Hey look! I wrote a thing! Reviewww?

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"Tell me Dixon." Dean Winchester asked as he sat down next to the other man where he sat atop the overturned bus outside the prison one muggy evening. "You're a fair few years older than me."

"I ain't that much older." Groused Daryl.

"Ehh. Ten years." Dean took a sip from his flask as Dixon rolled his eyes. "It ever get any better?"

"No." The other man said after a moment. Both knew whatever it was Daryl Dixon had gone through as a kid was not something you wished on your worse enemy. But both knew hell was a personalized place when it came to your father and no hell was less Hellish than the other.
"You get better at hiding it. Better at not thinkin' bout' it. But you'll still smell him now and again. Smell the whiskey on your old man's breath 'for he goes for the belt- but nah. It doesn't get any better."

Dean nodded thankfully, his brow furrowing as he took another sip and offered it to Daryl.
Daryl took a healthy swig before asking- "are those Mick's giving the last rights to a Walker?"

"Yep." Nodded Dean.

"Good Lord…" Daryl grunted as he stood back up and shouted "CONNOR! MURPH! WHAT THE HELL HAVE I TOLD YOU. WE DON'T TOUCH THE WALKERS…"

The topic of abuse was never broached by the two again. But there was a sense of brotherhood there that hadn't been before.