A/N: Look who's back, back again...lol I'll spare you guys all of the details but I've been having a pretty hard time lately, so unfortunately writing has not been easy. I've been working on this chapter in bits and pieces for what seems like forever. Sitting on the train, in the waiting room at the doctor's office, during my breaks at work...I tried to squeeze some time in whenever I could, and ultimately, that resulted in me taking much longer than I'd anticipated getting this chapter completed and posted. But I am going to finish this story, if it's the last thing that I do! (which it won't be, for the record. I have another Debster story that's probably something like half written already, but I have been waiting to post that one until after this one has been completed)

So I just want to thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one shouldn't be too far away, if everything works out as planned :)

Apologies in advance if there are any typos or weird sentences. I'm too tired to reread this thing for the fiftieth time, so I'll double check it for mistakes in the morning.

Word travels fast. At least, that's the case when Vince Masuka is the person running their mouth all around town.

Deb is surprised by her own popularity.

First, Jamie brings Harrison by. They come almost as soon as Dexter lets her know what happened, though he leaves out a few minor details of course. A combination of dehydration and exhaustion….a near fatal overdose...same difference, right?

Harrison dotes on his aunt, kissing each of her invisible boo boos better; and although Deb tries her hardest to keep a straight face, it's obvious to everyone around that the boy's affections make her melt.

Angel comes to visit on the second day of "interment", as Deb so eagerly dubbed it on the first day.

If Masuka told Angel the real reason why Deb is confined to a bed with a cannula in each arm, the soft-spoken man makes no mention of it. The extent of his line of questioning is "how have you been sleeping?", "do you want me to find you some extra pillows?", and "whose ass do I need to beat for this, huh?"

"Just mine," Deb answers with a weak smile, "so, you want me to turn over now, or..."

Batista waves away her silly comment. "No, mija. I'm not even sure you could handle it."

"Try me."

"For real Deb, you're looking kind of frail. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, well, believe it or not, I've been worse. Still, not my greatest Friday night."

"You hang in there, Deb. Everybody's rooting for you down at the station." Angel says, patting her softly on the shoulder.

"You're rooting for me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Deb asks, the rising pitch in her voice getting harder to ignore, "I'm not on my deathbed, Angel, so don't go sounding the alarm yet. I'm fine. Honest. This is all so Dexter can have some peace of mind. I was ready to haul ass out of here but he almost threw a fit so I stayed. "

"Sure," Angel says, humoring her for a moment, "I'll keep you in my prayers anyway, though. Just in case."

"Yeah, just in case." Deb mocks him, rolling her eyes at the sentiment.

"Well, I guess I should be heading back to the station. But hey, why don't you and Dex come swing by Papa's as soon as you get out of here? It'll be on the house, of course. Bring Harrison, too. We'll make it a family night."

"We'll be there." Dexter answers for her, shaking Angel's hand on his way out the door.

"He'll pray for me?" Debra scoffs after Dexter shuts the door and takes a seat at her bedside, "What the shit was that all about? I thought prayers were usually reserved for the big stuff, like someone who has three months to live, or a natural disaster, or like, the plague. "

"No offense, but you kind of are a natural disaster."

"Fuck you, Dexter."

"I'm kidding. Angel cares about you, Deb. Maybe you should just stop fighting it and let him."

"Oh, that's a bit ironic coming from you, don't you think?"

"Not really, no."

"Again. Fuck you," Deb says the words with a smile on her face, but she pulls up her sheet from where it sits bunched up at the foot of her bed, holding it almost protectively under her chin, "I just don't want this to turn into some big thing. It's bad enough that Angel has some vague idea about what happened. I don't need anyone else finding this shit out. I'm embarrassed enough as it is."

"Stop it. You don't need to be embarrassed, okay? None of this is your fault, Deb. If anything, it's mine."

"Are we really playing the blame game again? Because honestly, Dex, I'm over it. How about we just...agree that things have gotten pretty fucked up lately and promise to work on our shit?"

"Sounds good to me," Dexter nods.

It feels like they've been doing that a lot lately, though. Agreeing to make changes without ever actually putting in the work. It's what got them here, what got them so many other places that they never should've been.

Of course, the blame for most of that lands squarely at Dexter's own feet, but he can no longer deny the fact that his sister has somehow become a willing participant in her own destruction. He wishes that he could make her change, but he thinks that maybe this is something she'll have to work out for herself. He'll be with her every step of the way, definitely, but people can't be forced to do things. That is something Deb has learned for herself a thousand times over by now.

He supposes that he now knows what it's like to feel as Deb felt for so long. It would be rather funny if it weren't so goddamn tragic.

"I know you probably don't believe me, but I was serious when I said that I want to get better, Dex," Deb says, almost as if she can read his mind. She sighs, then repositions herself in bed, "I guess I'm just way too stubborn to even admit that I have a problem in the first place."

"Well, what's that going to take? Because I don't want to get a call five months from now saying that you were found dangling upside down in a ditch after a night of heavy drinking. You don't know how much you scare me sometimes, Deb."

"Oh, I think I might have an idea," she replies with a cutting glare, "and yeah, the ditch thing? That already happened, idiot. And it was partly your fault."

