[SUPERNATURAL/DEXTER] One shot: Deathly Desperate Dean {gen}
Title: Deathly Desperate Dean
Author: frayen
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 2, 327
Prompt: #34 serial killer
Spoilers: Some for Dexter the series, but very minor, none for the books
Summary: Sam and Dean travel to Miami looking for the Supernatural, they find the darker side of humanity instead.
Notes/Warnings: Ok, DEATH!FIC. That's a warning, big old DEATH. It's written from Dexter's POV so some knowledge of that series would be helpful or this will likely make no sense.
Beta'd by krazykid197
Deathly Desperate Dean
“Dexter?” Rita calls to me from the kitchen. There is something in her voice, it’s wearing that forced, careful casualness she puts on when she doesn’t want to alarm Astor and Cody - who have been tucked into bed, but won’t be asleep yet. I didn’t need to go to her to find out what would cause her to take this sudden turn for the cautious. I already knew there would be a big black car parked outside. I could feel myself being watched. The darkness inside me laughed, low and breathy in anticipation of a challenge I could not let it have. My special friend, my dark passenger, recognised that outside there was another. Not kindred and not a playmate, but still, someone out for blood.
My blood, which made an interesting change.
“Dexter?” Rita said again, and I wonder if she can see the young man behind the wheel or just the big, bulky beast of a machine that has been haunting me for days “Can’t you do something?” She asks when I make my way into the kitchen. I can see Rita is holding the curtain open a little; she is leaning back slightly trying to peer out in that nosy neighbour way. That’s my Rita, being sneaky is just not her forte. Through the crack in the curtain I could see my own personal hunter’s behemoth, the headlights just peeking out from under the blanket of the smooth Miami night. His face was still shrouded in shadows, though, but I know it’s him.
“Dexter?”
I hadn’t answered her; I had been quiet too long. I have been doing that a lot lately. So I slap on my patented innocently charming Dexter smile.
“I don’t see what I can do, Rita. Whoever that is isn’t actually doing anything.”
“Can’t you go out and talk to them, tell them to go away? Dexter, you’re a cop.”
“I work for the cops; I’m not actually a cop.”
Rita frowns and clearly I have said the wrong thing. In an effort to appease her I pat her on the arm in the universal ‘it’ll be ok’ gesture. “I’ll take care of it.” I say and this does seem to make her feel better.
Of course I had no idea how I was going to take care of it. While the young man in the black Impala had taken to ‘stalking’ me, this was the first time he had made his presence known to the other people in my neat little life. Was this some kind of challenge? Was I being called out?
I hoped not, that would be…inconvenient.
I had not yet cleared the porch when the Impala’s headlights slammed on and the car revved its old engine and growled away. In the dim glare of the street lamps I caught a flash of angry dark eyes.
This could be a problem.
Now that I was outside, I didn’t want to go back in. I just know my fragile Rita is going to want to file a report, no doubt convinced our mysterious stranger is after her. Of course telling her he is actually after me will do little to ease her concerns.
No, I can’t go to the police any more than young Samuel can. See that mysterious stranger isn’t so mysterious to me. I can just see the conversation now.
“So,” The poor unfortunate uniform assigned to our little complaint would say. “Why is a strange man stalking dear docile Dexter?”
“You see officer, I can’t be sure but it might have something to do with the fact that last week, last Tuesday to be precise. I caught his older brother breaking into a warehouse. I then took him back to a special, carefully prepared place where I proceeded to carve him into little pieces. I then dumped those pieces off the side of my boat somewhere far from shore.
Now, I know it was a risk taking one brother and not the other, but last time I tried a rushed two for one kill it really didn’t go well. And besides being related to and still associating with a serial killer, young Samuel was relatively clean.”
“And Dexter, just why did you carve up this young man’s brother.”
“Well, officer. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
*
His name was - had been, past tense - Dean Winchester, and the trouble I had just to get to that gem of information was proof positive that good old Dean was hiding something. Some things, and what deliciously awful things he had been hiding. It seemed redundant to say he hadn’t looked like a serial killer, I mean look at me, who would ever suspect dear Dexter? But still, he looked like something. That little boy lost look was just a mask, a façade that I wore better than he did. He stood out, I tried not to.
Of course it, my dark friend and I, might not have recognized him as being anything had he not been loitering around my murder scene.
