Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/85856.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/
      Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural, Dexter_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester, Dean
      Winchester/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Dexter_Morgan
  Additional Tags:
      evil!Dean, evil!Sam, evil!John, Crossover
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-05-10 Chapters: 3/? Words: 7231
****** Perfection is God's Business (And Sam Winchester's, the Anti-God) ******
by hopefulwriter27
Summary
     Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds
     him. This is a crossover with the show Dexter.
Notes
     This is a sequel to The Perfect Man. Read that first. Also, none of
     the Supernatural or Dexter characters belong to me. Note, this is a
     dark fic! There will be graphic violence and death, underage sex and
     incest. Evil!Sam and evil!Dean.
     NOTE: There are spoilers for season 4 of Dexter. Do not read if you
     want to remain spoiler free.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Part_1
           Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds
him. It’s a Thursday afternoon and Dean’s busy scarfing down tacos from a
vendor in the park. The sky’s overcast, and like most November afternoons in
Miami, it’s about to rain. Despite the oncoming precipitation, the park is
crowded. A concrete boardwalk follows the curves of the beach; past the
boardwalk lays littered sand and green-blue ocean. The water is rough today and
large whitecaps crash into the beach.
            A few tanning addicts are spread out on towels. Dean spent the
better part of an hour checking out the hot girls in bikinis before his stomach
rumbled and he wandered over to the taco stand. Currently, Dean’s sitting at
one of the eight picnic tables spread across the small grass clearing. It’s
late enough that the lunch crowd is over; there is only one other man in the
picnic area. He’s reading a giant paperback that looks boring as hell to Dean.
Mostly, people are jogging, walking or biking along the path. There’s a
constant flow of movement, a feeling of peaceful energy in the park. It’s
become his favorite place to visit while Sammy’s in school.
            Dexter slides into the seat across from him and Dean has a moment
to think, I guess the public park isn’t the best place to hang out,and then
Dexter conversationally says, “You’re a hard one to find Dean.” The last bit of
taco falls from Dean’s fingers and tumbles onto the wooden table below. His
gaze darts around and though Dean knows he’s in shit, he takes comfort in the
fact there are so many others near.
            “Yeah? Well, I’ve been around,” Dean states, voicing a confidence
he doesn’t feel. He picks at a loose splinter sticking out of the tabletop. He
takes in Dexter. The man looks surprisingly good. His hair’s a little shorter,
but Dean supposes that’s because they had to shave it to give him stitches. He
has no visible scars. The skin of his face is smooth and tan; there are no
little pink lines marking the places where the glass sliced. He must have had a
great plastic surgeon,Dean thinks. Or great genes. He’s slightly disappointed. 
He probably has a scar under his hair. Dexter sports a dark pair of sunglasses
and a smug smirk.
            “I’d thought you skipped town,” Dexter says. That this would have
been the smart thing to do is left unsaid. Dean never claimed to be smart. “But
then five days ago I decide to come get a hotdog for lunch, and who do I see in
the very same park?” Dexter pauses, taps the table then points at Dean. “You.”
            Something hops inside Dean’s stomach. He’s not sure if it’s
excitement or fear. Possibly both. “What can I say? I like the food.” Dean
gives Dexter a sideways grin. Inside, he’s worrying. What’s he going to
do?Dexter doesn’t seem to be armed, but Dean knows that looks can be deceiving.
He doesn’t know what Dexter knows. Has he followed me home? Does he know about
Sammy?That sends a jolt of fear through his veins. Dexter doesn’t seem the type
to hurt innocent boys, and God knows, Sammy pulls off innocent boy like a pro.
Besides Dean and the animals, no one else knows what Sammy is capable of. Dean,
on the other hand, makes people wary. He’s only sixteen, but he can’t pull off
innocent. Sexy- not a problem. Dangerous- in one easy breath. Innocent- maybe
in his sleep. 
            He would have broken into the apartment if he followed me home. He
would have come at night, in the cover of darkness, to hunt me down if he knew
where I lived,Dean thinks. The fact that Dexter has approached him at the park
makes Dean think that Dexter’s been waiting for him to come back. “You’ve been
waiting for me to show up.”
            “I knew you would. You’re a creature of habit.” Dean doesn’t
understand how Dexter knows this, but it’s true. After he had confessed
everything to Sammy, they sat down and had a conversation about what to do
next.
            “You need to lay low,” Sammy had said. Dean nodded. Sammy chewed on
his bottom lip. “Maybe we should move cities.”
            “No way, you love Miami!” Dean said. “Besides, you only have a
month of school left. You need to at least finish out the year.” Sammy didn’t
bring up the dozens of times they had changed schools through the years with
Dad. Dean didn’t bring up that Dexter lives in Miami.
            “Dexter will be in the hospital for a while,” Sammy conceded.