"It was partly my fault?"

"You're right. It was mostly your fault. That blonde succubus could have killed me. She could still be out there cooking up her newest scheme for all I know. She was pretty good with those fancy plants of hers, how much do you think she knows about black magic?"

"Come on, Deb. Don't be ridiculous."

"It was a joke, Dexter. I might be in the middle of a major mental breakdown, but I like to think that I've maintained my winning sense of humor consistently throughout."

Dexter keeps his mouth shut, hoping that if he avoids the topic of Hannah all together, eventually Deb will just…move past it. The last time they talked about her Deb ended up walking out of his life and vowing never to return. That promise ultimately proved to be false, but Dexter still has no intent on relieving those six months from hell.

Neither Morgan has ever been good at simply walking away. But why does it always have to end in a fight with them?

"I don't know why I'm like this. I'm sorry." Deb says, "but I don't know how to be the good little victim. I can't go to AA meetings and get a fucking sponsor to give me pep talks whenever I'm feeling like shit. I can't carry around one of those dumb fucking chip things to celebrate being two, three, four months sober without feeling like a liar. That just isn't who I am. You and I both know it."

"Okay…so don't."

"What?"

"Don't do it. Don't go to AA meetings. Don't play the role that you think everyone expects of you. I just want you to get better, so do it on your own terms. You're strong, Deb. Stronger than anyone. I know that this isn't all you're meant for. The problem is, I'm not sure that you believe it yet."

She sniffles, and she nearly manages to hide the tears that well up in her eyes, except Dexter sees right through her as always. "Maybe I don't believe it. So?"

"So I'll wait here until you do. You know I'm not going anywhere, Deb."

"Yeah," she nods and her eyes twinkle with light, "I'm counting on it, so don't go having any second thoughts on me."

"If either of us was planning to get off of this train, we missed our stop a long time ago," Dexter says, reaching for her hand. Its coldness doesn't go unnoticed as he rubs it between both of his own, "I love you, and I'm not scared. Anything that gets in our way, we can face it."

"Ahem."

A nervous knock at the door. Dexter recognizes the voice, so he doesn't even bother to turn around.

But Deb does.

"Hey, Joey."

"Hey, Deb. How you been feelin'?"

"Don't take the wrong way, but if I never had to answer that question again, it would be way too fucking soon."

"Understood," Quinn chuckles, "you won't hear anything that even remotely resembles concern coming from this mouth again. How's that sound?"

"Perfect." Deb says, forcing herself to sit in an upright position.

Dexter watches her, feeling a sudden surge of sympathy when she tries to shift the majority of her weight onto one side. She probably thought things would feel more comfortable that way, but the way her face crumbles in on itself proves that she was wrong.

The doctors had put a tremendous amount of pressure on her abdomen when they tried to rid her body of the toxins it had been exposed to over the past few months, pumping her stomach like they do in the movies. Dexter can only imagine the biting pain that his sister is in right now. The doctors hadn't allowed him to witness the entirety of the process no matter how much he'd pleaded with them, but Dexter's mind had done more than enough on his own to fill in the blanks.

His brain could craft a story that was as depraved as depraved came. Dexter imagined horrors that would make King blush and Poe recoil in fear. He was so repulsed by his own thoughts that he couldn't even bear to hold his own son when he came around to visit that day. What a strange thing. A monster, scared of its own tail.

Quinn clears his throat, making a show of looking around the room. It's a rather small space, and the only place to sit is the chair at Deb's bedside that Dexter currently occupies. Dexter supposes that he could give up his seat — he's barely moved from it since he first brought Deb to the hospital, and by the looks of it, Quinn had intended to make this more than just a simple hi and bye visit — but he also just doesn't want to. So he remains seated, keeping his face completely stoic as he turns to face Quinn.

He doesn't look too upset. Probably just doesn't want to give Dexter the satisfaction, which is understandable.

Silently to himself, Dexter wonders just how much longer this petty game can continue to go on between the two of them. They've been at a boiling point for years, and it's a wonder that it's lasted this long. It would've been easier to get rid of Quinn when all of this drama first began. At least then the man was still relatively in the dark about the Morgans. But now, it's just too risky. What a shame.

Dexter turns to face Deb. If she could tell what he was thinking, she would probably be very disappointed in him. Oh well, it's not like he isn't used to it.

"So," Quinn says, clearing his throat, "I got ya something."

"If it's those flowers you've been trying to hide behind your back for the past few minutes, you can keep 'em."

Dexter is satisfied to hear his sister quickly shut that down. But he quickly bites down on his growing smile, because she definitely won't like that very much.

"Why, do they look cheap or something?" Quinn asks her, holding up the yellow bouquet in confusion, "because I'll have you know that I spent $25 for these….daisies? I think they're daisies."

"No, Joey. They don't look cheap. It's really sweet of you and all, but I don't really like flowers. You know that. Fuck, I'm still trying to figure out what to do with the last ones you got me."

"The last ones? Deb, I don't think I've gotten you flowers since….yeah, no, I've never gotten you flowers. The only reason I got some today is because I thought that's what you were supposed to do when people are in the hospital."

