"So… you're lookin' for a guy that kills in threes?" Debra's irritation with the return of special agent 'Jackson West' was suspended when she heard the actual reasoning; apparently the 'FBI agents' had been assigned the task of following a killer who selected his victims in threes.

"That's right," Sam reached into his bag, producing an impressive spread of glossy, gory photographs. "We're working on the theory that all of the deaths depicted here are homicides by the same man, even though--"

"They sometimes appear to be suicides. Impressive deduction, agent," there was a quiet note of pride in Dexter's voice that spread a small, badly concealed smile across Sam's mouth.

"Yeah. Are you guys aware of a killer who operates like that in the Miami area?" Sam tried to keep his expression neutral, to ignore the hurricane of butterflies churning in his stomach. He could handle this, he told himself over and over. He could handle being close to Dexter without giving in, like the last time. He was clean. He was over it.

"That's just bullshit," Debra snarled, dropping her feet onto her desk as she sat back in her chair. "Lundy chases this fucker for years and the second he--" she bit her tongue, "… it's just fuckin' lame that someone else gets put on the case now that he can't use the help," she muttered, forcing herself to be angry to mask her utter heartbreak.

"Yeah, that's why we're here," Dean quickly masked, "the agency decided that with such a high profile guy going down while he was investigating, it was worth throwing a few more guys on the case," yeah, that sounded realistic enough, didn't it? Debra fixed Dean with a lengthy hard stare, letting her feet drop as she leaned forward on her elbows, getting right into Dean's space. The elder Winchester played it off nonchalant, raising a dark brow as Debra tried to intimidate.

"Then you better do his case justice, you understand me?" Dexter did not envy the soul on the other end of that stare, and it seemed Sam was relieved his brother was the target of the wayward detective's attention.

"Yes sir," Dean returned with a flawless smile, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "We plan on nailing this bastard, we just need you to tell us everything we know. In fact, since you look so swamped, why don't we meet after hours, for some coffee? We can exchange details then."

Debra's fiery composure was instantly lost. Her eyes widened and she took on a fluttered air, all to familiar with what a coffee meeting with agent Jackson West could amount to.

"Uhm, no, well, maybe-- it's only that I have a huge caseload and-- I'm probably staying late so, no, I guess. Another time, kay?" Though it was her desk they had all clustered at, Debra stood as if to leave. Dean spent a few moments starring in utter confusion (a turn-down was a rare event indeed) but then fumbled to catch himself. "W-well, can I at least have your number? You know, for investigation purposes?"

Both Sam and Dexter had to stifle a smile; could the man be more obvious? Really, it was painful.

"Huh? Oh…yeahIguess," Debra shoved her hand into her pocket, producing a crumpled sticky note. She stubbornly scribbled out whatever had been on it, scribing down her number before shoving it into Dean's hands. "Here… I need some coffee," she mumbled, excusing herself to the other side of the office.

A few moments of awkward silence passed, before Sam finally cleared his throat. "So, Dexter… is there anything you can tell us?"

"You mean, outside the file you should have been sent upon Lundy's… unfortunate termination?" he paused, just long enough for Sam and Dean to exchange glances, before a small reluctant smile cracked across his lips. "Special Agent Lundy has been tracking a killer he calls Trinity. He kills in threes, a young woman, an older woman with two children, and an older man with two children. As far as I can tell, not only are the killings in threes, but his timing, too. It's been thirty years, since he was last in Miami, for example," Dexter sat back in his seat, looking between the Winchester brothers with an unyielding, unblinking stare. "Should we be worried, agents?"

"Nah, not yet, but we'll keep you updated," Dean responded with a balmy grin. "Sounds like our guy, though… you got a visual, yet?"

Dexter only shook his head, and Sam let out a breath that he did not realize he's been holding.

"Well, we'll let you get back to work," he said, stacking his crime scene photos and slipping them back into his case. "We'll contact you, if we need further info."

"Alright. I assume you still have my number, Frank,", Dexter could not help an amused grin as he stood, heading back towards his own office. Dean shot Sam an irritated look of confusion, but Sam pretended to be just as bewildered. He wasn't up to explaining the things that had happened between Dexter and him, not now. It was in the past, he reasoned, and not worth digging back up again.

~*~*~*~

'I'm Dexter, and I'm not sure… what I am. I just know there's something dark in me. I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it. But… it's there. Always. This… Dark Passenger.'

The words drifted in somewhere between asleep and awake. Sam shifted, the creaky hotel bed whining under his weight as he rolled, trying to get away from it. From him. Those words that two years ago, had called out kindred to his addiction. He hadn't known Dexter well then, walking into that Narcotics meeting on a hunch. It was suspicious that of all those missing people, Dexter had been the one to withdraw their files from the vault. Dean had gotten that information easily enough, with a bear claw and a charming smile to the jolly, friendly-faced vault-keeper. But as Sam loomed at the back of the room, drawing to many gazes in his faux-FBI suit, he knew instantly that it wasn't narcotics Dexter was talking about. It couldn't be.

