*This is a reimagining of the season 6 finale*
See you soon, Dex.
Debra took a trepid step inside the abandoned church, attempting in vain to swallow the lump in her throat that had been choking her the entire drive here.
"Fuck me sideways…" she muttered to herself, the words coasting through a tremulous exhale. She reached out to brace herself against the entrance's frame—the craggy stone was cool to the touch, a small yet refreshing reprieve from the hot, sticky Miami air which seemed to be clinging to her even more obstinately and suffocatingly than usual. She let out another rattling sigh as she reached up and brushed the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her left ear before folding her arms tightly over her chest. One foot positioned slightly behind the other kept the door open, braced against her heel, allowing a small sliver of moonlight to filter in and stripe the right side of her face a pale blue. She felt claustrophobic. She could still leave if she wanted to, it wasn't too late—the way out was still open.
She whispered another nonsensical curse under her breath—a colorful string of vulgarities capped off with an eloquent 'fuck balls'. When was the last time she had felt this nervous? Even the anxiety that had knotted her innards in the moments leading up to her first press conference as Lieutenant couldn't compare to this.
Though she supposed it wasn't that long ago at all, actually—just the other day in fact, when she had been notified that his boat, the 'Slice of Life', had washed ashore, and he was nowhere to be found.
"..."
At last, she stepped inside, fully, the door shutting behind her with a practically inaudible clunk that nevertheless made her wince.
She took a step forward through the narrow passage, and then another, stopping just before the corner of the bend that fed into the nave, where he was. She noticed the very tip of her foot was sticking out, tinged orange by the tawny candlelight, and quickly retracted it. She wasn't ready to step out of the darkness and expose herself.
Silence, except for the sound of her heart thundering in her ears.
She listened closely, focusing as she subconsciously held her breath. She could hear Dexter working, his fastidious rhythm—the sound of a metal tool carefully scraping against stone, followed promptly by the crisp sound of a plastic bag snapping open so that whatever had just been collected could be deposited.
She could plainly imagine him, crouched on the ground, fully focused on his work, muttering under his breath with a serious, stoic, almost bored expression—though it would be betrayed by the dry glimmer of excitement in his eyes, and by his mouth, as it periodically hung open with morbid satisfaction. An expression that simply screamed 'Dexter'.
She smiled. She could probably go around the corner and walk right up to him, and he wouldn't even notice her presence until she said something.
Some found it 'creepy', his infatuation with his work, and perhaps it was—his mannerisms, the blood-spatter artwork that decorated his office space, or served as his computer's wallpaper—but to her… it was all just 'Dexter'. The endearing idiosyncrasies of her awkward, genius, idiotic, understanding, insensitive, and dependable big brother.
'...'
'Big brother'. Like a stone tossed into a lake, the words sunk, heavily, all the way to the bottom of her heart and stirred up a murky cloud of guilt and confusion—sediment that would not settle.
Dexter Morgan—her brother, in every sense of the word except biologically.
Dexter Morgan—the man she loved.
It was all kinds of fucked up, she knew. But it was true. She wouldn't be here right now, with her guts clenched and her head spinning, if it wasn't. No matter how much she wrestled with the idea—and she had wrestled with it fiercely—she always came to the same conclusion. Regardless of how she sliced it, diced it, or fucked it…
She was in love with her brother.
And even as wrong as it was, at the mere thought of that undeniable truth, she began to grin like an idiot.
It made perfect sense—rationalized her whole life, really. She knew it—and now she needed him to. She didn't expect him to reciprocate—couldn't even decide if she really wanted him to—but she needed him to understand. To put that perfect word to what she was feeling, and validate her in a way that only he could, as he always did whenever she was lost, confused, or stressed.
Debra shook her head. Yeah, no matter how this panned out, she could accept it; so long as, after all was said and done, and the dust settled, she still had Dexter—whether exactly as he was now, or… more—to guide her through the aftermath.
!
She hadn't even realized it—that she had stepped out, into the open. Her legs had just pulled her forward, driven by the thought of him.
Reality matched exactly as she had envisioned him. He was crouched low, his back turned to her—he hadn't noticed her yet. She swallowed and took another step. And then another. Her legs were beginning to tremble. Each stride accentuated her hesitation, tugging at the back of her mind, telling her to just slink back into the shadows and leave. Forget about these feelings, and lock them away, forever.