"Yeah, your grandma, maybe. Not your ex girlfriend," Deb says, rolling her eyes, "whatever, give them here. I'll put them up on the nightstand. I'm not trying to make this room home or anything, but at least it'll give me something to look at besides the TV."

Having forgotten to bring a vase with him, Quinn manages to find a random container and places the flowers in that, filling it up with water from the bathroom sink.

"So….I actually have some good news for once." He says after he's gotten everything situated.

"Oh, well this I gotta hear!" Deb replies.

She looks rather excited, and Dexter can't blame her. The two of them have been living solely within the other's orbit for months now, so Quinn's thing, no matter how irrelevant it may prove to be, at least provides a welcome change of topic.

Quinn reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny new badge, leaning down so he can hand it over to Deb.

"You made sergeant!" She states, practically beaming from ear to ear, "that's great, Joey. Really fuckin' amazing. I always knew that you could do it. And look at you now. Just don't forget us little people on your way to the top."

"Stop."

"No, congratulations man. Really." Dexter adds, only because he thinks that it would be pretty awkward if he sat there and said nothing at all.

"Thanks," Quinn says, equally as civilly, "I'm not really sure I deserve it, to tell you the truth. But I'm not about to argue against the pay raise. I'm not that big an idiot."

Agree to disagree.

This sudden bout of bashfulness confuses Dexter. It was only a couple of days ago that Quinn tried to use the threat of his newfound power against him, and now all of a sudden he's feeling shy? Dexter definitely doesn't buy it, but he keeps his mouth shut anyway, watching the performance as it unfolds from the sidelines.

"Shut up. Of course you deserve it," Deb tells him, "You're a damn good detective when you wanna be. Just take the job seriously for once and you'll be fine. Oh, and don't sleep with any more eyewitnesses."

"Yeah," Quinn chuckles, "I'll try my best."

"I'm serious, moron!" Deb insists, "If being sergeant is anything like being lieutenant, then you'll probably hate it at first, I'm not going to lie to you. The responsibility is a lot to get used to, and it really fucking sucks to become your friends' boss overnight. But you'll get used to it, and after a while you might even start to enjoy it. I know it sounds hard to believe, but trust me, I've kinda been where you are."

Quinn nods in understanding and begins to fiddle with his badge, transferring it from one hand to the other. "Yeah, but see Deb, you deserved to make lieutenant. You earned that. But if it wasn't for what we did, I don't think Angel would have decided to give me this promotion. So what does that say about me?"

"Do you think you could maybe not talk about that in a public hospital?" Dexter asks, finding it difficult to hide his disdain much longer.

Quinn ignores him. "Batista made a big thing about it when I found the gun. He said we were gonna nail Briggs because of my incredible detective work," he says, putting the words in air quotes, "whatever the hell that's supposed to mean."

"Yeah, but you did a good thing, Joey," Deb says, turning on that Morgan charm that always seems to work so well on him, "It was to help me out, yeah, and I'm going to feel guilty about that for the rest of my fucking life. But in the long run, it'll all work out for the greater good. Two dangerous criminals are off the street, and that's kinda thanks to you. So why shouldn't you get something good out of it?"

"I don't know. I guess it just feels kinda like cheating."

"What, suddenly you're against cheating?" Deb teases, one eyebrow lifting slightly, "Kidding."

"Sure. Alright."

"Oh, come on. Do you really think all of the higher ups got where they are without a few dirty tricks along the way?" Deb asks. She sounds a little too serious for this to just be her putting on a show for Quinn to keep him staunchly in their corner, "Matthews, LaGuerta, they did what they had to do, just like all the rest."

Dexter doesn't like it, hearing his sister speak like this. He can remember when Deb was the idealistic one, the woman who refused to take any shortcuts in life. That wasn't so long ago, was it?

That sense of goodness, it hasn't left her; but there's something else in his sister now, something that has been waging war against the old her since she first found out Dexter's secret. He doesn't want to eradicate it — he loves her too much not to accept that some part of her has been irrevocably changed after all that she's been through and to recognize that she is still the woman he has always loved — but he wishes he could put a bandage on the wound somehow, that he could help her go through hell and walk out stronger than before.

"Come on, Deb. You don't really believe that." Quinn says, echoing Dexter's sentiments.

Dexter looks up at him, shooting him a rather harsh glare. Just because he thought it doesn't mean that Quinn gets to say it. Dexter doesn't know whether he should blame it on his extreme dislike of the man (he probably should), but Quinn isn't allowed to call Debra out like that after what happened between them. Dexter, on the other hand, he has every right to check her. It's what they do. Mutually calling each other out on their shit even if things remain the same in the long run.

They're stuck in a cycle, but it's their cycle.

What they have is a partnership. Quinn knows nothing about that.

Deb awkwardly clears her throat. "So," she starts, "anything else I should know about?"

"Yeah, Quinn. Is there anything else that you've been itching to let my sister know?" Dexter asks, "something that happened over the past few days, maybe?"

The challenge in Dexter's voice is not lost on Quinn. He turns to face him, his chest puffing with bravado,

"No, nothing too serious," he replies, "why, is there a problem, Dexter?"