When he's driving I feel… alive, half sick with the thrill, the complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want too. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even… especially not me.

Something in Dexter's voice called to Sam's addiction; his thirst for the darkness that pumped through the veins of humans stained with demons. Dexter felt it, had to feel something like it, to talk like that. Sam could remember had tight his throat had felt, how much Dexter's words poked and prodded at his thirst, drawing it to the forefront of his mind, one creature calling to another. Sam pressed his eyes shut, a frustrated growl rumbling in his chest. If it were only that simple, it might have been easier to deal with.

Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately, there are these moments when I feel… connected, to something else. Someone, and it's like… the mask is slipping, and things, people who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter… It scares the hell outta' me.

Dexter was something human, as much as something else. It was that impossible partnering that had gotten Sam's attention, drove him to follow Dexter out of the meeting to the café across the street, to climb into his car later that night. But he couldn't think about that now; Sam was clean, and the last thing he wanted was to grapple with that addiction all over again. He wasn't going to start that loosing battle.

Sitting in the quiet hotel room was not helping matters; the silence easily filled with dangerous, wondering thoughts. Sam forced himself up, snatching his keys and heading out the door. The fresh air doused him like cold water, shocking him from his memory-muggy state of mind. The sky was blanketed with thick dark-wool clouds, blotting out the light of dusk. Sam cut down a suburban street, favouring the scents of freshly cut grass and overgrown gardens to truck exhaust and dirty concrete.

It was no problem, he told himself. His addiction was over. He was getting worked up over nothing. Those images, those fragmented memories (dark blood on pale skin, flashing silver blades, Dexter's eyes almost yellow in the dim) were nothing more than that; harmless and distant. He scraped together a calmer state of mind, letting out a tense sigh and feeling some of his tension melt away.

The neighbourhood was pleasant enough, all neat lawns and sprawling, pretty houses. The classic illusion of normality that Sam could no longer bring himself to miss. It all seemed so superficial now, knowing the end of days was looming on the horizon. Did it really matter who had the nicer front garden? He almost pitied them for their ignorance. The lady in white worrying over how her tulips would fair in the coming rain could be spending her time on much more important things, as could the man dragging a lawnmower back and forth across his expensive lush lawn--

Sam stopped suddenly, starring dumb at the man with the lawnmower. Dexter…? What was he doing this deep in suburbia? This was no where near his apartment. Sam shifted uneasily on his feet, caught between turning on his heels and heading back, or approaching to say hello. If everything was as fine as he told himself it was, why hesitate…?

Dexter slowed to a halt at the corner of the lawn furthest from Sam, panting as he wiped his forehead with the back of his palm. Although Sam knew he was going to be seen he stood stock-still, motionless until Dexter's eyes inevitably drifted to his. The elder man managed a startled smile, waving Sam over. He would have hesitated, if not for the fact that it started to rain. Sam gave a reluctant sigh, hurrying across the slick lawn toward Dexter.

~*~*~*~

"Damn… look at those clouds," Debra practically pressed her nose to the café window, peering at the darkening sky. Dean lifted his attention from his coffee, and from the mess of files strewn across the table. It had taken a few attempts, but Dean had finally managed to convince Debra out of her apartment. They'd gone over and compared notes, and Debra seemed to be in a brighter mood. Things were looking up for Dean.

"Yeah… pretty nasty looking, huh? You sure you wanna drive all the way home in this?"

"Not really… it looks like the end of the world out there."

Dean managed a dry laugh, looking back down to his cup. "Yeah, no kidding…"

It wasn't long before the storm had scared everyone into their houses; the rain was vicious and the wind ripped through the streets, kicking up timy cyclones of trash and debris. Soon enough the streets were empty and quiet, save for the hushed whisper of the rain on the concrete…

And the footsteps of a lone man, strolling leisurely up to a quiet white-bodied apartment complex, sitting on the edge of the water. If anyone had been there to look, no one would have glanced twice. He was average-enough on the eyes; a little thin, a little tall, but nothing made him especially note-worthy.

The dark figure climbed the stairs to the second story apartments, drifting by dimly-lit windows, fingers grazing the wet walls until finally, he stopped. The windows there were dark, and the silence told of only emptiness inside. What was Dexter doing out on a night like this?

"Not home, little brother? It's alright, I can wait…"

~*~*~*~

And thats chapter two!! Hope you enjoyed ^^ Thank you very much for reading! Please take the time to review!!