What if she lost him because of this? What if he didn't understand her feelings at all, and they pushed him away? Dexter was a great brother, the best one she could've ever asked for. She couldn't imagine living without him in her life—it was just impossible, unthinkable. Alone, she would surely fall apart. Could she really risk jeopardizing their relationship on the slim, fucked up chance that it could become something more?
No, she thought to herself: that could never happen.
She could never lose him. She had been a trainwreck for most of their adult (and teenage) life, and yet he had never given up on her, not once, not even during any of the many times when she had entirely lost faith in herself.
He was her rock—that would never change. He would understand, because that's what he did, always.
They would always be together, no matter what, until the very end—and even after.
She opened her mouth.
"...Dexter?"
He whirled around, startled, and blinked vacuously as if returning to the real world, emerging from his headspace.
Her heart did a somersault. Jesus-fucking-Christ on a cracker—this was actually happening.
"H-hi…" she offered lamely, meekly raising her hand in a motionless wave as she flashed a tight-lipped smile.
Dexter tilted his head back, uncomprehending, his mouth pursing into a neat line for a moment as he reciprocated the stiff wave.
"Uh… hi? Deb, what are you doing here?"
She watched his lips—the very same that had always planted comforting kisses on the top of her head as a child whenever she found her way to the floor right beside his bed in the middle of the night, following a nightmare—enamored by their movement, the formation of every syllable.
Her tongue darted out furtively, licking her own.
"Oh, y'know, just… checking in. Find anything… interesting?"
Dexter arched an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"Checking in?"
She squirmed in place, averting her gaze—but kept him in the corner of her vision—feigning interest in the scene.
"...Mhm," was all she could manage.
A long pause.
"Deb..?"
She shook her head, fully tearing her eyes away from him as a nervous laugh escaped her.
What the fuck should she say? What COULD she say? She made it this far, and had run through a million simulations of this exact moment in her head over the last week—all of her thoughts, all of her planning, gone, evaporated the instant she had pulled into the church's lot and seen his SUV.
There was just no way to organically broach such a taboo, was there?
She threw up her hands in defeat, shrugging as she smiled.
"Fuck, Dex. I love you," she practically spat the words out, her heart skipping a beat as the last three words left her mouth. She was surprised by how natural it felt to say that to him—even more natural than when she meant it as a sister. It felt good. It felt… right.
She didn't think it was possible, but his face became even more blank than it already was as he lifted his head up and down slowly, nodding hesitantly.
"Uh… okay? I don't know why you're being so aggressive, but… I love you too?" he offered tentatively.
Debra pursed her lips tightly, painfully, holding back the urge to grin as the magic words left his mouth. He had never actually said 'I love you' back to her for as long as she could remember, but now he had said it twice in a single day. Was that a sign..?
But she knew he didn't mean it like that—not in the way she did. But of course he didn't. That's why she was here.
"No, Dex, you idiot," she hadn't meant to insult him, it had just slipped out; "I mean… I love-love you," she clarified with resolute awkwardness.
Dexter stood up, his posture stiff.
"I don't… understand, Deb. You came all the way here to tell me that? What's gotten into you all of a sudden..?"
He still wasn't understanding what she meant—concern had supplanted the confusion in his voice, just as frustration replaced the anxiety in Debra's:
"No, I mean," she repeated as she moved forward again. One step, two steps, three steps, four—until she was practically pressed up against him. She grabbed hold of one of his hands, and hastily stripped it of its latex—he didn't resist—so that she could clasp it, bare, between her own. It was warm, and clammy—but so were hers. She gave it a tight squeeze.
They had gotten physically close to each other countless times in the past, but there was something different about their proximity now—a distinct intimacy, plainly exceeding what a brother-sister relationship allowed for—Dexter must have recognized this too, Debra realized, as he startled under her touch and looked into her eyes, an inscrutable something behind his own. It was obvious he was waiting for her to speak again.
"I'm in love with you, Dex," she asserted in a breathless whisper, her voice practically inaudible, stifled by the weight of his scrutiny.
As soon as the words left her mouth, she shied away from his gaze—she squirmed in place, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she fidgeted with her hands, and thus his own, her fingers dancing and rubbing across his knuckles.
There. She said it. It was out there, now—too late to be taken back.
A long silence. Too long to bear.
Deb clenched her eyes shut, refusing to meet his. A single note of an exasperated laugh, signifying wit's end, leaked out.