"Alright, what the fuck is up with you two? Stop it with the passive aggressive bullshit," Deb tells them both, "I can't decide if you two want to kill each other, or shove your tongues down each other's throats. Enough."

Dexter shrugs. "Problem? I don't have a problem."

"Cool, because neither do I," Quinn says. "See, Deb. No problems here."

"Listen to me, you fuckwads. We are in this shit together now. You don't have to like each other. You don't have to tolerate each other. Hell, I would prefer it if you didn't even speak to each other unless I specifically tell you that you have to. All I ask right now is that you don't blow each other's brains out. Are you really going to tell me that that's too difficult a request?"

Silence.

"I said, is that too difficult a request!?"

"Nah," Quinn mumbles low, "There's no bad blood between me and Dex. On that, you have my word."

"So you admit that your word is worth nothing. Great, now we're on the same page." Dexter says. He's enjoying toying with the man and he's sure Deb knows it.

"And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Quinn asks.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess you weren't planning to let my sister know about that little incident in the parking lot a few days back."

Deb groans. "The fuck is he talking about, Joey?"

When Quinn doesn't answer, Dexter takes it upon himself to do so. "Not so proud anymore, I guess. That's alright. If I threw my metaphorical dick around and came out looking like a fool, I'd want to forget about it, too. What were your exact words again? Something, something, I'll take you down?"

"Okay, that's enough," Deb declares, "Jesus, you're both fucking children."

"Me?" Dexter asks, feigning offense, "What did I do?"

"You've never liked Joey."

Quinn nods in agreement.

"And Joey, you've never liked Dexter. I get it, us Morgans tend to be hard to like. But I'm warning you right now, for the last fucking time, if you threaten my brother again, I'll kill you myself. Deal?"

"Uh huh. I gotcha." Quinn says. "I'll take that as my official cue to leave."

"Aw, no, Joey, you can stay if you want. I didn't mean —"

"No, it's totally fine. I'll see you around, Deb."

"Yeah, see you."

The room is silent until they hear the elevator arrive down the hall, waiting for Quinn to get on it.

Once he's gone, Deb uses all of her strength to lean over and pinch Dexter on the arm, right at the fleshiest part so it hurts the most.

"Um, ow," he says, "what the hell was that for?"

"Honestly, at this point, what wasn't it for? You've got to watch it with him, Dexter. You already know that he's suspicious. Stop giving him reasons to be even more fucking suspicious!"

"I —"

"I don't want to hear it. Enough with this petty shit. I never should've gotten him involved with this, I know. I thought it was a good idea at the time. It wasn't. But what's done is done, and we can't go back. We are fifteen hundred feet up shit mountain and there's going to be a fucking avalanche if we don't keep this under control. So promise me, please, no more bullshit."

"No more bullshit." Dexter agrees, because he knows that she's right.

Well….sort of. He may have been acting like a child, but Quinn has been acting like an infant. An infant with a false sense of bravado.

They can't do anything to upset him, though. Dexter knows that Quinn would never willingly put Deb in any danger — that's the one small thing he's actually good for — but he would find a great amount of joy in nailing Dexter to the wall.

At this point, the siblings are so intrinsically linked that Dexter's fall is not only his to take. To hurt him would be to hurt Deb, and there's no way he's letting that happen without a fight. So he'll treat the tool with kindness and respect and all that other shit. For her.

He swallows the prospect like a horse pill and puts on a brave face for his siter. "So, how's the pain? Any better?"

"Didn't I just get finished biting Joey's head off about this shit? Stop asking me how I am. It's not like it'll make any difference."

"Alright, well, I have something for you."

"Ooh, I hope it's chocolate."

"No, better."

"Chocolate covered strawberries."

"No. It isn't food."

"Would you stop fucking around and just tell me?"

"Okay." Dexter says. He reaches down to his feet where his laptop is sitting and brings it to his lap where he opens it. After a few moments he pulls up a webpage: a site for a zoologist based in the Miami-Dade area.

"What am I supposed to be looking at here, Dex?" Deb asks, squinting suspiciously at the screen.

"Nothing much, I guess. Just the Brain Surgeon's true identity."

"No fucking shit!" Deb all but squeals, "what makes you so sure it's this guy? You don't want to jump the gun on this."

"Believe me, I know that. But I've been reading through Vogel's patient files for hours and I really think this is our guy. Emilio Sanchez."

"A zoologist, though? Wouldn't the killer be more likely to be a doctor?"

"Yeah, that's what I originally thought, too. It's still a bit odd to me that a zoologist would would be able to handle a human brain with such surgical precision, but the details I found on this guy are just too much to ignore. Plus, you know what they say about serial killers."

"I do?"

"They tend to show a peculiar interest in animals starting from a young age. I should know. Sanchez fits the bill where that's concerned."

"Okay, and what's the Vogel connection?"

"He was a patient of hers from '87 to '89. He had been seeing her for depression and anxiety, as well as a suspected case of PTSD stemming from some childhood trauma. It sounded like run of the mill stuff to me at first, nothing too out of the ordinary, but as I continued to read Vogel's notes it became evident that she noticed some….interesting behavior start to spring up the more time that she spent with him."

"Oh, yeah? Well don't keep me waiting, brother."