I had felt the familiar tingle creep slowly down my spine as I walked out of the white picket house. That black part of me awoke and stretched itself out in the mid morning Miami sun, alert and recognizing something of itself somewhere among the morbidly avid crime scene audience. Even through the mishmash freak show that made up the usual crowd, a mix of Miami natives and tourists, these two stood out. The world weary, road beaten down way that they held themselves placed them as being from far out of town. Tourists? Maybe, but I was going to bet on it. They looked out of place, everything up until the point where they stood was the usual throng of reporters, uniformed police, neighbours and spectators. Usual scene, with these two just tacked onto the end. A dark contrast afterthought that was trying, and failing, to blend in with the crowd.
The tall one - who I would later come to know as Sam, Samuel - stood, head bent in that apologizing way, talking to a young woman. The other one - Dean - seemed to be looking right at me, straight through me like he could reach through the blackness and right to my dark little soul. In reality he was looking everywhere, drinking in the scene, noticing everything. I shifted my case into my other hand as I drew closer to them, him, my mask of neutrality firmly in place. Well hello there young stranger, you are of no interest to me. Sam had finished his conversation and moved to stand with Dean, next to and a little behind. He had to stoop down to talk into Dean’s ear, words so sincerely soft I almost didn’t catch them.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with us.”
“I figured.” Dean had replied and then turned away.
And that is what had gotten my attention, that interesting turn of phrase. Why would this have anything to do with them? The merry little bloodbath concealed behind that plain white door had nothing to do with anything but me.
I didn’t like working scenes of my own crimes; it meant something had gone wrong, a kind of rushed failure on my part. Murderous interuptus. It meant I hadn’t left things neat and Dexter clean, and it meant that my cold dark passenger went unsatisfied. Which is why he had called to me from the dark backseat. Feed me Dexter. It was that urging that spurred me on, the need for the rush of the kill. My special friend had set his sights on this young man, who I had never seen or heard of before today, but the code of Harry needed more than just gut feelings of guilt.
And that is why midnight had found me trailing them to Tamiami Trail and the Cacique motel, a place I knew all too well.
*
Their room was not - thankfully - room 103, wouldn’t that have been a kick in the face? It was 102, but still the proximity made me hesitate for a few moments before I moved to pick the lock. I had of course waited until my potential quarry had eased their car out of the motel parking lot before making my move. I waited until the engine was just a low rumble in the night, and for the owner of this fine establishment to disappear back behind her curtain. I wasn’t the only one watching the boys leave, though I think her motive may have been very different from my own.
I had been impressed by the lengths these boys had gone to hide themselves. I ran every name on every fake ID that I found, except the ones that appeared to be names of TV characters or musicians, the little scamps. Each name came up with nothing. I had no illusion that any of these would be their real IDs, even before I ran them all; smart boys like these weren’t about to leave a damning piece of information lying around. Then one name came up in a hit as a known alias of one Dean Winchester. Interesting. The records on Dean Winchester seem to be a little confused as to his state of health; his body had been found in a house in St Louis where he was suspected of torturing and murdering several young women. Only for him to turn up again in Maryland, alive and well with his little brother Samuel in tow, where he was discovered at yet another murder scene. My dark passenger, who had been uncharacteristically docile during this excursion, smiled deep in the dark back of my mind. My fingers itched; my skin felt like it could crawl off my bones in anticipation of these kills. No, kill, just one. While Dean Winchester was proving to be as guilty as the proverbial sin, young Samuel wasn’t quite coming up roses, but he was coming up clean. The partial prints I had lifted from abandoned coffee cups came up with a few possible hits, inadmissible in the court of law, but in the court of Dexter? No, Harry would want more proof, I needed more proof, I just didn’t get it. Beyond the fake ID’s and the wall of newspaper clippings of articles about unexplained disappearances - some I was responsible for I might add, but shhh don’t tell - and the continued association with a serial killer, Samuel Winchester wasn’t anything.
*
Later I knew I was going to has trouble explaining away the black eye, it’s not like I have cause for a lot of fist fight during my day job. I could say that I walked into a door, but that seemed a little clichéd. Dean Winchester was many things, a sadistic murderer, a chameleon, and he was also a fighter. Before the sedative could take him down he managed to clock me one, hard, I saw stars. I’d had difficult captures before, but one look into angry, defiant eyes and I knew this would be worth it.