"For fuck's sake, Dex, just say something already, fuckin' anythi—!"
"You're… in love with me..?"
He cut her off—an uncharacteristic display of impatience. He sounded agitated. Or maybe… excited..? No. That was probably just wishful thinking on her part. Regardless of what it was exactly tinging his voice, it made the nape of her neck tingle.
She nodded haplessly, unable to find her voice.
"How?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing.
As if she had an answer. She shook her head.
"I mean… I'm your brother, Deb."
"I know…" she murmured, her lower lip beginning to quiver as she blinked back tears.
"And… you're my sist—"
"No SHIT, Dexter! Jesus Christ, you think I don't know that?! Fuck! It's not like I CHOSE to fall in love with you!" she shrieked, releasing his hand, raising one of her own to shield her eyes in shame. It slapped down a moment later against her hip: "you think I don't know how fucked up it is?! You think that you being my brother DIDN'T make it almost IMPOSSIBLE to come to terms with my feelings?!"
In her anger, she found the courage to face him again. They locked eyes—now it was her turn to await his response.
But it didn't come. He just kept staring at her, through her, unveiling her, and just as she began to feel unnerved and pull away, certain that this had all been a huge mistake—
!
Her eyes widened as she felt an arm wrap around her waist and pull her back in, even closer than before. Her hands instinctively found their way to his chest.
"D-dex..?" she stuttered incredulously.
He nodded. She gulped.
"I think…" he began, barely above a whisper.
"You th-think..?" she repeated, waiting with bated breath.
"I feel the same, Deb…"
Before she could even react, he leaned in towards her—she watched his lips, stunned, as they drew closer and closer to her own, inch by inch.
Was this a dream..?
She dared not to blink, afraid she might shatter the illusion if she did. Her mind went numb as she felt his ragged breath tickle her face. He tilted his head one way—she, the other way, ever so slightly.
Her heart was pounding so loudly, drowning out all thoughts. It was official, she had never felt this nervous in her entire life.
He paused for a moment, hesitating less than an inch away. She felt his breath against her, and at last, she closed her eyes just as his lips pressed softly against hers.
An electric shiver spread from her lips, down her spine, through her entire body, igniting her from head to toe—and just like that, it all went away. The guilt, the uncertainty, the confusion, the anxiety… dissolved, by a single kiss.
She recovered from the shock and reciprocated at last: surrendering, melting, unraveling, clenching her eyes shut, evicting from each a single acrid tear of relief.
Nearly twenty seconds passed before they parted, gasping for air. Their eyes flashed open at the exact same moment, meeting, and in each other they recognized the flame that had been lit, blazing out of control, unquenchable. Already inextinguishable.
Debra brought a hand to the back of his head just as he cupped the sides of her face, coming to the tacit agreement that their previous exchange of saliva was too tame, wholly insufficient.
More…
Their lips crashed together, feverishly, uninhibited by any hesitation. Their tongues clashed—prodding, coiling, licking, hungrily exploring each other's mouth.
God, The taste of him, the smell of him… intoxicating, unlike any other. It made her dizzy. They sucked in air through the corners of their mouths in short, greedy gulps, never parting, neither one allowing the other to catch their breath, to escape for even the briefest of moments. She was beginning to feel lightheaded, as any air she drew in was immediately expended as a moan into Dexter's mouth.
Dexter—my fuckin' brother.
She relished the primal grunt that was elicited as she playfully bit and tugged on his bottom lip.
This is wrong, a voice nagged at the back of her mind as she guided his head down, shivering euphorically with each kiss he planted, trailing down her neck, every suck, every nibble along her collarbone.
And she agreed: it was so fuckin' wrong—but it felt so fuckin' right.
She felt his hands grope at her shirt, ripping it open—buttons went flying, clattering to the ground and bouncing away. She lifted his shirt up over his head, reciprocating his impatience, and the time it took to lift the fabric up over his face, leaving his mouth unavailable for several seconds, was agonizing.
More…
She pounced, wrapping her legs around his waist and grinding against him as they stumbled back, continuing to make out, and Dexter's hands found their way to her ass as they thudded against the stone altar, knocking over a solitary candlestick.