            “Yeah. So I’ll lay low, you’ll finish out school, and we’ll figure
out what to do then?” Sammy agreed on the plan. School rolled to an end, and
Dexter was nowhere in sight.
            “He’s out of the hospital,” Sammy said out of the blue one sunny
day while swimming at the pool. “He’s living with his fiancé and her kids. He
doesn’t seem to be looking for you.” Dean hadn’t asked how Sammy got the
information. Dean wondered if Dexter thought of him.
            The two brothers took a road trip to Disney World and spent a week
riding roller coasters, eating funnel cakes, and getting sunburned. Dean
complained about his million freckles and Sammy laughed. They drove around,
stopped for Dean to hustle in bars and pool lounges, and gone to exactly twenty
three movies. Dean had blown five random strangers in alleyways and watched as
Sammy killed three raccoons and one dog. Eventually, the summer came to an end.
Sammy got a letter detailing his seventh grade book list. They went Barnes and
Nobles to buy the books and to Target to get Sammy some new clothes and a
package of sweet-ass highlighters. There was no discussion of leaving Miami.
            Dean stares at Dexter, unsure of what to do next. Dexter says, “I’m
going to get up and walk to my van. You’re going to come with me.” There’s a
hint of monster that lies beneath that white, middle-class face.
            “No way!” Dean quickly glances at his watch. Two-fifty-two. Sammy
gets out of school at three-thirty. 
            Dexter notices the glance. He lifts an eyebrow. “You have somewhere
to be? A parent coming home from work?”Dean says nothing. I could make a run
for it,he thinks. Dexter probably can’t run as fast as me.Dean looks at
Dexter’s long legs folded under the table. I could scream. Dexter works for the
police; he can’t afford the attention of an accusing teen.Dean nibbles on his
lip. He really doesn’t want to bring attention to himself. He doesn’t know what
type of evidence Dexter has on him from the boat. Dean remembers cleaning up
after himself, but he knows he didn’t do the best job. He had been in a hurry
at the time. Dean’s feet tap impatiently. His arms tingle with apprehension.
           Dexter startles him with the question, “Why did you let me live?”
Dean still can’t see the man’s eyes, but from the tenseness of his shoulders
and the way he’s leaning forward, Dean thinks he’s genuinely curious.
            The clouds condense and suddenly, the sky’s a lot darker. A rumble
of thunder rolls through the park.  Dean ignores the weather and picks harder
at the table. The remains of his taco are splattered against the wood. After a
moment, he says, “I think I’m a pretty simple guy.” His eyes flick up to
Dexter’s face. The man is stoic. He continues with his eyes glued to Dexter. “I
like driving and cars, sex and guns. I like blood and death. Not mine, of
course.” The words seem freeing, things that he’s thought for years, but never
said aloud. His fear evaporates. “I’ve been like that ever since I can
remember.” A droplet hits his nose; another his cheek. The storm is starting.
           “I know that liking death, wanting to kill isn’t normal; but being
normal is something that I don’t how, or want to be.” Dexter shifts. “I have
all these thoughts and needs. When I first saw you I knew you were like me.
Seeing what you did to that man was the most freeing moment of my life.” Dean
lowers his eyes, lets emotion color his words. “Is it so much to ask to not be
alone? Is it so much to ask to have one person who understands me?” Dean lets a
tear slide down his cheek. He’s grateful Dad taught him to cry.
           A hand wraps around his fingers and moves him away from the
splinters. Dean sees welling blood and realizes the wood had pierced his flesh.
Dean looks out from under his wet eyelashes and focuses on Dexter. His
sunglasses have come off- it’s really too dark for them now- and he’s staring
at Dean with those intense hazel eyes. Rain catches in his eyebrows, his lashes
on his lips. Dean flashes back to that night on the boat. He remembers the
heavy trash bags filled with body parts and the room splattered with blood from
the chainsaw. He can’t stop himself from leaning forward and pressing his lips
against Dexter’s.
          There’s a moment of sweet pressure, and then Dexter’s gone. Dean
looks across the table in surprise. A faint flush brushes the older man’s
cheeks. “No sex,” he says.
          Dean’s heart double beats. “What?”
          “There will be no sex, nothing related to sex if we do this.”
Dexter’s voice is calm and smooth.
          “Do what?” Dean asks, smiling.
           “If I take you on and teach you, let you follow me, you will obey my
rules to a fault. No sex is the first rule.”
           Another crack of thunder is followed by a strike of lightning. The
park is now empty except for the two of them. Dean barely notices the rain or
thunder. “Deal!” He sticks out his hand. A small smile graces Dexter’s mouth
and he slides his palm along Dean’s. They shake. Besides,Dean thinks, sex will
come. It always does.
          “Meet me here Saturday at six p.m.” Dexter’s hand slides away from
his.
           Dean nods. “Alright.” 