Dean Winchester was a hissing spitting thing on a saran wrapped table. I eventually had to gag him, as I read the list of this crimes back to him he had let out a long, loud tirade of curses, a potty mouth that would make even my darling Deborah blush. I did feel a burgeoning respect for the young man, or at least a close facsimile of. Among my usual playmates, the shock and confusion upon waking would give way to fear and tears, not anger and defiance. A cold look of comprehension fell over his smooth features when I held up each one of my instruments, inspecting them myself and letting him get a good look.
Dean Winchester mumbled something around his gag, it sounded like: “I’ve been looking for you.”
My hand reached out for the rag I had hastily stuffed into his mouth and hovered there for a second. For a moment I was almost unsure of myself. I thought about removing the gag but I was wary of the cursing that would start anew. My mind flew back to the newspaper articles crudely tacked to the wall, a shrine to mysterious vanishings. Could Dean and his little brother really have been looking for me? Or something like me? Had someone pieced together my dark work like I had done for others now long dead?
I looked down at my helpless prey. It was a quick thought I had, heavy in its substance, and I dismissed it. Dean here was no avenging angel. One look at the evidence of his activities and it was clear that he’d had no steady hand, like I’d had Harry, to help him learn to control his inner monster. Maybe that had been Sam’s role, but it didn’t make sense for one brother to be careful and not the other.
Hmmm there could have been a Dexter-shaped metaphor hidden in that train of thought.
*
In the end though, fighter or not, Dean Winchester bled like all the others. Red and messy. And now a week later I was left with a new nemesis. I knew that Sam would not leave town right away, not after his brother disappearing. But I hadn’t expected him to make me for the killer quite so soon, or at all actually. I’d tip my hat in respect to the boy if it wasn’t so troubling for me.
*
“Dexter?” Rita’s voice comes from behind me seconds before she slips her thin arms around my waist.
“Go back inside, Rita.”
“Are they gone?”
“Yes.” I pat her hands that are interlinked; she is holding onto me as tight as she can, she had quite a grip for someone so trim.
“Will they be back?”
“I don’t know?”
Probably, definitely, I think, but that isn’t something I want to tell her.
FIN
Author: frayen
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 2, 327
Prompt: #34 serial killer
Spoilers: Some for Dexter the series, but very minor, none for the books
Summary: Sam and Dean travel to Miami looking for the Supernatural, they find the darker side of humanity instead.
Notes/Warnings: Ok, DEATH!FIC. That's a warning, big old DEATH. It's written from Dexter's POV so some knowledge of that series would be helpful or this will likely make no sense.
Beta'd by krazykid197
Deathly Desperate Dean
“Dexter?” Rita calls to me from the kitchen. There is something in her voice, it’s wearing that forced, careful casualness she puts on when she doesn’t want to alarm Astor and Cody - who have been tucked into bed, but won’t be asleep yet. I didn’t need to go to her to find out what would cause her to take this sudden turn for the cautious. I already knew there would be a big black car parked outside. I could feel myself being watched. The darkness inside me laughed, low and breathy in anticipation of a challenge I could not let it have. My special friend, my dark passenger, recognised that outside there was another. Not kindred and not a playmate, but still, someone out for blood.
My blood, which made an interesting change.
“Dexter?” Rita said again, and I wonder if she can see the young man behind the wheel or just the big, bulky beast of a machine that has been haunting me for days “Can’t you do something?” She asks when I make my way into the kitchen. I can see Rita is holding the curtain open a little; she is leaning back slightly trying to peer out in that nosy neighbour way. That’s my Rita, being sneaky is just not her forte. Through the crack in the curtain I could see my own personal hunter’s behemoth, the headlights just peeking out from under the blanket of the smooth Miami night. His face was still shrouded in shadows, though, but I know it’s him.
“Dexter?”
I hadn’t answered her; I had been quiet too long. I have been doing that a lot lately. So I slap on my patented innocently charming Dexter smile.
“I don’t see what I can do, Rita. Whoever that is isn’t actually doing anything.”
“Can’t you go out and talk to them, tell them to go away? Dexter, you’re a cop.”
“I work for the cops; I’m not actually a cop.”
