The Impala cut down the wide crowded highway, leaving a fissure of exhaust at its tail. Classic rock wailed over the purr of the engine, and Dean strummed his fingers to the beat as he clutched the wheel, comfortable and one handed. His gaze swung between the road ahead (populated with more homicidal drivers then usual) and Sam, who was sitting stoically in the passengers seat, gazing blindly out the window through his equally disinterested reflection.

"Sammy, you okay?" he was only half paying attention, his focus split as he navigated his precious car through the surging lanes of chaotic traffic.

"Fine, Dean," it was the kind of fine that contradicted its definition. Dean let out a huff, glancing sideways to his brother with hard eyes. He thought for a moment or two, employing the usual detective techniques to see what may have upset his Sammy today.

"… Listen, it's not that I don't trust you with her, okay? But drivers in Miami are fuckin' insane--" the ear-splitting cry of an angry horn "--hey, watch where you're going asshole! Jesus… see? I can hardly--"

"It's not that," Sam held up a hand in defence, ushering his brother's speech to a halt. He broke his stare at the window and turned to Dean with a clumsy, haphazardly applied smile. "I was thinking, do we really need to get the Morgans in on this?"

"What, you opposed to doing this the easy way?" an irate smirk tightened on Dean's mouth as he pushed the Impala through impossible lane jumps; annoyed it was a necessity to survive on the highway but proud he could do it, none the less.

Sam let out a lengthy sigh, idly pushing his hand through his hair. "No, I just… don't think they would be of much use. We're dealing with ghosts, remember? Not really something Miami metro concerns themselves with."

"We're looking for a guy who's somehow spawning these nasty sons of bitches, probably by offing new people in every state--"

"We don't know that--"

"No? You wanna say its sheer coincidence that three new people die in every state the vengeance ghosts pop up in? It's a damn consistent pattern, Sammy. All I'm sayin' is it couldn't hurt to ask."

"… I guess," he finally relented, a little more displeasure in his voice than he meant for.

"There some reason you don't want to talk to Deb and Dex? If they got a profile on the same guy who's setting off these ghosts with his murders--"

"I know, I got it. Forget I said anything," Sam returned his attention to the Miami dusk, forcing down the quell of discomfort in his gut. It would be fine, he stubbornly told himself. He was clean now, there was no reason to worry about seeing Dexter Morgan.

~*~*~*~

A yawn stretched Dexter's mouth as he weaved through the Miami metro parking lot, box of donuts in one hand, travel mug of coffee in the other. As if his mornings had not been difficult enough, the little sleep he managed to squeeze between work, baby-care, husband-duty and his very specialized research was now crowded with vivid dreams. It was not something Dexter was accustomed too; when he slept, all of him slept. But as of late the storms that had been plaguing Miami's nights had left him with these hellish, fantastic dreams. Dreams of artistic kills, of blood spatter like brushstrokes. Of Brian Moser.

It had been at least two years since a thought of Brian had crossed Dexter's mind, waking or not. It had been profound, the day Dexter had sailed out into deep water, and let the ocean swallow his Barbie-head key-chain; the last remaining link to his late elder brother. He had felt weightless and at peace. But now that those dreams were seeping into his unconscious, dark circles were bruising under Dexter's eyes, sleepy sluggishness sneaking into his everyday routine.

"Where's my strawberry filled?" Masuka asked as Dexter stood, donut box open in offering, passing out sugary, diabetes-inducing tokens of his normality. Dexter's fellow lab rat frowned at him over the donut box lid, snatching an apple fritter instead, and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Geez Dex, little off your game today?" he cleaned the glaze from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Haven't been sleeping too well," he said, navigating around Masuka and through the work area of the office, cluttered with the desks of hired detectives.

"Ah, Harry keeping you up all night?" Well as a matter of fact, the logical, dark-toned personification of Dexter's late father had been talking to him more as of late, but how would Masuka-- "Harrison? You know, your kid?" apparently Masuka had read the bewilderment on Dexter's face.

"Oh, yeah," Dexter gave a small, nervous laugh. "Sorry, I'm not caffeinated yet." Well, that made more sense.

It was then that Debra Morgan struggled through the office doors, clutching an armful of paper-moulting case files and a dribbling mug of coffee. Masuka winced, watching Deb over the rim of his glasses.

"Poor Deb, she's really been a mess after Lundy kicked it. Guess it don't help that her fuck buddy dumped her, huh? Geez, she doesn't even call me a skeezbag anymore. She must me messed, huh?"

"Antone was her boyfriend," Dexter corrected, eyes narrowed in superficial irritation. "Here," he passed off the rest of the donuts to Masuka, hurrying to the door to help his dear foster sister. He swooped in just in time to rescue half her files from tumbling to the ground, gathering them against his chest before carefully taking the rest of the papers from her.

"Fuck," Debra muttered, irritated with her own flustered state. She stood ridged as Dexter took her files, glaring down at the dishevelled papers. "Sorry," she muttered, looking at her elder brother with an expression between totally helpless, and royally pissed off.

"Don't worry about it Deb, take a breath," Dexter offered in his own personal attempt at kindness, following Debra to her desk and depositing the papers. "Alarm giving you trouble again?" She answered with an irritated grunt, throwing back half her coffee in one stuborn gulp. "Fuckin' thing…" It was moments like this Dexter wished there was some substance to his illusion as a normal, feeling human. Perhaps if he really had a heart, he'd have some idea of what to say to his poor heartbroken sister. But as it was, he could only peer awkwardly at her as she dropped herself at her desk, and attempted to sort through her case files.

"Deb, do you…" want to get some lunch? Need to talk? Want some more coffee? All equally valid options, Dexter.

"Oh holly fuck-- you gotta be kidding me," Debra hissed, eyes wide as she starred over Dexter's shoulder. He twisted around in confusion, attempting to locate the source of his sister's apparent shock when--

Sam Winchester. That wouldn't be the name he went by here, not dressed in his crisp black suit under his FBI guise with his elder brother at his side, but Dexter knew better than anyone that a mask is only superficial, and that it didn't change who (what) Sam really was. His throat felt suddenly tight, the stirrings of something, someone dark lurking at the back of his mind eating at his attention. Dexter took a breath, batted those spidery fingers away from the wheel; he couldn't let the dark thing take control, not now. He watched as Sam approached, unblinking, waiting.

"Hey Deb, Dex," Dean greeted, as him and his brother flashed their fake badges, perfectly synchronized. 'Fred Mcdogan' and 'Jackson West'. Dexter forced back a sharp-edged grin. Really.

"What's the matter, can't pick up a phone to let us know you're coming?" Deb sat back in her chair, eyes narrowed "shouldn't surprise me; don't seem to be able to pick up a phone any other time."

"Heh well, you know how work is…" Dean, or 'Jackson', rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, looking at Dexter in silent plead for bail. Oh no, Dexter was not about to shift the attention onto himself; let normal people deal with a broken heart's temper.

"We're here investigating a serial killer," Sam finally spoke up, finally lifting his eyes to Dexter. There they lingered for a lengthy moment, darkened by memory, before he looked away. "Since we've worked with you two before we thought…"

"Just let us know what we can do to help," Dexter responded, all contrived helpfulness. 'I think I may be… glad,' Dexter thought in a moment of clarity. Sam Winchester was back, and what he really wanted to know was the real reason why.

~*~*~*~

And thats chapter one! Hope you enjoyed, reviews are very much appreciated!