Part 4
There is no sound. The boat rocks with the lapping waves, pushing Dean's bare back into the railing again and again. Gulls cry their hunting victories and dolphins joyful stutter out their nighttime games. Dexter's hot breaths scorch his face. Dean hears nothing.
It's dark enough that Dean can barely see the other side of the boat over Dexter's broad shoulders. The single lantern sitting on the deck and the light attached to the boat's overhang are low wattage, and their pale white glows don't stretch far. Dean's sure Dexter bought them because of their limited lightening. The ocean is a dark expanse, extending forever in Dean's imagination. Seeing doesn't really matter thought, because gray fuzz has begun to spot his vision. Soon, the air circulating his system won't be enough and he'll pass out. Dexter's grip around his throat is unforgiving; no new air is slipping in. Dean can already feel bruises forming.
After his initial struggle, his energy has leeched away. He feels nothing but the points of pain- throat, back and wrist. Dexter's eyes are black in the dull light, black and empty. Dean can't help but wonder what the man is thinking. How did I read him so wrong? he thinks. Dean prides himself on understanding people. Dad taught him to observe, to judge, and to manipulate. Dean's know Dexter for a month; he thought he understood the killer. He has run through dozens of scenarios on how Dexter will react to him. This territorial, fearful response isn't one of them.
The gray spots dancing before his eyes make his stomach roll, so he shuts his eyelids and blocks out the world. With sight and hearing gone, and touch turns sensitive. Water droplets spray his back with every downward sweep of the portside. The salt water is too warm to cool, and mixes with his sweat on his sticky skin. Dean can feel the smoothness of Dexter's fingers- callous free from working on a computer or taking pictures of bloody scenes. The socks inside his boats are water-logged and squishy, and the curve of his boots around his ankles feels rough with salt grit. The over stimulation makes him shake, and he finally thinks, I'm going to die.
Fear is not a common occurrence in Dean's deck of emotions. He feels a rush of it when Dexter first grabs him, but it quickly fades into empty shock. Still, if there is an appropriate time to fear, this is it, he tells himself. Dean knows that once unconsciousness takes him, he'll be done for. Dexter will push him overboard, and Dean will drown, unable to swim. Or perhaps Dexter will slice him up and stuff him into bags too. If Dean had his choice, he'll stay whole. That way when they eventually find his body, his pretty face will be recognizable.
Even so, he doesn't fear. He does however feel dizzy. Though he's not sure if that's the lack of air or the realization of death. He doesn't want to die. Dean likes living. He likes eating greasy hamburgers and crunchy french-fries. He likes the pleasure coma of sex and the coppery smell of blood. He loves taking care of Sammy.
Sammy. The name whispers through his mind. What will Sammy do without me? How will he live? Who will watch out for him? Dean imagines his brother discovering his disappearance. Sammy's alarm will go off at eight-fifteen. He'll climb out of bed, sleepily rub his eyes, and then go brush his teeth. Still blurry-eye, he'll tug on his clothes and run a comb through his hair. His bare feet will curl in the soft carpet as he walks down the hall to the kitchen. Something will wiggle at his sleep-fogged brain, but he'll slide into his usual seat at the table and wait for Dean to set a glass of juice and a bowl of Lucky Charms in front of him. Silence will hang in the air. They'll be no juice, no cereal, no good-morning hugs and forehead kisses. Sammy will blink in surprise and look around the room.
Everything will be as Dean left it the night before. The coffee pot will be set to go, ready for Dean's finger to flip it on. Sammy's blue plastic bowl will be set out, spoon already laying inside, both waiting for cereal and milk. The stove and counter top will be clean, no breakfast tools cluttering their surfaces. Rising, Sammy will call out, "Dean?" He'll slide a butcher knife from the knife block on the counter and stalk down the hallway. He'll open Dean's bedroom door and find it empty. Worry will clench his gut and he'll start to panic. Screaming out his brother's name he'll search the whole apartment, the whole complex, and then the neighborhood. When he find's nothing, he'll go to the police. Sammy's smart enough to suspect Dexter and he'll make sure to go to Dexter's department to cry. The police will organize a hunt, and for a while Sammy will be occupied with getting revenge. He'll torture Dexter with half-veiled threats and sneaky subterfuge. Then he'll strike Dexter down, and everything will be over. He'll be alone. Dean promised Sammy he'd never leave him alone.