           Dexter checks his watch then Dean immediately does the same. It’s
only three-eleven. Only twenty minutes.It’s feels like much longer. Dexter
slides from the picnic table and says, “You better get home.” Sarcastic humor
lilts his voice. The man turns and walks away.
           “I’ll see you later.” He almost gives a little wave, but then
remembered he isn’t a little kid. Damn, you would think I’m twelve, not
sixteen,he berates himself. He watches for a moment as Dexter walks across the
field to his van. Dean feels silly for not noticing it earlier. Only when the
man drives away does Dean turn and head back to the Impala. His socks squelch
in his boots and mud sticks to his rubber soles.
         Sammy will wonder why he’s all wet, but Dean’s not sure if he should
tell his brother or not. 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Part_2
            Miraculously, there’s not a cloud in the sky when Dean picks Sammy
up from school on Friday.  It’s the second week in November and it’s eighty
degrees outside.Dean can’t help but think back to all of those Novembers spent
in different cities where the second week in November meant ice and snow.  Kids
are milling around the junior high school when Dean pulls up. Sammy’s waiting
for him near the curb and slides into the car seconds after Dean shifts the car
to park.
            He’s wearing a frown.  “What’s wrong,” Dean asks. Sammy shakes his
head; he doesn’t look at Dean. The buses begin to pull away, and slowly but
surely the amount of preteens begin dwindle. Sammy’s nose and mouth are
pinched, like he smells a rotten egg. Something’s wrong. 
            Dean reaches over and lightly tugs Sammy’s hair. “Come-on moody. I
can tell something’s bothering you.”
            Sammy’s shrugs him off. “Nothing.” He looks out at the window and
says, “Let’s go to the beach.”
            Dean sighs but starts the engine. When his brother is like this, he
just has to wait it out. Dean tries to start a conversation a few times, but
his “How was school today?” and “Thanksgiving is next week. Looking forward to
the days off?” are met with a curt “fine” and “sure.” So he drives on in
awkward silence.  Traffic is heavy, and the ten mile route to the beach takes
thirty minutes. By the time Dean spots the rolling waves and crowded sand, he
can’t wait to get out of the car.
            Luck is with him, because just as he pulls into the parking lot a
Buick pulls out. With the turn of the wheel he parks. He pops the trunk the
same time Sammy pushes open the door. The sounds seem excessively loud. Since
moving to Miami, Dean’s learned to keep duffel bags filled with swim trunks,
sunscreen, bug spray and beach towels in the car at all times. The bags seem
lonely in the empty trunk, but Dean takes comfort in the fact that if he lifts
up the fake bottom he will find a small cache of weapons, fake identities and
cleaning supplies ready at a moment’s notice. 
            Sammy yanks his duffel bag out and lunges to the men’s bathroom
across the lot. Dean frowns and takes out his own bag. What gotten up his
ass?Dean thinks while locking the car. Duffel bag securely over his shoulder,
he makes his own way to the restrooms. He slides into the stall next to Sammy’s
and changes to the sound of his brothers heavy breathing. Surprisingly, when he
comes out, Sammy is there, waiting in his red swim trunks holding out a tube of
sunscreen. 
            His eyes are lowered when he asks, “Get my back?” Dean can hear the
apology in his voice and gently takes the tube. Sammy’s skin is warm and dry as
he spreads the thick lotion. There’s a knot right between his shoulders, and
Dean hands morph from rubbing to massaging. Sammy moans. “You sure are tense.”
The words are inviting. Tell me what’s wrong.
           The youngest Winchester slumps and releases a sigh. “Can we get some
ice cream?”
            Ice cream?Sammy is buttering him up . “Yeah.” Dean holds out the
tube, and wordlessly his brother takes it and spreads the chilly lotion across
his back and shoulders. Dean hears the click of the cap being closed and the
slide of a zipper being opened and shut. Dean flips his towel over his shoulder
and heads towards the door. “Come on.”
            Side by side they head for the beach. The concrete sidewalk is
covered with sand. Dean likes the way the tiny grains roll under his bare feet
and crunch beneath his heels. There’s a small ice cream stand on the left,
stationed a few feet before the sidewalk ends and the beach begins. A mother
and her little girl are in line before them, so Dean has time to pull out his
wallet and take out a ten. Five dollars for an ice cream cone is a crime.He
sticks his hand in the pocket of his trunks and fingers his small metal pocket
knife. Dad had given it to him after his four weeks as a boy scout. Dean had
loved the scouts. Camping, hiking, tying knots, and dozens of boys to kiss and
grope. Fucking scout master had kicked him out. Dad had made that man sorry.
Dean imagines flipping the blade open and sliding across the vendor’s throat.
For being out in the sun every day, the man is amazingly pale. The contrast of
his dark red blood and ghostly white skin would be beautiful. Then everyone at
the beach could eat ice cream for free. 
            The mother hands her daughter a cone and the girl happily licks
away. Dean steps up. “What’ya want boys?”