"According to Vogel's notes, as the years progressed, she didn't think that Emilio was getting better. He was only getting better at hiding his eccentricities. During the day he would be fine, but in the evenings he would fly into a rage unlike almost anything Dr. Vogel claimed to have seen before. He would break things, threaten her as well as his classmates….according to his police record he even proved to be a credible danger to someone on his high school wrestling team."

"What happened?"

"The guy had been receiving threatening letters for months until finally, he was attacked in the locker room. The assailant came from behind and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He managed to fight him off, but it was dark, and the guy couldn't see who attacked him. But he mentioned Sanchez by name when he was being interviewed by police, and when the police called him in for questioning, Emilio Sanchez had cuts on his arm consistent with human scratch marks," Dexter explains, "Sanchez was charged, but since he was a minor at the time he pretty much got off with community service. The judge also ordered him to see a therapist, but he'd clearly already been doing that with little to no success."

"I don't know, Dex….I got into a couple of fights in high school. That doesn't mean that I like dicing people's brains and shit."

"Of course not. But I don't remember you ever stalking someone for months and then eventually trying to strangle them to death."

"Well, there was this one bitch in the second grade. She stole my Jem and the Holograms lunch box and I wasn't just got to let that slide…."

"Deb."

"I'm kidding! Jesus. No one has a sense of humor these days."

"Okay, well, violence is a predictive behavior. Past incidents of violence often correlate to future incidents of violence, we both know that. Vogel also knew that, which is why she made an effort to quash it before it became a pattern with Sanchez. She signed him up for a new form of corrective therapy at the time. She thought it would help."

"What did it do?"

"Let's just say that it didn't work. Vogel and Sanchez stopped speaking after that."

Deb sucks in a breath. "Jeez," she says, "whatever it was, it must've been majorly fucked up."

"You could say that."

"Well….what was the surgery?"

"It was uh….minor brain surgery. The doctors believed that if they targeted the parts of the brain that were most associated with violence that they could help reduce those particular thoughts and urges. It was very experimental, and I don't think they had the knowledge necessary to take something like that on. But they wanted desperately to be a part of the next medical breakthrough. So they did it."

"Christ on a fucking cracker, dude. If someone decided to make my brain their own personal playground, I think I'd be a little pissed off, too!" Deb declares, her steel resolve suddenly crumbling when she looks into Dexter's eyes, "she could've…."

Her voice is softer now, almost too soft to hear. "She could've done that shit to you."

Dexter also had that thought himself.

If the surgery could turn Sanchez into the monster that he's now become, who knows what it would've done to Dexter? Sanchez was a troubled guy, sure, but by the age of ten Dexter had flown straight past troubled and was angling for dangerous.

Dexter silently offers his thanks to Harry. It's more than he deserves, but Dexter knows that if Vogel had made the proposition to his foster father, he wouldn't have consented to something like that. In some way, maybe he did help save his soul.

"It's okay, Deb. I'm fine," he tries to reassure her, "well, as fine as I've always been, I guess."

"Why do I feel like we both use that modifier pretty damn often?"

"Probably because we do."

"It's just not fair, you know? I bet there's some perfect family out there, probably in the suburbs up upchuck Pennsylvania, who accidentally passed on some of their fucked up-ness to us."

Dexter finds himself chuckling at her. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but there had to be some sort of mix up when the big dude upstairs was determining our fates. Either that, or we were really fucking terrible people in our past lives, and this is karma."

"Do you really believe in that stuff, Deb?"

"I don't know. Probably not. But I'm going to pretend that I do, because I'm not so sure that I want to live in a world where we deserve this," she confesses, " do you think we're bad people, Dexter?"

He knows what he wants to say.

We? What is this we? Don't talk about us like we're the same. You're love and light and everything good in this world, even still. It's me, i'm the bad one. I'm a bad person and i deserve everything that's coming to me.

But he doesn't say it, because no matter how often she brands him with the label of idiot or dumbass, he knows how highly his sister still reveres him. He'll never understand it, but they've had that particular argument far too many times and Dexter thinks that he might've finally grown tired of it.

"No. I mean, I'm sure there are worse people out there." Dexter finally answers.

"Yeah, like Sanchez creep," Deb says, "what are we going to do about him?"

"We? What do you mean we?"

"You know exactly what the fuck I mean. I'm not letting you go after this guy on your own."

"Deb, no offense, but I don't think I need your permission on this one. This guy is dangerous, and I don't — "

"And I don't want you to get hurt, Deb," she cuts Dexter off with a laughably bad impression of himself, "because I made your dead alcoholic dad a promise over fifteen years ago, Deb, which means that I'm still the boss of you, Deb."

"That….is not what I was going to say."

It was.

In a nutshell, anyway.

"Don't lie. It's what you always say, Dex. You're so predictable. I'm pretty sure I've got this thing down to a science."

"Yeah, well, like it or not, Deb, I am still your big brother. I will always be inclined to protect you."

"Mmm, well you sure have been fucking me like a good big brother would since that night at the motel, haven't you?" Deb asks, looking at him through slitted eyes. "Why does it always have to be so hot and cold with you, Dexter? You can't just walk back into my life, change everything I thought I knew, and expect me to just pretend that everything's the same."