Dexter won't let go if he thinks Dean is awake, so Dean collapses. He lets his body hang, his limbs relax and pretends to be lifeless. Dexter doesn't release him right away. He follows Dean to the wet floor of the boat, long fingers still wrapped around Dean's throat. Dean counts ten long seconds before Dexter let's go. Dean smiles. In an instant his own hands are wrapped around the man's shoulders and his knee spears upwards. It lands exactly where Dean planned- into Dexter's soft balls. Dexter, like every other man alive, cups his groin too comfort and protect from more injury. He lets out a grunted, "Fuck!"
Dean gives him no time to recover. The hard sole of his combat boot slams into Dexter's right kneecap. The man goes down hard. Dean takes a precious second to roll over and scramble to his feet. The deck is slick and it takes two tries to get up. The boat is still rocking and Dean has to grip the railing to keep from falling. He's gasping for breath, and his head's begun to hurt. Nevertheless, he quickly turns around to finish off his captor. They're eyes meet, a clash of angry heat, and Dexter lunges forward.
The man grabs for his ankle, intending to pull him back down, but Dean jumps backwards. The few feet between them are enough for Dexter to clamber to his feet. Under his intense stare Dean thinks, I need to finish this, or Dexter is going to win. The killer is bigger, more experienced than Dean, and more stable on a boat. Dean doesn't take his eyes off the man as he steps three long paces back. Understanding flashes in Dexter's eyes, and he tries to get to Dean first, but Dean is too quick. In two breaths he picks up the lantern and smashes it over Dexter's head.
The glass frame and bulb explode. Dexter shakes his head, sending glittering glass flakes everywhere, and for a moment Dean worries it isn't enough. Then Dexter crumples. Little rivers of blood pour from the man's head onto the white deck. He had taken the hit on the back of the skull, so Dean can't see where most of the blood originates. There are few gashes, with glass poking out of skin, along Dexter's forehead, but that's all Dean can make out. Water splashes over the side of the boat washing around Dexter. It pulls the blood and broken glass away as it slides back into the ocean.
Dean takes a few deep breaths and kicks Dexter to make sure he's out. He doesn't want to fall for the same trick he pulled. The man doesn't move. Slowly, Dean inches forward the bends down to feel Dexter's neck. A slow pulse beats under his fingertips. Dean looks around and spies a shard of glass the size of a dollar-bill. Carefully picking it up, he rolls Dexter over and presses the glass to the tan skin of his throat. The sharp edge cuts the skin with barely any pressure and blood kisses the clear glass. Dean pushes a little harder and a squirt of blood tickles his fingertips.
He pulls back. Dexter's face is covered with squiggles of blood. It was as if someone had stood above the man with bloody fingers and waited while the blood dripped down his face. Dean reaches out and runs his bloody finger across Dexter's closed eyelashes. They're soft. He moves down Dexter's face, sweeping his cheek like a lover's caress, and settles over the man's lips. Dean traces the top lip first and the bottom lip last. He smears the blood around, pretending it's lipstick. He thinks about all the time and energy spent learning about the man. He thinks about Dexter's kill, and the way he chopped the rapist into pieces.
Sighing, he throws the shard into the ocean and drags Dexter under the overhang. He wipes his hands on his jeans, and starts the engine. Thankful for the earlier driving lesson, Dean turns the boat around and goes back the way they came. He uses his innate sense of direction to guide himself back to the marina. Parking the boat is harder than he expects, and he ends up hitting the dock four times and another boat once. He'll leave the recovery to Dexter. At least nobody else is here, he thinks.
Once he's got the boat back in place, he cuts the engine and jumps onto the wooden dock. He twists the anchoring rope around the metal handle until he's sure the boat won't drift away. The boat wobbles when he steps back on. He walks back over to Dexter and pats down the man's pockets. There, in the back left pocket he finds a cell phone. Bingo. Before he uses the thing, he checks the boat over, wiping down anything that could hold his prints or DNA. He flips open the phone, slightly amazed the thing still works wet, and dials 9-1-1. The operator asks, "9-1-1, how can I help you?" and Dean drops the phone onto Dexter's chest.
He jogs back to the Impala, ignoring his aches and pains. Just the sight of her beautiful black sides makes him feel lighter. This night has been an utter failure. The leather seats are like a mother's embrace, and he gives himself a moment to rest his head against the seat. The sun is peaking over the horizon, and Dean needs to get home and clean himself up before Sammy wakes up. The car purrs to life with the turn of his key and he roars out of there.
As he drives down the interstate he can't help but wonder if he's done the right thing. Thoughts of what Dexter's going to do shuffle through his mind. He pushes them away. Whatever happens will happen, and the only thing Dean needs to worry about now is getting everything finished before Sammy's ready for breakfast. Maybe I'll make him eggs. Eggs sound perfect.