Rita frowns and clearly I have said the wrong thing. In an effort to appease her I pat her on the arm in the universal ‘it’ll be ok’ gesture. “I’ll take care of it.” I say and this does seem to make her feel better.
Of course I had no idea how I was going to take care of it. While the young man in the black Impala had taken to ‘stalking’ me, this was the first time he had made his presence known to the other people in my neat little life. Was this some kind of challenge? Was I being called out?
I hoped not, that would be…inconvenient.
I had not yet cleared the porch when the Impala’s headlights slammed on and the car revved its old engine and growled away. In the dim glare of the street lamps I caught a flash of angry dark eyes.
This could be a problem.
Now that I was outside, I didn’t want to go back in. I just know my fragile Rita is going to want to file a report, no doubt convinced our mysterious stranger is after her. Of course telling her he is actually after me will do little to ease her concerns.
No, I can’t go to the police any more than young Samuel can. See that mysterious stranger isn’t so mysterious to me. I can just see the conversation now.
“So,” The poor unfortunate uniform assigned to our little complaint would say. “Why is a strange man stalking dear docile Dexter?”
“You see officer, I can’t be sure but it might have something to do with the fact that last week, last Tuesday to be precise. I caught his older brother breaking into a warehouse. I then took him back to a special, carefully prepared place where I proceeded to carve him into little pieces. I then dumped those pieces off the side of my boat somewhere far from shore.
Now, I know it was a risk taking one brother and not the other, but last time I tried a rushed two for one kill it really didn’t go well. And besides being related to and still associating with a serial killer, young Samuel was relatively clean.”
“And Dexter, just why did you carve up this young man’s brother.”
“Well, officer. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
*
His name was - had been, past tense - Dean Winchester, and the trouble I had just to get to that gem of information was proof positive that good old Dean was hiding something. Some things, and what deliciously awful things he had been hiding. It seemed redundant to say he hadn’t looked like a serial killer, I mean look at me, who would ever suspect dear Dexter? But still, he looked like something. That little boy lost look was just a mask, a façade that I wore better than he did. He stood out, I tried not to.
Of course it, my dark friend and I, might not have recognized him as being anything had he not been loitering around my murder scene.
I had felt the familiar tingle creep slowly down my spine as I walked out of the white picket house. That black part of me awoke and stretched itself out in the mid morning Miami sun, alert and recognizing something of itself somewhere among the morbidly avid crime scene audience. Even through the mishmash freak show that made up the usual crowd, a mix of Miami natives and tourists, these two stood out. The world weary, road beaten down way that they held themselves placed them as being from far out of town. Tourists? Maybe, but I was going to bet on it. They looked out of place, everything up until the point where they stood was the usual throng of reporters, uniformed police, neighbours and spectators. Usual scene, with these two just tacked onto the end. A dark contrast afterthought that was trying, and failing, to blend in with the crowd.
The tall one - who I would later come to know as Sam, Samuel - stood, head bent in that apologizing way, talking to a young woman. The other one - Dean - seemed to be looking right at me, straight through me like he could reach through the blackness and right to my dark little soul. In reality he was looking everywhere, drinking in the scene, noticing everything. I shifted my case into my other hand as I drew closer to them, him, my mask of neutrality firmly in place. Well hello there young stranger, you are of no interest to me. Sam had finished his conversation and moved to stand with Dean, next to and a little behind. He had to stoop down to talk into Dean’s ear, words so sincerely soft I almost didn’t catch them.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with us.”
“I figured.” Dean had replied and then turned away.
And that is what had gotten my attention, that interesting turn of phrase. Why would this have anything to do with them? The merry little bloodbath concealed behind that plain white door had nothing to do with anything but me.
I didn’t like working scenes of my own crimes; it meant something had gone wrong, a kind of rushed failure on my part. Murderous interuptus. It meant I hadn’t left things neat and Dexter clean, and it meant that my cold dark passenger went unsatisfied. Which is why he had called to me from the dark backseat. Feed me Dexter. It was that urging that spurred me on, the need for the rush of the kill. My special friend had set his sights on this young man, who I had never seen or heard of before today, but the code of Harry needed more than just gut feelings of guilt.
And that is why midnight had found me trailing them to Tamiami Trail and the Cacique motel, a place I knew all too well.
