𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚡𝚢𝚜𝚖 ➳ 𝚝𝚠𝚍/𝚜𝚙𝚗

14. Day 514 - 515

Dean squinted up at the lazily passing clouds with a pleased grin, a bloodied knife in hand as he paused his disembowelment of poor Thumper. Daryl and Merle were seated on either side of the brunet, the elder redneck walking Dean through the process of properly skinning and gutting the furry critter so that it was ready to cook. Daryl occasionally piped in to give the brunet tips on where to cut, leaning closer to Dean to take his hand and guide him through the motions.

It was bloody and seventeen different kinds of gross, but the brunet was having more fun than he had expected when first approaching the brothers about his lack of knowledge about prepping kills.

The two rednecks made idle conversation and joked around while deftly stripping the rabbits of their skin and emptying out their insides, debating about what to use the guts and pelts for. Dean mostly left the brothers to their friendly bickering, concentrating on familiarizing himself with the steps of field dressing. He got the hang of it after the third rabbit, his knife-work becoming more steady and confident.

The brunet had gotten through four bunnies and two squirrels when both the brothers froze, Daryl pressing one of his sticky hands to the ground as he cocked his head the same way he had done the day when Merle came stumbling out of the forest with a bitten Maggie.

“Somethin’ big ‘s comin’.” The younger Dixon said cryptically, the ominous words sending a horrible chill down Dean’s spine.

“What? What is it?” The brunet inquired when the two redneck’s shared an unreadable look after Merle stuck his nose into the air and sniffed.

“An’ gunpowder. A lot of it.” The elder Dixon growled, sharp eyes scanning the treeline.

Dean’s stomach dropped to his feet when a familiar shape rose over the hill, casting a shadow onto the prison. The brunet felt the cold hands of death wrap around his throat as the ground rumbled beneath his feet, heart pounding in his ears. Dean couldn’t pry his wide gaze away from the metal beast that steadily rolled toward the fence, his mouth as dry as a desert.

“Is that… a tank?” The brunet gasped, dread settling heavy in his gut. It slowed to a stop a few feet from the fence, a few trucks and cars pulling up on either side of the military-grade fucking tank. When the hatch at the top opened and a man with a distinctive face climbed out, Dean’s insides turned to ice.

It was the Governor, he had returned to the prison with another army.

The brunet was frozen as the sadistic asshole made a motion with his hand, the enormous barrel kicking back with enough force to move the whole tank when it fired. The shell tore through the concrete wall like a bullet through a sheet of paper, sending dust and debris in every direction.

“Rick! Come down here, we need to talk!” The Governor shouted, his remaining eye scanning over the panicking people of Woodbury in the yard before the man’s gaze seemed to come to a shrieking halt on Dean. The Governor's expression darkened, a sneer twisting his face into something nightmarish. The brunet was shaking under the weight of that deranged glare, their staring contest abruptly broken when Rick burst out of a nearby door with Tyreese right behind him.

The Governor's attention immediately shifted to their leader, posture tightening like he wanted to shoot Rick right then and there but was repressing the urge for appearances sake.

“Come down here. Let's… let's have that talk.” The slimy bastard called out, motioning with his hand. At first, Dean thought that he was signaling to fire again, but what came next was so much worse.