He spun them around and practically slammed her down on her back, clearing everything off the altar's surface. He grabbed hold of her waist as she fumbled with her belt—she obliged, lifting her pelvis and shimmying so he could strip away her pants, yanking her closer to him with each ravenous tug until her butt was pressed firmly against his crotch, her slender legs draped over his shoulders. Her heart skipped a beat and her chest swelled with pride as she felt his bulge prod against her. She wiggled against him torturously, and watched him wince.
He didn't appreciate that, or her self-satisfied smirk.
She gasped his name as his hands—she could feel them trembling—slid slowly up her bare thighs and settled rapaciously on her hips. Her mind went blank. Skin on skin had never felt so good.
"Are you… *huff*... sure about this, Deb..?" Dexter grunted, his face hovering just inches above hers. Both their complexions were flushed, rosy and sweaty.
She liked the look in his eyes, undoubtedly mirroring her own—desperate, but fierce, like a starving predator that had at last managed to catch some prey. He had asked permission, but she was certain he wouldn't take no for an answer.
Neither would she.
In response, she flashed a coy smile as she reached between her legs for the fly of his pants, yanking the zipper down before deftly undoing the button above with two fingers.
She slipped her hand in, and then, once he was at her mercy, throbbing within her grasp, she leaned up.
"Don't you think it's a little fuckin' late to be asking that?" she breathed sensually directly into his ear, delighting in the way he shivered.
The voice of protest—of reason—inside of her had gone silent, drowned out by a desire that had been denied and suppressed for far too long now; that had perhaps been there all along, deep down.
She wanted more, needed more,of Dexter, of—
Stop.
…
That was the 'idyllic' outcome that, in her wildest, darkest dreams, Deb had been hoping for.
But of course, things didn't work out like that.
The chance of it—that perfectly sordid illusion—shattered the instant she watched the knife plunge its way down.
SCHLINK!
Time slowed to a crawl; her world collapsed.
She didn't recognize Dexter—his face, a terrifying and twisted mask of nigh-orgasmic pleasure that made her skin crawl. She watched his entire body quake, ostensibly euphorically, racked by the aftermath of a potent release as his hands remained tightly clenched around the hilt of the knife he had just embedded into someone's fuckin' chest.
Debra collapsed against the wall, too weak to stand upright. Her breath hitched—she couldn't breathe.
This couldn't be real. It just couldn't.
Her ears were ringing. She braced her hands on top of her knees, and looked back up.
He had noticed her now, heard her gasp—his expression, now a recognizable mask of alarm, concern, and guilt, was irreconcilable with the savage, unguarded sadism she had just witnessed.
His gloved hands left the knife, slowly, and he lifted them above his head.
It was only then that Deb realized she had drawn her gun and trained it on him. The safety was still on, but a trembling finger hovered precariously close to the trigger.
Dexter took a step towards her.
"D-Deb, what are you—" he began in a slow, measured tone.
The click of a disarmed safety silenced and stopped him, dead in his tracks.
"W-what the fuck is going on here, Dex..?" she murmured in disbelief.
Lieutenant Morgan's eyes shifted wildly between him, her dear brother, and the horrific, all-too-familiar scene beside him. A body—she now recognized it as Travis Marshall—naked, cheek slashed, cocooned in plastic wrap. Black plastic bags ready for cleanup. An array of knives, saws, and surgical tools—the unmistakable panoply of a serial killer.
Memories flickered through her mind like flashbangs, just behind the eyelids.
She shook her head and shut her eyes, desperate to squeeze them back—but tears had already begun to spill out, salty streams coursing all the way down to her chin.
"Deb, listen to me, I know this looks… bad, but just let me expl—"
She hated how calm he sounded.
"Shut up, Dex, don't say another fucking word, Christ!"
She could barely get the words out against the rising panic that clogged her throat.
It all made sense now—the cataclysmic pieces fell into place. Dexter, his emotional impregnability; all the peculiar and impromptu outings; the lame excuses he'd give after she couldn't get a hold of him for hours, sometimes days at a time. The way he always seemed to click off whatever he was doing on his computer the instant anybody walked into his office. Rudy—Brian, whoever the fuck he was—being Dexter's fucking brother. Doakes', and then even Quinn's, suspicions..!
Dexter's past, baptized in blood.
His penchant for blood.
The Bay Harbor Butcher.
"Oh f-f-fuck… Fuck, fuck, fuck!" she spat out in a hoarse whisper, running a hand through her hair as she bit down on her lip until her mouth flooded with a metallic taste.