"That's not fair," Dexter says. He knows that he shouldn't feel the need to defend himself against her, the woman that he loves, but he stands his ground anyway, "you're the one who changed things first. You're the one who told me that you were in love with me. How did you expect me to react?"

"Well I definitely didn't expect you to tell me that I was crazy. I didn't expect you to try to talk me out of my feelings and then randomly reciprocate them months later! So no, it's not fair. It's not fucking fair that you think you can keep playing games with me, even now. You're giving me whiplash here, Dexter. The least you can do is pick a damn job and stick to it."

"Deb, calm down."

"Calm down? Calm down? You don't get to tell me to calm down. Why don't you calm up!?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, I don't fucking know," she gives up, grabs the sheet, and wraps it tighter around herself, "would you go get the nurse? I think I need another dose of whatever it is she gave me this morning."

Dexter sighs, not wanting to claim responsibility for the tension that's mounting between them but knowing that he must. "I didn't mean to upset you, Deb. I'm sorry."

"I know," she nods, chewing idly on her bottom lip, "but it's true. Things are different between us, Dex. We can never go back to the way things were. And I don't want to. Do you?"

What a cruel question. How could she even ask it when she already knows the answer?

"Of course I don't."

"It doesn't always feel that way. I mean, fuck, we went from being a family to being a….this?"

"We're still a family, Deb."

"I know that. But the definition of family has changed quite a bit these past few days. It's a lot to take in."

"Knock, knock."

There's a soft rapping on the door before the nurse pops her head into the room.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting," she says, "but Debra, you've just been cleared for discharge."

"No shit?" Deb asks, her excitement palpable as she reaches for the cannula in her arm and starts fiddling with it.

"Oh no, let me do it." The nurse sets down the bag she'd been holding, which carried Deb's clothes inside, and goes to assist her with it.

"So you're sure everything's fine?" Dexter can't help but ask, "because we wouldn't mind staying a little while longer if that's what we have to do."

"Dexter, could you do me a favor and shut the fuck up?" Deb asks, scowling at him before turning back to the nurse and fixing her face with a smile. "Brothers, right? Whose side are they ever really on?"

The nurse says nothing, only focuses on finishing the job.

She leaves Debra with a fresh bandage for her arm and a couple of release papers that Deb immediately signs in her eagerness to get home.

Dexter, of course, is still very hesitant to consider her in the clear yet; but short of injecting her with a dose of M99 or paying off the nurse to lie about the status of her health, there isn't much else that he can do to prolong his sister's hospital stay.

It makes him nervous, knowing that his sister's fate is beyond his control, but he figures he's going to have to get used to that sooner or later.

He really, really wishes it were later.

When they make it back to Deb's (their) house, Dexter immediately grabs the largest box he can find — the former host of a crock pot that Deb bought for Dexter and Rita's housewarming party that somehow ended up in her possession over the years — and starts for the liquor cabinet. He places every bottle that he can find right in the box, whether it's empty or full or somewhere in between. For her part, Deb only watches, no doubt itching to say something smart but knowing in her gut that she at least owes her brother this much.

"Is that all of it?" Dexter asks her, balancing the box's full weight on one hip.

"I mean….yeah. Sure," Deb waves him away, "that should be about it."

Dexter rolls his eyes, then walks off toward the bedroom.

"Oh, come on," Deb whines, lingering closely behind Dexter as he searches through the drawers and in the closet for more alcohol.

He comes up short, with the exception of a flash hidden deep in Deb's underwear drawer, along with a half empty bottle of Xanax. He throws them both in the box.

"Fucking seriously? I have a prescription for that!"

"They're handing out prescriptions for whiskey now?"

"I was talking about the pills and you know it, dickskin."

"Yeah, but those are just as addictive as the alcohol if not more so, Deb. You can't keep beating around the bush with this. If you're going to get clean, you have to take it all the way."

"What, you never heard of baby steps?" Deb asks, reaching into the box and plucking the pill bottle out from the sea of glass. "If the past few days are anything to go by, then I'm going to need these. That's one thing that's for fucking sure."

"Okay. I can't force you," Dexter acquiesces with a single shrug, "I'll go dump these out in the sink."

"O...kay. Okay," Deb repeats, eyeing Dexter with a look of genuine confusion, "so….that's it then?"

"Yes. That's it. I don't want to cause you any more stress than I already have. So keep the pills. Just take them as prescribed."

"Aye, aye, captain." She winks.

Dexter still finds himself itching to take the pills from her. He would love to crush each one into dust and then flush that dust down the toilet. But Deb is a big girl, and there's nothing stopping her from going back to the doctor who prescribed her the medication in the first place and asking them for another dose. So ultimately, any attempt to force Deb to quit cold turkey would be fruitless.

Dexter knows that she can read a pill bottle and follow its simple instructions, but there is always a risk of overdose. And with the party scare only nights before, he now knows that he must be extra vigilant to overcompensate for the fact that Deb still has the pills in her possession. So he'll watch her, and he'll restrict her from even the luxury of being alone if he has to. He hopes he doesn't have to.

