I apologize sincerely for the ridiculous wait… I have chosen not to continue to post until I have completed the story.

I tragically lost my beautiful horse, Brandy, on May 12th 2013, and it totally broke me. I have also lost my lifetime soulmate, my pony Willow, who went to sleep forever in my arms on January 30th 2017, after 22 years together. Those of you with pets will understand. I have been totally unable to read or write a thing since that day, but I am hoping to be able to get back in to it. My partner also had a serious car accident, and has been in and out of hospital for the past 10 months, and caring for him has taken up a lot of my time.

In happier news, my now almost 8 year old has become a big brother, to a beautiful little boy, who is 4 in January.

I apologize again, and please bear with me, as my writing will be rusty, and I hope you haven't lost all faith in me. Thank you x x

With his Dark Passenger sated and, for the moment, quiet - all thanks to a particularly unpleasant child molester - Dexter finds the usual banter and faff in the office more tolerable than usual. His mind is, as it often tends to be, otherwise occupied. He found enough evidence in that motel room to absolutely link the three fake feds to the case. Not to mention the fact that the probability of real life federal agents being holed up in a dingy little motel room, with not even enough beds to go around lends credence to the falseness of the whole ordeal. Even if the men aren't directly linked - that is to say they aren't the actual murderers – to the case, Dexter has read up enough to warrant at least Dean to have a visit to his Table. Running over the exciting details once again, Dexter almost smiles. Dean Winchester. Wanted by authorities all over. Torture and murder in St Louis, the murder of Karen and Anthony Giles (rumor has it a certain Detective committed these murders, but Dexter isn't so sure) and countless accounts of credit card fraud, impersonating authoritative figures, breaking and entering, and perhaps most disturbingly of all, grave desecration. Dexter certainly has an interest in this man. It goes without saying that the other two will have to follow suit, in pretty quick succession. The thought of having to try and eliminate three problems quite possibly within a night fills Dexter with equal measures apprehension and delight. Tonight, he will track them.

The air in the bar is hot and stuffy, and the stench of sweat lingers, leaving a nasty smell in Dexter's nostrils. He is sitting in the shadows of the bar, inconspicuously watching Dean as he lays on his over flirtatious manner. Perhaps the petite blonde he appears to be chatting up now is next on his list. There is no sign of the taller brother, Sam, at first glance, but a moment after Dean sits himself at a table, most of the drink he has just bought already gone, Sam swoops in from behind Dean, leans to whisper to his elder brother, then seats himself across the table from Dean, eyes scanning the crowd, searching. Dean is hunched over the table, eyes averted, watching his brother. Sam moves, Dean a split second behind him, swift, stealthy; Dexter recognizes the gait as that of a predator. Dexter slips off his own chair, pulls his baseball cap low over his eyes and scurries out after the brothers.

…

"Cas?" It's Dean's voice, a hoarse whisper, over the sounds of scuffling and flesh to flesh contact. They're fighting. "Cas, goddammit, where are you, you sonofabitch?"

"Dean?" Sam's voice cuts in over Dean's cursing, and he sounds strained, choked. There is an incoherent mutter from Dean, and Dexter hears what sounds to be a snarl – a dog? Surely not – and a few choice words from a voice he doesn't recognize. The latest victim of the Winchester brothers. Resisting the urge to peek around the corner, Dexter presses himself against the wall, closing his eyes in an attempt to hone his hearing. A few more blows are traded, before a piercing shriek penetrates the air around them. The sound is barely human, it makes Dexter flinch.

"Cas!" Dean's voice is louder this time, more urgent. Is the other man waiting around the corner, ready for the ambush? Dean's voice barely covers up a dull thump as, Dexter assumes, the victim's body – corpse perhaps – slips to the ground. "Cas, thank god." A moment passes, and the sounds are all too familiar to Dex; shuffling, grunting, the drag of boots across the ground. They must be trying to move the body. "Now." His voice is insistent, panicked almost. "Sam! Before he wakes up. Before anyone…" He leaves the sentence unfinished, but the words don't need to be spoken. First, a rustling sound, something Dexter can't quite distinguish, and then… Silence. Dexter waits. His heart remains steady in his chest, but his senses are tingling; something isn't right. He opens his eyes, already reaching for the blade in his pocket – had they noticed him? He awaits the sound of footsteps, movement, anything, but none come. Too long passes, and there's not another sound. Have they gone? Dexter steels himself, holding his breath, and chances a glance around the corner. Empty. What the… Pushing down the alley at a little more than a casual stroll, Dexter hunkers down, fingers brushing across the ground. Blood. His Dark Passenger tingles for a moment. Something feels odd, off kilter. It makes Dex feel dizzy. There's no way the three men could have lifted and carried their victim away without so much as a sound. The end of the alley is a good few yards away, and it opens straight out on to a fairly busy street. It's doubtful they could have entered it, avec corpse and gotten away unnoticed.

Dexter's head is swimming once again as he sits in his car, hands gripped tightly around the wheel, as if it will anchor him a little more to reality. The drive back to the apartment is uneventful, and completed in silence. Dexter pulls in to his usual parking space, his breathing finally returning to something resembling normal. It is a welcoming sight, opening the door in to that familiar home, seeing Deb's clutter spread far and wide, Harrison's toys strewn across the floor. His own desk too neatly organized. Hoping that it will wash away the sensation crawling beneath his skin, Dexter begins loosening his clothes, throwing his bag haphazardly to the side, and heads towards the shower. Time to put to bed his demons for another night.

…

Not even thinking how bizarre it may seem to a normal person, Sam pads casually across the room towards the many silver drawers, each filled with the cadaver of one former person or another, as if it were another day at the office, breaking in to and exploring the local mortuary. Sam briefly wonders how many of them have met their demise through less than natural causes, but his expression remains steady as his eyes scan each drawer, pausing when he finds the corresponding number. Taking one last glance around, Sam pulls on the pair of latex gloves he has procured from the stand next to the examination table in the center of the room, and he slides the drawer open with almost disturbing veracity. He doesn't even flinch at the stench from the rotting remains, pausing only to make a visual assessment before meticulously studying each body part for any tell-tale signs. Unsurprisingly, the heart is no longer present, but there are no signs of a struggle, but multiple fang marks on the various appendages. The murder was quick, apparently too quick for Luis to have time to react. There's no doubt about it, this was definitely a werewolf attack. "Dean? Definitely a werewolf." The sound of door hinges squeaking catches Sam's attention. He mutters a mild profanity under his breath and cuts off the phone conversation with his brother. Sam sets about returning the people parts back in to the cooling unit and makes a quick exit through the window, not forgetting to push it shut behind himself. He pauses for a moment outside, removing his gloves, stuffing them in to his pocket to be disposed of later, and running his hands through his damp hair. He glances left and right and, confident no one has seen him scrambling out the side window of the building, he sets off down the sidewalk in his signature lope, dragging his fingers through his hair again, silently cursing the hot Miami air. The sooner this case is closed, and they can travel North to cooler and more oxygen infused air, the better.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Years of not writing destroys you! I will finish this before I continue posting, so this doesn't happen again. Bear with me, and I hope I haven't lost everyone.