Chapter Ten.

Where is he? What did you do to him!

The world stumbled back into focus at the sound of Sam's voice, and Dean's eyes flew open. The first thing he felt was his cheek stringing, blood still dripping down from where Dexter had sliced him, and the skin on his neck felt raw each time he tried to swivel his head. Also, he noticed that apparently the sick fuck decided to dress him again – even if it was only his t-shirt and jeans, and his jacket was god-knows-where – which was always a good sign. Muffled voices floated in from the other room, and Dean knew one of them belonged to Sam.

"S-Sam. Sammy," he whispered, his one track mind replaying Dad's voice over and over in his head: Watch out for Sammy. And now Sam was in the other room; he had taken Dean's place. Dean had to save him before it was too late.

But, before Dean could help his brother, he had to help himself. Forcing himself to focus, he inspected his current predicament: he was sitting on a wobbly wooden chair, both feet tied to its legs by fraying ropes, and his arms were duct taped together behind his back. He tried forcing his wrists apart to break the tape, but it was no use. Plan B, then. He squinted his eyes in order to adjust them to the darkness and peered around the room for anything sharp: scissors or a knife. No dice. Dexter had been extremely thorough.

If only he were double-jointed, then he would be able to rotate his arms in front of him and bite the tape off. But he wasn't, not that like yoga instructor in Sacramento. Boy, was she double-jointed . . .

"C'mon, Dean," he muttered to himself. "There's gotta be somethin'." In Dean's experience, there had always been something. But, then again, most of his experience didn't involve actual human beings.

More than anything, he wanted to call Cas. Cas would be able to pop in and free both Dean and Sam before Dexter even knew what hit him. Cas would be a real lifesaver right now. More than once, Dean's lips moved in prayer for Castiel, but it was only muscle memory – it was only a habit – and he stopped himself short each time he realized what he was doing. Even if he did finish the prayer, Dean didn't think it would matter much. Cas wouldn't come.

Cas probably wasn't listening anymore, anyway.

Since Dean was on his own, he took another sweeping look around the room to see if there was anything he missed, and his eyes caught a busted window a few feet away. The glass shards protruding from the frame may have just been sharp enough to cut through the duct tape.

"Yahtzee."

He worked his hips awkwardly, getting the chair to rock back and forth and then leaned forward so the chair only stood on its front legs. The balls of his feet touched the dusty floor, but it was enough for him to jump forward slightly and have the chair land back down on all-fours a half a foot away from where he was last. It took a lot of balance, but eventually Dean got the hang of it and he was lifting himself up towards the window in no time. Blindly, he stuck the shard of glass between his wrists under his bonds and rubbed it back and forth against the tape. He could feel his wrists starting to bleed, but that was alright – he was used to bleeding by then. Seconds later, the tape snapped in half and he was free.

Rapidly, he leaned down and undid the ropes tied to his legs and stood up. He was still a bit dizzy from the sedative, but being on his feet never felt so good. "Huh . . . Take that, Dahmer," he rasped.

"Dean!"

Dean's eyes widened in panic as he turned toward the doorway, seeing a thin sheet of plastic, which was slit down the middle, blocking his view into the room. "'m comin', I'm coming," he whispered to Sam and picked up the chair by its legs. Luckily, Dean always had a plan.

He quickly and silently made his way towards the doorway and stood to the side, holding the chair in his hands like a weapon. "Sammy!" he yelled his best fake-helpless voice. Moments later, he heard Dexter's voice hiss, "Shit!" He was no doubt wondering how the Winchesters had such impeccable – or terrible, judging by who you asked – timing.

Dean heard footsteps walking toward him, and Dexter tore the plastic to the side and walked into the room, expecting to see Dean still trapped to his chair. "Nighty-night, dick," Dean said from behind him and sent the chair crashing down on Dexter's head. It broke on the impact and Dexter fell to the floor, unconscious. Dean took a moment to look down at the man before wiping his own mouth with the back of his arm and made his way into the other room.

"Dean!" Sam called as soon as he saw his brother, and he felt his heart skip a beat from relief.

"I know, I have great timing," Dean joked, rushing over to Sam on the table and cutting through his restraints with the blade Dexter left behind. Sam sat up and groaned, and he immediately felt his brother's hands holding each of his cheeks while Dean inspected him. "You alright? Anythin' broken?"

"My head hurts like hell," Sam confessed, but apparently Dean took that as a no, patted Sam's cheek that didn't have the cut on it, and released his face. Then Dean's eyes fell frantically to the floor, searching for something. He located what he was looking for and picked up Sam's jeans and shirt on the other side of the room. "Here, put these on," he told Sam, throwing them at him. "We gotta get outta here before you-know-who wakes up."