Dean raises his eyebrow at his brother. “A scoop of strawberry please,” Sammy
says.
            “I want a scoop of chocolate.” Dean has never understood why Sammy
likes strawberry over chocolate. Chocolate is the flavor of the gods.The vendor
hands over the ice cream and Dean forks over the money. The first lick sends a
burst of flavor across his tongue. Ice cream rocks.   
            Dean follows Sammy. His feet sink into the sand as he weaves
through people and litter. Sammy finds an empty spot and spreads out his towel.
Dean follow suit. Chocolate drips down the cone like blood from a wound and
puddles on Dean’s hand. He licks it away. He sits down first, sand soft but
lumpy beneath him. When Sammy follows, he presses his foot against Dean’s and
lets his arm bump his brother’s. It’s then Dean knows whatever Sammy’s angsting
about doesn’t spring from something Dean’s done.
            The sounds of the beach are soothing. Voices chatting, both in
English and Spanish, come from every direction; the endless crash of waves
against beach is a stream of constant noise. The sounds help fill the emptiness
of Sammy’s silence. A hermit crab scuttles across the edge of his towel and he
flicks it away with a toe. By the time he’s crunching down on the bottom of the
sugar cone, he’s riding a pleasant sugar high. Sammy hasn’t even gotten to his
cone yet. He’s still licking away. Dean knows he can’t make the first move, so
he locks his eyes on two college-aged guys playing Frisbee near the rim of the
water.
            One of the guys is really good. He flips the blue disk with ease
and it soars through the air in a perfect line. The other guy catches it with a
laugh and shouts something in Spanish. Sweat glistens from their toned abdomens
and Dean can’t help but stare when the one holding the Frisbee whips his head
in laughter and water flies from his shoulder length hair. Saliva floods his
mouth as the image of his body pressed between the two men flashes through his
mind. One could lie beneath me as I sucked him and the other could thrust into
me from behind.Their muscles promised strength, and Dean just knows it be a
wild ride.
            “They’re good looking,” Sammy’s innocent tone slashes across his
fantasy. Though there’s nothing in his tone to suggest jealously, Dean can see
it in the lines of his brother’s face.
            Dean replies with a shrug, “They’re okay. Nothing special.” Little
rivers of pink ice cream vein across Sammy’s hand, but instead of licking the
melted treat away he wipes it on his towel.
            His brother eyes return to the Frisbee players; his gaze goes dark.
He’s still looking at them when he says, “I’ve been keeping something from
you.”
            Dean’s stomach tightens. He sucks in his bottom lip then says,
“Yeah?” Has he killed someone? Does he have a girlfriend? Is this about
Dad?Thoughts fly through Dean’s mind.
            He turns to Dean. “A few weeks ago I found out something about
Dexter.”
            Air pushes from his lungs like he’s been punched. “What?”
            “I think I know why he tried to kill you. Why he didn’t want to
work with you.”
            Dean digs his fingers into the sand.
            “Do you remember when we first moved here, how the death of Miguel
Prado was in the news every five second?”
            He tries to think back to then, he vaguely remembers the stories in
the newspaper about the death of some bigwig. “Not really.”
            Sammy’s tongue sneaks out and wets his lips. “Well, he was the
Assistant District Attorney. He was infamous for being harsh with criminals- to
the point where people began to question whether or not he was giving fair
trials.” Dean nods; Sammy continues. “Supposedly he and Dexter were best
friends.”
            Dean’s mouth drops. He can’t imagine Dexter being best friends with
anyone. “Prado was even set to be best man at Dexter’s wedding.” Sammy must
have gotten a crick in his neck, because he turns his body toward Dean and sits
criss-cross.  “All of that is common knowledge; you just need to know where to
look.”
            “Okay.”
            Sammy takes a deep breath. “Here’s what’s not common knowledge.
Dexter killed Prado’s brother as well as the brother’s drug dealer, Freebo.
Prado thought the Freebo killed his brother and help hide the fact Dexter
killed the man. From what I can tell, Prado wanted Dexter to help him kill
criminals. For a while Dexter went along with Prado, probably taught him
things.” Just like you wanted him to teach you is left unsaid. “Then something
happened. Prado killed Ellen Wolf, a defense attorney. From what I know, Wolf
was a good girl. Save the world type.”
            Suddenly, pieces start falling into place. “She doesn’t fit into
Dexter’s code,” Dean whispers.
            “No. She doesn’t.”   
            “Dexter killed Prado,” Dean states. It seems obvious.
            Sammy nods. “Yeah. I think that Dexter felt betrayed by Prado. He
shared his world with him, and Prado tore it apart.”
            Dean imagines letting someone into his head, into his world, and
having that trust betrayed. Disgust rushes through him. I would kill them too.
Torture them.Something else nags at him. “How did you learn all of this?” Dean
can’t even imagine.
            “Some of it by reading, going over old newspapers and police files.