With the bottles all emptied and placed out in the recycling bin, Dexter calls Masuka and asks him to come over. Still bored and on suspension, he giddily agrees.

He wasn't Dexter's first choice, but with Jamie busy on a well-earned night out with friends and Angel putting in overtime at the station, that leaves Masuka as Deb's only other friend (who doesn't want to see Dexter dead). Kind of sad if you think about it.

Though Dexter still harbors some less than rosy feelings towards Vince, his co-worker feels incredibly guilty about what happened to Deb on his watch, which means that he is just as incredibly desperate to make up for it somehow. He'll serve as a good babysitter this time around.

"Vince will be here in about fifteen minutes." Dexter announces to a sleepy Harrison and an already pissed off Deb.

"What did you invite him over for?" She asks, shifting on the couch until she's sitting crossed legged.

Harrison stirs, one eye struggling to stay open while the other gives in to exhaustion and stays closed. He reminds Dexter of a broken baby doll, with eyes like marbles.

"I thought you might want some company tonight, that's all."

"I already have company."

"Yeah, about that…."

"Dexter! You have got to be fuc — you have got to be fudging kidding me!" She shouts. "I just got home!"

"I know. And I don't want to leave you. But I have got to stop Sanchez before he gets the chance to hurt any more innocent people. Isn't that what you want?"

"You know it is," she sighs, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV, "remind me again why I didn't just marry some normal dude and relocate to a house in the California suburbs?"

"Because you love me," Dexter says, matching the smirk that spreads across Debra's face with one of his own, "and normal people are boring. You've said it yourself. Since we were kids. Oh, and you hate the suburbs."

"All true. But normal people problems are starting to sound pretty appealing right about now. I could've been a divorced alcoholic with a 401k and two timeshares by now, instead of….whatever this is." Deb says, waving her hands over the length of her body.

"And that sounds like a good future to you?"

"I don't know. But in that universe I would at least be a classy alcoholic. I would probably drink mimosas and shit. You know, like a Real Housewife."

"...and on that note," Dexter says, making sure Harrison has fallen asleep already before he continues speaking, "I'm going to get my kit ready."

"Where are you going?"

"You know where I'm going."

"Yeah, okay, I guess I know. But I don't know know," Deb says, as if that's supposed to make any sense, "I mean, I need an address. What if you get lost or something? I have to know where you're going."

"Deb…."

"Don't Deb me. You haven't so much as let me take a shit alone for the past two days. So forgive me if all I ask in return is for you to let me know where the fuck it is you're going."

Dexter knows better than to challenge her on this one. "Sanchez has a place in the Glades," he answers, taking out a sheet of paper and scribbling the address on it for her, "I figure that's where he takes his victims before dropping the body off in whatever public place he thinks will make the most noise. He's single as far as I know; no kids, no living relatives, so it's not like he needs a summer vacation home. A guy like that, there's only one thing he could be using that place for."

"So he kills people at a rental property that has his own name attached to the lease? That isn't exactly a smart move."

Dexter shrugs at her. "We've each dealt with dumber criminals," he says, to which Deb makes a face, then nods in agreement, "I remember there was this one guy, he accidentally left a —"

"Dex. I'm not really in the mood to talk about anything stabby right now, if that's okay with you."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Dexter replies, "forget I said anything. I should be back in a couple of hours. Just pretend that I'm asleep in the other room or something. It'll be like I never even left."

"A couple of hours? What do you mean a couple of hours?"

"Deb, the drive alone will run me at least an hour both ways. It's hardly even dark out yet. I'll be okay. I've done this a hundred times before."

"Yeah, don't remind me," Deb mutters under her breath, "whatever. Bring me back a pizza or something. I've been eating nothing but fluids for the past forty eight hours and that shit's for the birds."

Committing some light murder and then heading back home for pizza. Sounds like good, Miami living.

"Alright," Dexter says, dipping into the bedroom to change.

He wears the green Henley, same as always, though this time he makes sure to accessorize with a hoodie and his sturdiest pair of hiking boots, remembering how tough the terrain was the last time he's gone trekking through the Everglades.

With his kit prepared and loaded into his trunk, Dexter goes back into Deb's bungalow and waits for Masuka to arrive. It only takes him about twenty minutes or so, and as soon as he enters the house, Dexter is put off by his body language, a bit more somber than usual.

"Hey, Deb. Good to see you home."

"It was two days Masuka. Not two years," she says, rolling her eyes when she realizes that Masuka's concerned expression isn't going to change, "but thanks. It's good to be home."

"Nice," Masuka says, a bit of a laugh falling from his lips, "so….I brought ice cream!"

He dangles a plastic bag in front of Deb's face that is filled with at least three full cartons of ice cream.

"Please tell me that one of those is Rocky Road," Deb asks, groaning with pleasure, "say the words and I'm yours forever."

"Damn. Does Cookie Dough count?"

"Good e-fucking-nough," Deb smiles, licking her lips before snatching the bag from Masuka's hand and disappearing into the kitchen in search of a spoon.

"There's some chocolate in there for you, Dex. I know it's your fave." Masuka offers.

"Thanks, but it looks like I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that one, Vince."

Masuka makes a show of looking Dexter up and down. "Why, you going somewhere?"