"No argument here." Sam gratefully jumped off the table to slip back into his clothes. In the meantime, Dean walked around to the other side of the table and glanced over Dexter's handy knife collection. He let out a whistle. "Man, someone needs to stick to their day job." He noticed two microscope slides with a circle of fresh blood in each resting next to the knives and picked them up.

"Looks like someone's collecting trophies," Dean said, brandishing the slides over his shoulder before snapping them in two. "My sweet ass is first prize, but there's no way I'm goin' up on his shelf."

Sam rolled his eyed, finished dressing, and looked over at his brother. Just in the nick of time, too.

"Dean! Behind you!" he warned, but it was too late. Dexter threw himself into Dean, both of them crashing into the table and flipping it over. Knives slid everywhere, and some of them cut into Dean's skin when he landed on top of them. Dexter recovered quickly and grabbed a blade, lifting it high above his head with the intent of driving it through Dean's heart. But he never got there. Sam had run up behind him and twisted his arms behind his back until he dropped the knife.

Dexter did a side-kick into Sam's ankles and knocked the man to the floor, then jumped to his own feet. He anticipated Dean, who had crept up behind Dexter with a knife in hand, and caught him by the wrist. Dexter grinned as he saw the blood dripping from Dean's wrists and dug his gloved thumb into the wound. Dean let out a pained yell, and it gave Dexter the opportunity to throw him against the wall, tearing down the plastic sheet in the process and allowing the silver light of the moon to stream in.

Sam took that time to get to his feet, and then grabbed Dexter by the shoulders and forced him against the opposite wall from where Dean had landed. One hand was still on Dexter's shoulder, pressing him against the plastic, while his other arm was across the man's throat, keeping him in a chokehold – just like his father had trained him. Their faces were inches from one another's, both men staring into the other's dark, black eyes as though some kind of stare-down could settle all this. But Sam knew that wasn't the case, so he removed his hands from Dexter and punched him hard in the nose.

Dexter grunted and grabbed his nose, ducking away from the next blow and making Sam hit the wall; but Sam had learned from last time, and he was ready for that: he kneed Dexter in the groin and followed it up by grabbing the man's shoulders and throwing him to the ground. Sam was on top of him in an instant, both hands clenched into fists as he threw punch after punch into Dexter's face. He didn't allow Dexter a second to react, and pretty soon his entire face was battered, bruised, and bleeding. But Sam wouldn't stop – he couldn't stop, even long after Dexter had been knocked out cold.

His eyes grew darker and his face twisted into something terrible. His bloodied knuckles reached for something next to him – a knife – and he clenched it in his fist. He held it high, meaning to drive it into Dexter's chest again and again and watch his blood ooze out of him. But, before he got the chance, he was stopped by Dean, who gripped Sam's wrist tight in both hands and held him back.

"Sam! Sam! You crazy?" Sam was vaguely aware of Dean yelling in the back of his mind. He felt one of his brother's hands move in front of him to his far shoulder, where his bullet wound was now just a dull throb, to act as a barrier between him and Dexter; Dean's other hand was still clasped around Sam's shaking wrist.

"Our job ain't people, Sam!" Dean yelled, and Sam heard him loud and clear that time.

"He's not a person, Dean! He's a monster!" Sam heard himself yell, but the words were somehow not his own. His eyes never left Dexter's bloody form. "If we let him go, he's just gonna kill again. I've gotta kill him first!" He tried forcing the knife down again, but Dean's grip only tightened.

"No, Sam! You kill him, that makes you no better than him, d'you hear me?"

"And what if I'm not, Dean!" Sam roared with sudden and unexpected fury, finally taking his eyes off his victim to look at the man holding him back.

Dean's face was soft, almost petrified, with his mouth agape and his bright green eyes searching Sam's face. He looked like he was holding back tears. "Sammy," he pleaded, his voice low and shaking with emotion, and shook his head slightly. It was enough to slam Sam back into reality.

He looked at the situation in a new light – he looked at himself in a new light. He had a man, a human being, unconscious beneath him, and his big brother was trying his very hardest not to let him skin the man alive. Sam saw the tip of the blade in his fist gleam in the moonlight, and he knew he had a choice to make. He could do one of two things: become the man from his nightmares or become the man he's been trying so hard to be. The choice was harder than he thought, but how could he pick the former with Dean looking at him like that?

Sam licked his lips and tightened his jaw, his entire body shaking in the bitter cold that suddenly washed over him, and he dropped the knife with a clang. He heard Dean take a sigh of relief next to him, but Sam's eyes were screwed too tight to see it.

"C'mon, Sam. C'mon," Dean said, releasing Sam's wrist and placing his other hand over Sam's heart while helping him to his feet. Moments later, the two were in the Impala and speeding off to the main road in silence.

Dean waited to break the silence until they were back on the highway heading north. "We shouldn't get the cops involved, right?"