I also talked to some of Dexter’s coworkers.”
             Fear slices through Dean’s shock. “What? Are you nuts?” ‘
             Sammy shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I wore a disguise. Plus it’s
not like there’s anything about me on file. No one recognized me or anything.” 
             Dean tries to push away his discomfort. If anyone tries anything
on Sammy they’re dead meat.“So you think Dexter tried to kill me because he
didn’t want to let anyone else into his world? Because he had been betrayed by
Prado?” He thinks back to yesterday, to the strange hope he thought he say in
Dexter’s eyes. I’ll have to be extra careful. Extra trustworthy.
             “Yeah.” Sammy ducks his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.
I’ve felt guilty for a while.”
              Yesterday’s meeting pops into his mind, and suddenly, Dean’s the
one flooded with guilt. “As long as we’re being chicks and spilling our guts, I
have something to tell you too.”
               His brother’s head shoots up. His eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
               Dean swallows the lump in his throat. “I uh… Dexter found me in
the park yesterday,” he rushes out.
               “I told you not to go there!” Red anger flushes Sammy’s cheeks.
               “I know, but you know I’m not good at listening.” He tries to
make light of it.
               “What happened?” Sammy scoots closer.
               “We talked. I think at first he wanted to kill me, but I talked
him out of that.” Dean smiles as if to say, yes, I am that good.“We have plans
to meet tomorrow at six.”
               “Dean…” Sammy warns.
               “I know the risks Sammy, but I really don’t think he wants to
kill me anymore. He’s just as curious about me as I am about him. Trust
me.”Sammy eyes narrow and he scowls. He doesn’t respond. Dean reaches out and
clasps his shoulder. “Trust me.”
              “Fine,” he growls, “but I want to be kept in the loop. And you
can’t make any big decisions without me.”
              “Deal.” He ruffles his little brother’s hair. “Come on, let’s go
enjoy the water.”
               Sammy scans the beach then settles back on Dean. “Alright.”
               As his toes hit the chilly water happiness bubbles in Dean’s
chest. 
***** Chapter 3 *****
Part_3
“I’ve picked out the perfect man for you,” Dexter says while handing over the
last wet dish. Dean automatically runs the damp dishtowel around the plate. The
taste of grilled steak hangs on the back of his tongue, and the scent of Jack
Daniel steak sauce lingers in the air. The man really does love the American
staple of steak and potatoes. Since their relationship began anew, Dean’s had
it six times.
As Dexter’s words register, Dean’s hands stop. “Yeah?” he asks tentatively.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe Dexter. The other man isn’t the teasing type;
at least not when it comes to this. It’s just that Dean’s been waiting fifty-
nine days for Dexter to pick out the perfect mark. Fifty-nine fucking days.
The older man turns off the running water and dries his hands on the towel
hanging from the stove handle. He walks towards the desk in the living room and
says, “Dry your hands.” Dean quickly obeys. His eyes stalk Dexter across the
room. When the man opens a desk drawer and takes out a thick manila file
folder. A spike of excitement zings through Dean. Dexter nods to the cleared
kitchen table. They slide into opposite chairs.
Dexter sets the folder flat on the smooth wooden surface and taps the four
fingers of his left hand in quick succession across the paper. Dean eagerly
reaches out to take the folder. “Nn-uh,” Dexter shakes his head. “We need to go
over the rules before I let you see him.”
Rules, rules, rules,Dean silently whines. There are too many fucking rules.
I’ve had fifty-nine days rules!     
Dexter slides the folder closer to his chest. “If you don’t want the file,
that’s fine by me. I can take care of it by myself.”
“No!” Dean schools his face into the picture of perfect patience. At least he
tries. “Rules. Not a problem.” He presses his palms into the curve of the round
table and lets his thumbs noiselessly tap against the smooth edge. “Well, I
guess you’ve already done the research for this guy, so I won’t be doing that
part. I know he’s guilty of something.”
Dexter nods; his face is still as a statue. “Correct.”
“So I’m going to have to study his habits, find the perfect time to lure him
away from others.” Dean pauses, but Dexter doesn’t move or say anything. “Then
I have to find a secure spot to set up. Put up plastic and set up my equipment.
I need to be prepared for all possibilities.” It sounds so mechanical, so
boring. Dean’s a spontaneous, do-as-he pleases kind of guy. He likes the slash-
and-dash method. Being careful is Sammy’s thing.  There are more rules, a whole
brain’s full, but Dean figures those are the basics. 
He glances at Dexter and eyes the folder. The man sighs and shakes his head,
like he’s regretting the day he let Dean into his life.  He slides it over.
Tingles prickle Dean’s fingers as he takes the folder. He would like to make it
special- maybe make a little speech, but patience isn’t Dean’s forte. He
immediately flips it open.