Dexter took another step toward her.
"Deb, please."
She shook her head with a whimper.
He took another step.
"Deb…"
"D-d-don't…"
Another step.
She couldn't see, couldn't think straight. How could she have been so blind, so stupid, all this time?! Her own brother..!
"Deb, just—"
"P-please… don't make me…" she implored with a desperate shake of her head, raising her gun as it had falteringly dipped towards the floor.
She needed space, needed time to think, to process, to stave off this soul-crushing panic that was exacerbated by each passing moment, every second that she stared into his eyes, the depths of which she no longer recognized, sharp and intense—in which she used to always be able to find endless comfort and strength.
"—put the gun down…"
"J-just stop..!"
He was right in front of her now—his hand lashed out and grabbed hold of the gun's barrel, knocking it aside. If it had been anyone else, she would've reacted in time and plugged this fucker full of lead long before they could've even attempted, much less managed, such a stunt.
But it wasn't just anyone. It was Dexter—her awkward, genius, idiotic, understanding, insensitive, and dependable big brother. The man who, she had long since known—or thought she knew—to be the only person in the whole wide world she could ever really trust, really believe in, who would always have her back, no matter what..!
A fucking serial killer. The words made her want to vomit.
The grip of her gun was slipping from her hand, and she was tugged towards him.
She barely fought off the urge to collapse into him.
"W-why… why, Dex..?" she begged, looking up at him desperately—though she could barely see through the tears.
"Jesus fucking Christ, why did it have to be you? Why not literally anyone else..? I just… I can't..!"
She trailed off, broken. A hand grabbed the side of her face, and her breath hitched into a deteriorating whimper.
"Deb, look at me, please."
It was the first time since Rita died that she had heard his voice sound so hollow, so empty.
But she shook her head, her vision growing even more blurry. She couldn't do what he asked.
"I'm still me, Deb, I'm still your brother. I love you," he assured, out of the blue, unprompted, as if he had read her mind and all its fears—that her life was a lie.
They were the words she had come here to hear, the words she thought were going to bring her so much happiness, and make everything right.
But all she felt now was pain, like her heart was about to explode.
She re-found her grip on the gun and tried to wrench it back.
"For fuck's sake Dexter, let go!" she seethed.
He didn't. They wrestled the gun between them, to the left, then to the right, the barrel pointing this way and that, and then—
BLAM!
A flash of light, the smell of gunpowder, burning both their nostrils. Both sets of eyes, wide with shock, looked down at the gun's barrel jammed upwards into her gut. A finger from each of them hung over the trigger.
Time stopped.
Deb heard him call her name, muffled and muted in her ringing ears. They both staggered away from each other—the gun stayed in Debra's hands.
She fell.
Staring up at the ceiling, she willed herself to get up, but she couldn't move. Her whole body was numb, inoperable.
Dexter's face suddenly filled her vision, staring down at her. He was shouting something, but she couldn't hear anything, couldn't make the words out.
She felt her shirt get ripped open, and the touch of his trembling hands, pressing firmly against her abdomen. It was the only part of her entire body that didn't feel ice-cold. It felt… warm.
Her vision darkened, and yet she smiled.
Dexter…
All she could focus on was his eyes—her brother's eyes, finding within them, once again, the reassurance she needed.
Using what little strength she had left, she lifted a hand towards him. She didn't actually feel her arm moving, and she could only make it halfway before her strength faltered.
But he caught her hand in his own, understanding her intent, and brought it to the side of his face.
He was crying, she realized—something she had never seen him do. Was it because of her..?
His hand, pressing hers to his face, was slathered in blood. Her blood? Maybe. She didn't know. Didn't care.
"Dex…ter…" she sputtered weakly.
As if on cue, she retched, a telling mouthful of red over her chin and chest—it didn't break her smile though, now stained crimson.
In these final moments, and in her final breaths, she didn't see a killer looming over her. Or a liar. Or even a 'lover'.
Just her dorky brother, Dexter Morgan.
There was so much she wanted to say to him—too much to be conveyed in the single breath she had left. Too many memories, too many feelings, all fighting for the right to escape her lips, to be the one last thing she said to him.
None of them, no singular one, could sufficiently express how important he was to her.
Choice paralysis. All she could say instead was another, equally inadequate line, remembering what he had said just moments ago.