"Yeah. I have a….I have a date."

"A date? You look like you're dressed for a hike, buddy."

"What can I say, she's really into nature."

"Aww man. One of those 'we are the world' chicks. So hot," Masuka says, holding his hand up for a high five.

He keeps it held high for a good few seconds before accepting that Dexter isn't going to return the gesture.

"I just hope she bathes regularly, if you catch my drift," Masuka adds as Dexter turns to make his way out the door. "You know how those types can be. Be careful."

"Thanks, Vince. I'll keep that in mind," Dexter replies, "well, I hope you and Deb have fun."

"Oh, we will absolutely have some fun here, tyrannosaurs Dex."

"And on that note….I take it back. I'll see you later."

Dexter heads out to the car before Masuka can slip in another innuendo. Though annoyed, a part of him is kind of glad that the man is already halfway back to his usual, inappropriate self. The whole shy, apologetic thing was starting to get creepy.

The drive to Sanchez's place is made in complete silence. Not even the radio is on to keep Dexter company.

No distractions. No exceptions.

He won't allow himself to lose sight of his mission. That the Brain Surgeon had made a game out of harassing Dr. Vogel is bad enough, but now that he decided to rope Deb into this, the final results could prove to be catastrophic.

Dexter parks his car a little more than a half a mile away from the property. Close enough so that he can make an easy escape after the kill is done, but far enough in case things go south and Sanchez is looking for a fight.

The terrain is a bit tougher than Dexter remembers. Uncharacteristic Miami showers the night before make for muddy grass and slick roads, but Dexter manages.

He carries a light load; just some M99, zip ties, and his favorite knife. This kill won't be a glamorous one, but when all is said and done, as long as the fucker is dead by the end of the night, that's all that really matters.

When he's more than halfway there, Dexter feels his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He curses to himself before checking the screen, rolling his eyes when he sees Masuka's name.

He ends the call and then removes one of his gloves with his teeth so he can free his hand and send Vince a text.

What? Busy. Is what he settles for.

Masuka's reply comes almost immediately. Tried calling you like ten times already but you never picked up dude. What the hell? I didn't sign up for babysitting duty.

Dexter scrolls through his missed calls, and sure enough, there are ten recent ones from Masuka and even a few from Deb.

He promises himself that he'll call Deb back as soon as it's done, and then sends his friend one final text which reads — I know Deb can be a lot, but she's not that bad — before putting his phone back in his pocket. He doesn't have time for this. Every minute that Sanchez spends breathing the same air as Dexter's family is a minute too long.

So he walks on. The cabin is directly in his sights now; smaller than he had imagined it would be, but still a completely reasonable building to kill and partially dismember people in.

As he comes up on the back door of the property, Dexter hears the familiar sound of footsteps creeping up behind him. He listens intently, ducking behind a pickup truck that he assumes belongs to Sanchez.

When the footsteps start getting closer, Dexter readies himself to strike. He puts back on the glove he removed earlier, then takes the M99 from his pocket and holds it in a clutched fist. The knife, Dexter keeps in his pocket for the time being, deciding that no matter how satisfying it would be to stab the Brain Surgeon to death right there under the moonlight, the mess that such a choice would leave behind wouldn't be worth it.

Dexter peaks out from behind the truck. As soon as an ankle comes into view he reaches for it, grabbing a hold and yanking until the person falls down to the ground. He descends on them and sits on top of their lap, pinning them down by their neck.

"Dexter, don't make me shoot you," Deb spits, struggling to free herself from her brother's ironclad grasp, "get the fuck off."

Dexter immediately releases her, helping her get back up on her feet before turning to look at her like she's an escaped mental patient.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing out here?" He asks, keeping his voice down to a whisper despite the persistent urge to scream.

"Well, in my defense, I did call," she shrugs, "not my fault you don't know how to answer your phone."

"I didn't answer my phone because I was on my way to go kill a guy. That was kind of my number one priority at the time."

"I know. That's why I'm here," Deb says, "come on, you didn't seriously think that I was going to let you do this by yourself, did you?"

"Actually, I did. You were never exactly lining up to watch me kill before."

"Jesus Christ, Dexter. Are we going to stand here and argue about the current state of my morality or are we going to get this fucker!?"

Dexter says nothing. Instead, he grabs onto Deb's hand and leads the way to the cabin door.

"That's what I thought." Deb says.

"Stay behind me."

Dexter is prepared to break into the house, but it appears that he doesn't have to. He turns the knob and the back door slowly swings open, complete with the eerie creaking sound one would expect in any scary movie.

"Go clear the living room. I've got your back." Deb whispers, following close behind Dexter with her gun raised.

He only manages to take a few more steps before his heart sinks down to his feet. Oh no.

"Uh, Deb….something tells me that won't be necessary anymore."

"What the fuck are you….oh. Oh fuck!"

Right in the middle of the living room, posed like a marionette on a stage, is Emilio Sanchez. His skull has been sliced open, his brain exposed just like all of the rest of the killer's victims.

Deb steps closer to inspect the body, raising her arm up to her face so she can cough into the crook of her elbow.

The entire cabin smells of death.

"Well….I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say there's no way he did this to himself."