*
Their room was not - thankfully - room 103, wouldn’t that have been a kick in the face? It was 102, but still the proximity made me hesitate for a few moments before I moved to pick the lock. I had of course waited until my potential quarry had eased their car out of the motel parking lot before making my move. I waited until the engine was just a low rumble in the night, and for the owner of this fine establishment to disappear back behind her curtain. I wasn’t the only one watching the boys leave, though I think her motive may have been very different from my own.
I had been impressed by the lengths these boys had gone to hide themselves. I ran every name on every fake ID that I found, except the ones that appeared to be names of TV characters or musicians, the little scamps. Each name came up with nothing. I had no illusion that any of these would be their real IDs, even before I ran them all; smart boys like these weren’t about to leave a damning piece of information lying around. Then one name came up in a hit as a known alias of one Dean Winchester. Interesting. The records on Dean Winchester seem to be a little confused as to his state of health; his body had been found in a house in St Louis where he was suspected of torturing and murdering several young women. Only for him to turn up again in Maryland, alive and well with his little brother Samuel in tow, where he was discovered at yet another murder scene. My dark passenger, who had been uncharacteristically docile during this excursion, smiled deep in the dark back of my mind. My fingers itched; my skin felt like it could crawl off my bones in anticipation of these kills. No, kill, just one. While Dean Winchester was proving to be as guilty as the proverbial sin, young Samuel wasn’t quite coming up roses, but he was coming up clean. The partial prints I had lifted from abandoned coffee cups came up with a few possible hits, inadmissible in the court of law, but in the court of Dexter? No, Harry would want more proof, I needed more proof, I just didn’t get it. Beyond the fake ID’s and the wall of newspaper clippings of articles about unexplained disappearances - some I was responsible for I might add, but shhh don’t tell - and the continued association with a serial killer, Samuel Winchester wasn’t anything.
*
Later I knew I was going to has trouble explaining away the black eye, it’s not like I have cause for a lot of fist fight during my day job. I could say that I walked into a door, but that seemed a little clichéd. Dean Winchester was many things, a sadistic murderer, a chameleon, and he was also a fighter. Before the sedative could take him down he managed to clock me one, hard, I saw stars. I’d had difficult captures before, but one look into angry, defiant eyes and I knew this would be worth it.
Dean Winchester was a hissing spitting thing on a saran wrapped table. I eventually had to gag him, as I read the list of this crimes back to him he had let out a long, loud tirade of curses, a potty mouth that would make even my darling Deborah blush. I did feel a burgeoning respect for the young man, or at least a close facsimile of. Among my usual playmates, the shock and confusion upon waking would give way to fear and tears, not anger and defiance. A cold look of comprehension fell over his smooth features when I held up each one of my instruments, inspecting them myself and letting him get a good look.
Dean Winchester mumbled something around his gag, it sounded like: “I’ve been looking for you.”
My hand reached out for the rag I had hastily stuffed into his mouth and hovered there for a second. For a moment I was almost unsure of myself. I thought about removing the gag but I was wary of the cursing that would start anew. My mind flew back to the newspaper articles crudely tacked to the wall, a shrine to mysterious vanishings. Could Dean and his little brother really have been looking for me? Or something like me? Had someone pieced together my dark work like I had done for others now long dead?
I looked down at my helpless prey. It was a quick thought I had, heavy in its substance, and I dismissed it. Dean here was no avenging angel. One look at the evidence of his activities and it was clear that he’d had no steady hand, like I’d had Harry, to help him learn to control his inner monster. Maybe that had been Sam’s role, but it didn’t make sense for one brother to be careful and not the other.
Hmmm there could have been a Dexter-shaped metaphor hidden in that train of thought.
*
In the end though, fighter or not, Dean Winchester bled like all the others. Red and messy. And now a week later I was left with a new nemesis. I knew that Sam would not leave town right away, not after his brother disappearing. But I hadn’t expected him to make me for the killer quite so soon, or at all actually. I’d tip my hat in respect to the boy if it wasn’t so troubling for me.
*
“Dexter?” Rita’s voice comes from behind me seconds before she slips her thin arms around my waist.
“Go back inside, Rita.”
“Are they gone?”
“Yes.” I pat her hands that are interlinked; she is holding onto me as tight as she can, she had quite a grip for someone so trim.
“Will they be back?”
“I don’t know?”
Probably, definitely, I think, but that isn’t something I want to tell her.
FIN