It took Sam a moment to realize Dean was speaking before he looked over to his brother and shook his head, even though Dean's eyes were on the road. "No," he replied. "He knows our names, Dean. He knows who we really are. We turn him in, he'll return the favor. I dunno about you, but I don't want the feds on my ass again."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right."

Silence.

"I wonder if Detective Morgan knows what her brother really is," Sam said. Dean didn't answer; he only gave his brother a side glance and searched him up and down before again casting his eyes to the road.

The engine of the Impala revved as Dean stepped further down on the gas.

They drove for hours, stopping only once at a gas station to clean their wounds, and Dean finally had to stop from exhaustion. They rented a room at a Motel 6 in Lakeland, just outside of Orlando, and ordered a large pizza. Sam ate like he hadn't in years. Then, Dean crashed on one of the beds and fell into a deep, sound sleep – which is just what Sam was waiting for. Sam didn't have time to sleep; he had other plans. He hopped back into the Impala and drove back toward Miami, straight into the parking lot of the Miami Metro Police Department, and he walked up to the homicide department.

Detective Morgan's desk was empty, and Sam assumed she must have been given the day off to recover; that was a relief, because he didn't want to run into her and have to make up some accuse as to why he and Dean were leaving "prematurely." However, he could see Dexter Morgan staring back at him from behind the half-blinded window in his lab, his eyes dark and his mouth slightly agape. Sam made his way into Dexter's lab and closed the door behind him.

"I didn't think I'd see you here so soon," Dexter said flatly, and Sam could see the leftover wounds on the man's face – the wounds Sam had given him. The sides of Dexter's face where black and blue and grey, and there was a gauze taped to a section of his forehead; there was also a bandage on the bridge of his nose, meeting the rounded side of his black eye, and there was a nasty cut which split his lip. Sam didn't know what the man had told the hospital or his coworkers, and he didn't really care, but suddenly his knuckles felt a little stiffer than they had been a moment ago. He had really done a number on Dexter.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, not really sure why he had come back. "I just want some answers," was the reason he gave.

Dexter snorted a laugh. This man who stood in front of him, who had beat him into unconsciousness, knew what he was, and now he wanted Dexter to explain it. Dexter wasn't sure if he could, especially since he was fairly sure Sam already knew for himself. "Like what?" he asked regardless.

Now that the question was posed to Sam, he wasn't quite sure what he wanted to ask. Or, rather, he knew exactly what he wanted to ask, but was too afraid to get the answer. "It's just," he started, his brain and his mouth fighting for power. "What makes a person . . ." He licked his lips, let out a breath, and decided to start again. "How do you . . . ?"

Despite the lack of words, Dexter knew what Sam was getting at. "Why don't you ask your brother?"

Sam dropped his shoulders and looked Dexter square in the eyes. "Because I'm asking you."

The corners of Dexter's lips curved into a crooked grin. "When I was child, my mother was murdered right in front of me," he said, and Sam was astonished at the lack of the emotion the man's voice held as he did so. Dexter looked up at Sam to gage his reaction with a dark twinkle in his eyes. "Do you have any idea what that does to a person?"

Sam swallowed hard. He got the feeling that Dexter wasn't expecting an answer, but he choked one out anyway: "Yeah, I do."

With that, Dexter realized what made him so interested in Sam in the first place – why he felt such a pull in the Winchesters' direction. Dean wasn't the one who was the problem, it was Sam. Sam had the same look in his eyes as Dexter did; he had the same shadow inside of him. Sam had a Dark Passenger of his very own.

Then he said something that he had never before uttered aloud, just to see Sam's reaction, "Born in blood."

Sam thought about Ruby. He thought about the jugs of gooey crimson in the trunk of the Impala on the day he said the Big Yes to Lucifer. He thought about the blackness of his imagination, mixed with images of deep red. He thought about the demon blood that had been pumping through his veins his entire life. He thought about the day his mother died in his nursery.

"Born in blood," he echoed. He'd never thought of it that way.

Suddenly, he felt a calmness wash over him.

"I just came to say," he started again, suddenly finding the reason why he made the trip back to Miami. "If I ever see you again, don't expect to make it to the next day."

Dexter's grin turned into a ravenous smile. "Funny," he said. "I was just about to say the same thing to you."

Sam nodded once and reached for the doorknob. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked through the offices of the Miami Metro homicide department one last time, fully aware of Dexter's gaze on his back.

Once in the elevator, Sam turned around and met Dexter's stare through the window of his lab. Their eyes stayed locked, each man sizing up the other's Darkness, until the elevator doors slid to a close.

End.

Soundtrack:

1. Bad Moon Rising – Creedence Clearwater Revival
2. Howl – Florence + the Machine
3. Bad Company – Bad Company
4. Kill of the Night – Gin Wigmore