Snapshot In Time ➳ twd/spn

Day 314: One Step Closer

Carol's POV

Carol hummed a half-forgotten song as she stirred the stew that she had thrown together for lunch, inhaling the rich scent of meat and vegetables that wafted up from the bubbling pot. She smiled as she removed the spoon, setting it aside before turning away from the stove only to stop short when she found that she had company.

Dean was seated at one of the tables, head lowered and resting on his crossed arms, which were limply lying on the cool surface. The position hid Dean’s face from view, his posture so still that the only sign of life was the steady up and down of his back as he breathed.

Carol’s lips thinned -her good mood fading at seeing the usually lively man in such a state- before she looked around for something that she could bring to him to try and cheer him up. She had a lightbulb moment when she recalled that Carl had previously mentioned that giving Dean a task to focus on never failed to help bring him out of his funk.

Although, before she could locate some kind of excuse to approach Dean, Daryl noiselessly entered the cafeteria, the man light on feet even when he didn’t necessarily need to be. Carol very nearly sighed in relief when she laid eyes on him, hoping that he had some unfinished chore that Dean could complete.

As if sensing her stare upon his person, Daryl’s perpetually squinted gaze rose from the floor, resting on Carol for a moment. Daryl’s expression went icy upon seeing the distress on her face, his posture rapidly shifting into something defensive as his hand moved to hover over the knife on his hip, his gaze scanning over the cafeteria for danger. When he only saw Dean at the table, his posture relaxed, his hands falling back to his sides.

When Dean didn’t move other than to breathe, Daryl’s brows furrowed, the brunet making no indication that he even noticed the younger Dixon’s arrival. Carol found herself surprised when the antisocial man changed direction without any prompting from Carol, slowing as he came up on Dean’s turned back. The younger redneck was careful not to initiate contact as he edged toward the open seat on the brunet’s left, slowly sitting down with a wariness that was not usually seen from Daryl anymore.

Dean didn’t even twitch.

Carol shot a worried look at Daryl, who waved her off, silently declaring that he had the situation handled and that she should focus on lunch. She reluctantly heeded his suggestion, keeping a keen eye on the two men as she fussed with the stew. Carol stole a glance at them here and there, but nothing notable happened other than Daryl retrieving his red rag from his back pocket to wipe off his dirt-covered hands.

Just as Carol was considering talking Daryl into going to get Hershel, Dean blinked, the life rapidly returning to his bloodshot eyes as he became aware of his surroundings. The brunet appeared disoriented for a moment, brows furrowing as he scrutinized the gray tabletop, Daryl a silent support at his side. His current whereabouts seemed to come back to him all at once because his head snapped up, Carol hastily averting her gaze before he could catch her staring.

“Oh. Daryl.” Dean said mildly and Carol braved a glance in their direction, freezing in place when she saw that Daryl’s hand had moved to carefully wrap around the brunet’s elbow, probably to draw the other man’s attention to his person. Dean didn’t seem to think twice about the touch, but Carol knew how significant it was, having been with Daryl long enough to know that the man initiating any kind of physical contact was extremely rare.

“Hey.” Daryl grunted, his hand falling away from the brunet.

“Sorry.” Dean mumbled, mouth twisting as he looked away from the younger redneck, who frowned.

“Ya ain’t got nothin’ ta say sorry fer.” Daryl countered, his tone declaring the matter settled. Carol had to fight a smile when Dean snorted, head bobbing in a reluctant nod.

“Alright.” The brunet allowed, the amusement in both his response and tentative smile making the room seem just a little bit brighter. Daryl narrowed his eyes at the joyful curve of the other man’s mouth, as if it hurt to look at directly, which was plausible because Carol herself had been on the receiving end of that particular look a few times herself and she always felt like she was looking directly at the sun.

“Com’on, there’s shit ta pick in the garden.” Daryl abruptly pushed to his feet with an expectant look, Dean peering up at the younger Dixon searchingly for a loaded minute before he shrugged and followed Daryl’s example. The younger redneck led the way back to the barred doorway, unlocking it and holding it open for the brunet, who stepped through the threshold with a word of thanks that Daryl brushed off.

Carol couldn’t help but wonder if she had just witnessed some kind of shift in their budding friendship as she stared at the table that they had just vacated.