There is a picture on top of the inch-thick paperwork.  It’s an eight by
eleven, glossy head shot. From the shoulder up the man looks, well, old. He’s
got tan, wrinkled skin.  Someone who’s lived in the sun his whole life.Salt-
and-peppered hair is windblown across his head. Dean’s not really into the gray
thing, but he supposes it’s nice and thick. Not going bald in his age. He has a
boxed jaw and a large, strong nose. Coco colored eyes stare off into the
distance.  Italian blood somewhere in there,Dean guesses. He once had a guy
from Italy. He had been lousy in bed. The thing that gets Dean though, is the
expression on his face. The man’s mouth is pulled back in a half-smile. His
eyes are slightly narrowed, displaying a type of hunger that has nothing to do
with food. It’s a hunger that’s as familiar as greasy hamburgers. 
“Who was he looking at when you took this picture?” 
Dexter’s eyes turn sharp and his grin turns questioning. “How do you know he’s
looking at a person?”
Dean pushes out his bottom lip. Dexter’s testing him. He’s sick of being
tested. “I just know. Now answer my question.”
A flash of irritation lights Dexter’s eyes. “Don’t get sharp with me.”
Dean huffs. “Sorry. I realize this whole student-teacher thing is hard for you.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for you taking me on.” Because god knows, Dean
needs it. “But, this isn’t my first time around the block. I can recognize a
predator just as well as you can.”
Darkness brightens the green in Dexter’s eyes and thins the lines of his mouth.
For a minute, Dean thinks he’s said too much. Then, Dexter says, “He’s outside
of a junior high school- watching a group of boys play basketball.”
A burst of energy shocks Dean’s stomach. A grin tugs at his mouth. He slides
the picture above the folder and looks through the rest of the papers. The next
page is a rap sheet. “Nicholas D’Arlo,” Dean reads aloud. Mr. D’Arlo has been
arrested twice for being part of a child prostitution ring, but never
convicted. He spent six months in jail for assaulting his ex-wife then was
released early for good behavior. There are a few more pictures, much smaller
ones with Nicholas doing mundane things like eating and driving. It’s not what
he’s doing that’s of note; it’s where. He’s chomping down a hot dog, sitting on
a bench at the playground in Pedro’s Park. His red Mustang is parked on the
corner of Neil and Marcum, across the street from Martin Luther King High
School.
“He’s a pedophile,” Dean states.
“He’s raped and killed at least seven boys. Probably a lot more.”
Dean flips to the end of the file and find seven pictures of boys. The youngest
is about eight the oldest thirteen. He looks at Nicholas’ head shot again. 
Finally, he looks up and asks, “So what’s the plan?”
Dexter smiles and leans forward to share his plan. When he’s done Dean licks
his lips. “So tomorrow then? When it gets dark?
“I’ll see you around eleven.”
***
            Brick Street is a sports bar, and it’s crowded for nine forty-five
on a Saturday night. The front door jangles as Dean’s tugs it open. He’s hit
with the sticky scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke the moment he steps
inside. A thrum of music, whinny songs he doesn’t recognizeweave around the
inhabitants. The lights are dim, and combined with maroon walls the atmosphere
is dark and seedy. The only thing that saves the place from being a complete
dive is its size. The main room holds a dozen square tables and a long bar.
Three bartenders, two female one male, run like busy bees pouring drinks.
There’s an empty stage with a gray flat screen hanging on the wall. I wonder if
there’s a big game on tonight?A large poster advertises karaoke Tuesday nights
from eight to eleven.  
            Fifty feet from the door is a short hall that splits into two
rooms. The first room holds another bar, a couple of booths, one large table
and six or seven small hanging televisions. All of them are on, each showing a
different sporting event. The smoke is so heavy there that a haze of fog
pollutes the air. On the other side of the hall is a billiards room.  There are
four pool tables and a waist high ledge running the lengths of the room. Drinks
and baskets of fries and chicken wings littered the ledge.
            The clientele is older than Dean expected. From what he knows about
Nicholas D’Arlo, Dean expected the man’s regular haunt to be filled with barely
legal college boys. He only sees one group of young men. They’re crammed around
a table in the main room, laughing and talking, clearly drunk. Mostly, the
occupants are middle-aged, middle-class workers. There are a few men in suits,
but there are far more in jeans and button-ups. Dean sees no unattached women,
and the women he does see appear tough. Dad would have liked this bar,he muses.
            Dean slides around the full tables, looking for D’Arlo. He doesn’t
see him the main room, so he ambles towards the other areas. Just as he’s
crossing the wooden frame into the hall, a hand clamps around his shoulder. His
heart leaps into his throat and his hand shoots to his pocket. It’s only the
knowledge of the crowd that keeps him from flipping out his knife and stabbing
the stranger behind him.
            “How old are you kid?” a voice behind him rasps.