"I… love… you…too…" she choked out.
Her lungs emptied, never to be filled again as her head lolled to the side towards him. Her hand slid limply down the side of his face, out of his blood-slicked clutches. He reached for her hand desperately, to catch it before it hit the ground—he wasn't ready to let go. But she slipped from his grasp again, and thudded against the stone floor, splashing in a gradually-expanding puddle of her own blood.
Dexter looked back at her face, his mouth moving a mile a second but producing no sound, just in time to catch the light fade from her eyes. He found no pleasure in it; he did not relish it. Not one bit.
He felt the light in his own eyes die out in the same instant. His arms went limp at his sides, and he clenched his fists shut, ripping open the palms of his gloves.
Her final words echoed hauntingly in his head.
It all happened so fast. He hadn't even gotten the chance to get a word out. He dazedly looked down at her stomach, at his hands, completely drenched in her life halfway up his forearms. The flow of blood ceased—her heart had stopped.
There was no chance of resuscitating her. Perhaps if he was a normal person, and not a monster, he would've tried to save her anyway; but Dexter knew, he could tell, even though it was dark and dim, from the entrance wound and the trajectory that the bullet had shot straight through her abdominal aorta. The internal bleeding was likely worse than the external—and that was saying something. A terrible, terrible fluke.
It was possible that if she were brought to a hospital right this instant, she could live. Maybe.
Five minutes was about all she had left before she went braindead. Not even close to enough time, even if he called 911 right this instant, and even if by some miracle there was an ambulance within two miles of—
He cut the pragmatic train of thought short, recognizing it for the farce that it was; a hapless and desperate distraction, a coping mechanism that he no longer had the strength to indulge.
Time was out.
Debra…
His dear little sister—his perfectly fallible antithesis: emotionally transparent, foolhardy, outspoken, hot-headed, uncouth, and impulsive. The crudest, most foul-mouthed detective—lieutenant, he corrected himself—Miami Metro had ever seen…
Gone.
The one constant in his life—the light to his darkness, tethering him to his humanity whenever he lost sight of it all. Those times when he felt cold, disconnected, and detached—engrossed in the machinations of his second 'job', his dark passenger—he could always count on her to call him a fucktard, or invite him out to lunch, or randomly show up at his apartment with beer and steak, ready and needing to vent a plethora of problems, both personal and professional—grievances that she was willing to share with him, and him alone. Always at just the right time, somehow, to remind him he was human. That he had connections—that he was loved.
He knew she had always seen him as her anchor: that she couldn't live without him, couldn't survive, without him—but that couldn't be further from the truth.
All this time, it had always been the other way around.
Tears dripped straight from his eyes to the ground below.
He stood up, staring at his trembling, incarnadined hands, and staggered back. He wiped and clawed at his face, slathering himself in blood, his sister's blood, as a constrained yell erupted from his lips, gradually increasing in loudness and unpracticed intensity, a blood-curdling ululation that echoed throughout the church long after his lungs gave out.
He collapsed to his knees at the edge of her pool, sucking in air through gritted teeth as he clutched at his trembling head.
!
He felt a hand clasp his shoulder—he recognized the grip, its weight, its comfort.
"Harry…" he murmured, eyes glued to the floor as he watched the blood seep and spread, almost sentiently, through the cracks in the stone floor.
He bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling as he turned around to face Harry.
"I… I didn't mean… it wasn't supposed to… it was…" he prattled incoherently.
"An accident, Dex… I know," Harry assured, his eyes glistening and his voice trembling. Dexter had never heard his voice crack like that before.
"...You've been making a lot of mistakes lately, son," he reminded, shaking his head—clearly trying his best, and failing, to keep his composure: "but this one… it cost your sister her li—"
"Don't," Dexter warned in a low growl.
A long silence.
"I really am a monster, aren't I..?" he whispered.
A slight hesitation.
"...You're not a monster, Dex. You've proven that so many times over the years. With Rita, with Astrid and Cody, with brother Sam, with Harrison… with your sister… even now. you're crying: genuine tears. I didn't even know you were capable of that. Monsters don't cry. Not like this."
Dexter's blood began to boil.
"Can you just not be the voice of reason, ONE fucking time?!" he seethed bitterly: "I killed your daughter, your actual, biological child. Don't you fucking hate me?!"
Much to his dismay, Harry just shook his head as a single, silent tear rolled down his left cheek.
