she parted her eyelids and stared straight into his crossbow. He noted the sorrow, the pain, and regret in her eyes as she parted her lips.

"Please, kill me," she spoke so quietly, he had to strain his ears to hear.

Daryl Dixon wasn't a nurturing man, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let her die out here.