            Dean turns and slips his shoulder from the man’s grip. He’s a big
guy. At least six five, two hundred fifty pounds,Dean estimates. The man’s
shirt reads Property of Brick Street in big black letters and he figures the
man’s a bouncer. “Eighteen.”
            The giant lifts his eyebrows. Dean scrambles to pull out his
wallet. “See look.” He shows the man his fake ID. The man stares at it in the
dim light and hands it back to Dean with a frown on his face.
“Eighteen huh?” he questions.
Dean shrugs. “I know. I look young. Everyone says so.” At least Sammy was right
about this outfit,Dean thinks. Normally, he tried for older, but for tonight,
for D’Arlo, Dean went younger. Sammy picked out his soft white v-neck sweater
and his faded, pale jeans.
His brother had grumbled the whole time. “I don’t like this Dean,” Sammy had
said after Dean had babbled out his and Dexter’s plans.
“Don’t worry Sammy,” Dean had replied. “It’s going to be fine. And awesome!”
“Dean,” Sammy whined, “I told you Sammy’s a baby name. I’m almost thirteen! I
want to be called Sam.”
Dean rolled his eyes. Ever since the New Year had begun, his little brother
wanted to be called Sam. “Sorry. Don’t worry Sam.It’s going to be fine.”
Sam huffed. “Are you going to be home Sunday?” The words were careful, like Sam
was worried about the answer.
Dean patted his brother’s cheek. “Of course. Who else would I want to spend my
birthday with?”
Sammy gave him a hesitant smile and ran the last bit of gel through Dean’s
hair. “Alright , all finished.”
He looked into the mirror. “Damn,” Dean whistled. He never knew he could look
so pure. “I’ll be home before you wake up tomorrow. We’ll have pancakes and
bacon for breakfast then spend the whole day together. “
“You’ll tell me all about it?”
“Every gory detail,” Dean promised. Sam had set him off with well wishes and
Dean took the Impala to the bar. 
Now, at Brick Street, he hopes his look doesn’t get him kicked out. The bouncer
stares at him for a minute more then tentatively hands back the I.D. “No
drinking,” he grunts.
Dean shakes his head. “No sir. I’m just here to watch the game and play some
pool.”
“If I see you drinking, I’m kicking you out.”
“I swear I won’t be drinking.”
He gives Dean a hard look that says, You better not,then walks away. Dean
shoves the card back into his wallet and starts his mission again. There are
two balding men lingering in the hall, smoking cigars and chatting. They pay no
attention to him, so he ignores them. Smoke from the television room wafts out.
Dean checks there first.
Nicholas D’Arlo isn’t there. Dean continues on. I hope he’s in the billiards
room. I don’t want to wait around for him to show up.Dexter had promised him
that D’Arlo came to this bar every Friday and Saturday night. Dean had watched
him here the night before. At first glance, the man isn’t in the billiards room
either. There are four men holding pool sticks around the first table, and two
around the second. An elderly woman with gray hair stands off to the side,
watching both games. She’s a shark,Dean thinks. A pair of suits are leaning
against wall near the door. Their ties are hanging loosely around their necks,
and the tops of their shirts are unbuttoned.
Dean’s hopes crash. Maybe I missed him in the main room.Dean doesn’t like the
idea of going back out there. That bouncer will be watching me.Then, in a snap,
Dean catches sight of the man further down the hall. He was in the bathroom!
D’Arlo strolls up the hall, heading straight for him. Dean quickly smoothes
down his sweater and steps back into the room. He grabs a pool stick from the
rack on the wall and settles himself against the far left hand table. When
D’Arlo walks in, he stops to talk with the men in suits. He says something and
one of the other men slap him on the arm. He raises his beer, which Dean just
now noticed, takes a sip.
Drinking, that’s good,he observes. Smiling to himself, Dean shells out the
seventy-five cents that releases the balls. They roll down their path and knock
into each other as they come to the end of their trip. The noise captures
D’Arlo’s attention. Dean pretends not to notice the man’s sharp focus and his
descent over.
Dean bends over and begins to pull the balls from their long cubby hole and
sets them on the table green felt of the table. His jeans pull tight over his
ass. He can feel the other man’s body heat before he sees him.
“Want some competition?” D’Arlo’s voice is raspy. He’s been smoking for a long
time. The sound makes Dean shiver. It reminds him of Dad. The beer bottle has
been left on the ledge.
Dean lowers his eyelashes and pulls his lips into a embarrassed smile. “Sure,
I’d love that.” He reaches out with his empty hand. “I’m Dean.”
D’Arlo can’t seem to tear his eyes from Dean’s mouth, but he slides his hand
into Dean’s anyway. “Nick.” His hand devours Dean’s. It’s smooth and warm. When
Dean doesn’t pull his hand back right away, D’Arlo rubs his thumb across the
curve of Dean’s hand. Another little shiver takes him. D’Arlo grins.