"I could never hate you, Dex. You're my son, just as much as Debra is my daughter."
"Was," Dexter corrected venomously—but Harry wouldn't take the bait.
"I love you both more than I could ever put into words… but I failed you. Both of you."
Another long-winded groan of pain leaked from Dexter's lips as he slammed a fist into the ground, over and over, sending violent ripples through his sister's blood.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fffffffuck! I should be dead, not Deb! Never Deb! She was a good person; one of the few good things I had left in my life!"
Even Harry was taken aback by the sudden outburst—but then it was over. Dexter slumped forward in exhaustion, completely depleted, all tension having been released from his body after such an explosion.
"She didn't deserve to die…" he assured quietly, barely audible over the waning echo of his cries.
This time, at last, there was no rebuttal.
I should be dead; that particular phrase repeated itself in his mind over and over, eventually compelling him to his feet.
"Dex..?" Harry asked incredulously as he watched his adopted son walk, with an unbreaking and unhesitating stride, towards the altar.
With one hand, he grabbed hold of the knife and wrenched it free from Travis' chest with a ruthless tug, ripping out a spatter of blood—with the other, he took out his phone, and hastily dialed three numbers.
He raised it towards his ear—but a hand grabbed hold of his wrist, intercepting it.
"Stop. Think about what you're doing," Harry warned.
The line connected.
"911 operator: what's your emergency?"
Dexter looked down at the phone, swallowing hard, then up at Harry—who silently but adamantly shook his head—and finally, to Deb. His stomach knotted.
"This won't bring her back, Dex."
"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"
The voice crackled between them, impossibly loud yet unfathomably quiet.
Dexter's eyes narrowed.
"Hello, this is Dexter Morgan of Miami Metro Forensics," he declared aloud, his tone callous, eyes locked with Harry's as he spoke.
He gave the church's address.
Shots fired.
Officer—Lieutenant Morgan—down.
Punctured aorta—bleeding profusely.
He couldn't bring himself to pronounce her dead.
His voice grew quieter and quieter with each bit of information he provided, and hung up before the operator could even reply. The phone immediately fell from his slackened grip, clattered to the floor, bouncing once as its screen shattered into a dozen tiny pieces.
"What's the plan now, Dex?" his father demanded angrily: "just sit here, and wait to be arrested?! To have your secret laid bare to the world, exposed for all to see?! Do you think Debra would want that; for the whole world to see her brother as a monster, a killer?!"
"I think what Deb would've wanted, is to be alive," Dexter snapped back, clawing miserably at his face: "... and have a brother who wasn't a fucking killer…"
his eyes languidly drifted towards the still-dripping blade in his other hand.
This blade, with which he had expunged countless monsters from this world, countless dark passengers …
It was clear to him now, what had to be done.
He drew in a deep breath and stopped trembling, inside and out. A sudden and unshakeable calmness washed over him in an instant, an eerie shift that made Harry grimly purse his lips.
He shook his head resolutely, and effortlessly slipped free from his father's clutches.
"No, I'm not going to be arrested…"
He staggered towards Deb, stopping only for the briefest of moments as the first of his footsteps splished in her blood.
"Dexter…" Harry warned in a low, desperate whisper, at last understanding what his son was planning.
In an almost ritualistic movement, Dexter laid himself down beside his sister, shivering as he felt her blood—now tepidly cool—soak into the back of his shirt.
Gripping the knife in both hands, he poised it at arm's length above him, pointing down.
"That should do it," he declared, letting out a contented sigh as he gauged the right trajectory.
"Dexter, stop! How does this help anyone? How is this fair, to anyone?! To Harrison, to Astrid, to Cody, to everyone in Miami PD?! How does this—!"
"Dad."
A single word—so utterly and completely potent in its delivery, conveying regret, sorrow, but above all else, determination—shut down the millions of protests collecting in Harry's throat.
Dexter nodded, his chin rubbing against the top of his chest.
"This is what I do. What you taught me to do. I kill monsters," he explained with a hollow smile.
The kids, and everyone else for that matter, would be better off without him—even Harrison. A monster playing human could never be the father, friend, or co-worker any of them deserved. He knew Jamie would keep an eye on Harrison, and eventually entrust him to a loving family—a father, and more importantly, a mother, who would love and nurture him in a way he couldn't, without the risk of imparting something sinister—care that he was simply incapable of providing.