Dean lets him pull back first. D’Arlo takes the triangle, places it on the
table and stacks the balls inside. He’s quick and efficient. “You play a lot of
pool?”
Dean shrugs. “I’ve played a few times before, but I’m no expert.”
D’Arlo nods. “I’ll go easy on you.” 
He sets up the game while Dean stands back and watches. “You want to break?” he
asks when he’s finished.
“Sure.” Dean steps forward and lets his leg brush against D’Arlo’s. The balls
are perfectly lined up on the opposite side of the table. Dean eyes the white
ball then plops his cue down. 
“Hey now,” D’Arlo says. He presses his chest against Dean’s back and reaches
around for the cue. He smells like Ralph Lauren cologne and menthol cigarettes.
“This is a gentleman’s sport. You have to be gentle.”  His hand wraps overtop
Dean’s and maneuvers it around the stick. “Here,” he says while guiding Dean
into the correct position for the shot. The skin of the man’s cheek is rough
with the day’s beard growth; it scratches along the side of Dean’s face as he
talks.
Together, they break the triangle. Balls scatter across the table, bang into
the sides, and bounce away. The red and green solid balls both fall into
pockets. When all of the balls stop rolling D’Arlo pulls away. “Good job,” he
praises.
Dean turns and gives the man a hundred watt smile. “Thanks.”  D’Arlo squeezes
Dean’s shoulder.  “Let’s keep playing. Maybe you can show me some more moves,”
Dean says through lowered lashes.
“I bet I can show you moves you’ve never seen before.” It’s not the worst corny
come-on line that Dean’s ever heard, but it still makes him want to laugh.
Instead, he crushes the urge and sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bows
his head. D’Arlo bumps his foot into Dean’s.
“Do you…” Dean pretends to fumble his words. “Do you want to see my car?”
D’Arlo’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy store. Dean lays his cue overtop
the table. The two suits have left, and everyone else is gathered around the
adjacent pool table hooting and hollering as the old lady kicks the crap out of
the men. “I’d love too.”
Dean gives the man a shy smile then leads him through back down the hallway,
across the bar and out the front door. The night air has taken a dip in
temperature, but it’s still in the high fifties. Dean loves the cool air almost
as much as Sammy loves the hot. D’Arlo is hot on his heels.
He’s parked the Impala a few blocks away, just in case, and the walk to it is
torture. Excitement builds in his chest and Dean just wants to push the man
against the nearest wall, bite at his lips, and shove a gun in his stomach.
Just the thought of the warm blood spreading across his own chest as they
pressed together makes him hard. 
“Here it is,” Dean says when they come to the black beauty. He pats its side
and leans his behind against the long front. The street light over head is
broken and the nearest ones are far enough way that shadows can bare form.
D’Arlo steps closer. He stops an inch from Dean. He places a muscled leg on
either side of Dean’s, barricading the teen between him and the car.
D’Arlo’s hand comes up and grabs Dean’s chin. His thumb presses into Dean’s
lush bottom lip. “It’s beautiful,” he says. He’s not looking at the car. Dean
takes a small nip at the plump flesh of the man’s thumb. D’Arlo jolts. Dean can
feel his erection. “How old are you?” the man rasps out.
“Don’t worry, I’m legal,” Dean teases. He knows it’s not what D’Arlo wants to
hear.
“How old?” He grip becomes harder, slightly painful.
“Eighteen.” Dean states. Harsh pressure on his chin sends a sandpaper rush down
his spine. “Sixteen,” he whispers. At least until tomorrow.
The painful grip disappears. Chapped lips smash against his. D’Arlo forces his
tongue inside Dean’s mouth. Dean rubs his clothed erection against D’Arlo’s. A
loud groan rips from the man’s mouth. “Let’s get in the car,” Dean suggests.
 Dean fumbles for his keys and quickly opens the passenger side door. He
reaches around the seat and pops up the backseat’s lock. D’Arlo doesn’t wait to
be asked. He climbs into the backseat pulling Dean with him. His lips find
Dean’s again. He tongue fucks Dean’s mouth in quick, sloppy movements. “Take
off your pants,” Dean begs.
The man scrambles to obey. It only takes a moment of inattention for Dean grab
the tranquilizer needle taped to the back dash. D’Arlo barely has time to look
surprised before Dean’s shoving the needle into neck. It works fast. The man is
out before Dean slides needle the out.
He’s breathing heavy- he’s so excited- as D’Arlo slumps down. Dean touches the
tip of the needle. There is a drop of blood hanging precariously from the tiny
point. A shudder wracks him. He scuttles out of the car. A minute later he’s in
the driver’s seat and has turned on the engine. He flips open his phone and
texts Dexter. Got him, he types. He buckles his seatbelt, adjusts the review
mirror to reflect D’Arlo’s motionless body, and begins the ten minute drive to
the abandon warehouse. Nothing could knock the smile from his face or the
hardness of his arousal.   
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!