And no, he supposed, it wasn't fair—to leave this gruesome mess for his friends at Miami Metro to find: he and Deb, both dead, in a shared puddle of blood, next to Travis, gift-wrapped atop the altar. He couldn't imagine how they would feel. Literally, he couldn't. The hurt, the pain, the shock. They probably wouldn't believe their eyes at first—LaGuerta, Angel, Quinn, and Masuka would likely be hit the hardest. But they'd pick up the pieces, and put them together—he knew they would. They were strong, and they would do their job. Masuka would identify evidence of a struggle between him and Deb, and discern that his own stab wound was self-inflicted. They'd tear his apartment apart in search of answers, desperate to disprove their greatest fears—but they'd find them validated, irrefutably, by the contents of his closet, and behind his air-conditioning… and they would all have to live with it for the rest of their lives.
It wasn't fair at all. But nothing seemed as unfair as the thought of living in a world without Deb.
He breathed in, and out.
In, and out.
In…. and out…
And on the fourth inhale, his chest rose to meet the blade.
It was a curious thing, to feel the vanquished beat of his own heart pulse through the blade.
He always savoured it, the delectable sensation of ending someone's—some thing's—life. It was always in this exact moment when the excruciating pressure in his head was released, drained out of him, leaving him with a satisfying emptiness.
And this time was no different.
He tilted his head to face Deb, a trail of blood trickling out the corner of his mouth.
He dragged his numb hand across the floor towards hers, and let out a prodigious sigh as he interlaced their fingers.
He closed his eyes, the image of Deb—alive and well, leaning against the railing just outside his apartment, beer in hand and a smile on her face—projected onto the back of his eyelids.
He waited to die, focusing on the waning rhythm of his breath and heartbeat.
Thirty seconds passed. And then a minute. He heard the sound of distant sirens.
His eyes groggily flickered open. Something was wrong. Why wasn't he dead yet..? It should've been practically instant.
He didn't have the strength to tilt his head, to turn away from Deb. He shifted his laggy, unfocused vision towards his chest.
!
It wasn't in all the way—three inches of metal remained between his body and the knife's hilt. His self-preservational instincts had betrayed him, and stayed his hand.
The sirens were getting closer—they'd be here in less than a minute. Panic overtook him. At this rate, he might actually live..!
He desperately tried to move his hands, but he couldn't. One hand was locked with Deb's, inextricable, and the other, simply inoperable. He clenched his teeth, straining with all his non-existent might to reach for the blade, and push it down, depress it, just those last few inches.
The sound of tires screeching to a halt outside. His fingers twitched numbly, sluggishly, but that was as much as he could manage.
No, no, no, come on, come on, come on..!
Schliiink!
His eyes widened as the air was evicted from his lungs as a wheezing croak. He felt his heart stop. He looked to his chest in shock.
The blade had sunk all the way in—a quaking hand that was not his own rested on top of its hilt.
Dexter smiled inwardly as his cheeks became stained with trails of relief.
Thank you… Harry…
"Your sister and I… we'll see you soon, Dex," the man crouching over him said hollowly.
No, you won't… I'm going to a different place than the two of you. A place where my dark passenger and I belong…
Dexter shook his head—or at least he tried to—managing instead only to look towards his hand, and Deb's, both beneath Harry's. He regretted that he wouldn't get to spend eternity with them—if 'eternity' even existed—but…
This was enough. Certainly more than he deserved.
"Well, you can count on seeing me little bro," another voice interjected: "We have a LOT of catching up to do."
Brian—Dexter couldn't turn to face him, but he could plainly imagine the smug grin plastered on his brother's face.
Yeah… I guess we do.
He blinked—the world went dark. Both Harry and Brian dissolved.
But he wasn't alone. Deb was still there, in his hand, right beside him. Like always.
Always…
Yes… he decided, right then and there, with his last conscious thought.
If there really was an afterlife, then they'd find their way back to each other, no matter what.
She had seen him for what he truly was, and in her final moments, had still found it in herself to say that she loved him. Their bond was unbreakable. Nothing—not even God, or Satan—could keep him and Deb apart. She'd raise Hell up above, and he would claw his way out from whatever dark pit awaited him, up and through the fiery dregs of brimstone, until they were together again.
The two Morgans would remain in death exactly as they had in life—inseparable.
Forever.