This was posted on my LJ and was done for a request. I had completely forgotten about it till just the other day, and was shocked that I could write such a thing and then forget about it. Anyway, now it's posted here for viewing/reading pleasure.

Oh, and it, to me, seems to feel more like the book than the TV series, but it follows the plot/canon/whatever of the TV show.

I don't really know what to do in the way of warnings, so... if you're squeamish or have issues with violence or blood or dead things, I suggest you not read this.

So, uh, enjoy.

I told Miguel to go home, to return to his wife, lest she start asking too many questions.

He refused.

I don't know why he would want to stay to watch a scene that not even the man who taught me to kill could deal with. I tried to talk him out of it, but he stubbornly refused, sitting down on the table next to the body, crossing his arms.

I frowned at him and told him not to sit there, that he'll get covered in unsightly bodily fluids. His response was simply, "What now, Dex?"

Since he obviously wasn't leaving, I had to make a choice: do I make him help me dismember the body and dispose of it via my usual MO? Or should I just have him help me dump it in a grave as I told him I did? Higher risk of discovery, but they shouldn't be able to trace it back to us. Still... it seemed so… messy.

And so soon after the Bay Harbor Butcher manhunt… If it was ever connected, Dearly Departed Doakes wouldn't be here to take the fall.

If he helps me dismember it, then maybe he'll decide it's all too much and leave. Or maybe he'll stay. I needed to know now before we did this again as I most certainly couldn't keep dumping them in graves. I had to know he could handle it.

So I handed him a knife. He hesitated only a moment before taking it.

"Have any idea how to dismember a body?" I asked, with the Dark Passenger's amused grin on my lips.

He shook his head. "No… but you'll teach me, right?" I expected a reaction of some sort, but he didn't seem to care one way or another.

"Of course." I walked to his side of the table and freed the left arm from the plastic wrap.

With that, I set to work, pointing, instructing, narrating for him as I went along.

"First, pick a joint. Cutting through bone without a saw is difficult," I instructed as I gestured at the shoulder. "If I had known you'd be helping me, I'd have brought an extra saw…"

Miguel leaned in, intent on learning my dark trade, apparently.

"First, cut the skin and muscle away. It'll bleed a lot… you'll probably want to make sure it doesn't drip on your shoes…"

A nervous laugh, but he watched without flinching. Good job, Miguel, you're doing better than I had hoped.

"Now, the bones are connected with ligaments and cartilage, which you'll have to cut through if you want to separate the arm from the body." I did just that, working carefully and efficiently, but trying to show him the proper technique. "It'll take some practice to get good at it, but it's not difficult."

"How'd you learn to do this, Dex?" he asked like he was simply curious, even though I know that every question could be an interrogation, especially coming from a prosecutor like him.

"Med school," I replied nonchalantly. Better to let him think that Body Dismemberment 101 was a course required in med school, than to tell him that it's been my hobby for most of my life.

He laughed. Apparently the man had an appreciation for irony.

I cut through the last of the tissue, and with a sharp tug I pulled the arm free.

Standing there, blood splattered across my apron and face, holding the now disembodied arm, I realized I had forgotten my splatter-shield mask. How careless.

I backed up a bit and met Miguel's gaze. I wasn't quite sure what that expression was, but I decided that I ought to put down the dripping arm. As I reached toward the table to set it down, he grabbed me by the wrist. Immediately, my other hand, the one with the knife, flew up to his throat. It was a natural reaction; someone grabs you, you put a knife to their throat. Simple. Easy.

"Woah. Calm down, Dexter. I just want to take a closer look."

I considered it just for a moment before laying the knife down on the table. It was still in reach if I needed it, but I didn't think I would. He smiled at me. I held out the arm for him.

He took it, but didn't even glance at it as his eyes never left my face. He pulled out a cloth, a handkerchief, I suppose, and leaned forward, lifting it to my face. I just stood there as he slowly and carefully wiped that disgusting—glorious—blood off my face.

He leaned closer, a strange look on his face. Before I had any idea what he intended to do, his lips were pressed against mine.

I stood frozen in shock until he pulled back ever so slightly. If it had been a woman, any woman, I'd hardly blink. But this… this was Miguel Prado, beloved ADA of Miami, a man with a loving wife he was trying to have children with.

He's not supposed to be kissing blood covered monsters over a dismembered body. No one should, for that matter.

Miguel, however, seemed to think it to be a grand idea.

His hand slid to the back of my neck and pulled me closer. I didn't resist. I hadn't even decided what to do about it yet.

He was still sitting on the table, and now I was standing between his knees, looking up at him. I could push him away, pretend to be disgusted. But, really, I'm not disgusted. Before, I had no interest in sex, not with either gender, but I've learned to enjoy it. Especially with Lila, when I didn't have to hide my darkness.

Could I have that with Miguel? That same freedom to be myself, to not have to hide, even at that moment of complete mental release?

He seemed to think so, as he pressed his lips to mine again. This time, instead of just standing there, I kissed back, parting my lips when he ran his tongue along them, although "kiss" seamed too nice, too sweet of a word for what we were doing. Kisses are for loving couples enjoying a romantic evening together, not something that generally involved dismembered arms.

Miguel seemed to agree, about the dismembered arm part anyway, as he dropped the arm on the table and wrapped his own arms around me, pulling me ever closer. I wonder what a person with feelings would feel about this. Well, no one with feelings would be doing this.

But… what did that make my new friend? Is he really a sociopath, not just a man with too strong of morals?

My train of thought was suddenly derailed when his hand slid down to the front of my pants, slips under the apron, and begins to rub against me. I groaned into his mouth. He certainly knew what he was doing.

He pulled the string of the apron with the other hand, undoing the knot. He then pulled it up and over my head, discarding it on the floor. All without even pausing in his ministrations.

When I began thrusting into his hand instinctively, he stopped just long enough to unbutton and unzip my pants.

I didn't know what he intended to do next, because suddenly my Dark Passenger lunged from the backseat to grab the steering wheel and yank it away from me. In a matter of seconds, Miguel was pushed back on the table, his back resting against quickly cooling flesh and with me on top of him, feeling more alive than a corpse for once.

A living Dexter and a dead monster with a little mystery of a man wedged in between, all covered in blood. The scene was somewhere between beautiful and horrific, or maybe just both.

In the metaphor of the car with two drivers, I saw my Dark Passenger smirk at me as if challenging me to claim my right to drive. Let go and let me take us where we need to be, it said in that voice that wasn't a voice at all, yet was all too real.

So I did just that. I let go to allow him to do whatever it is he wanted to do to poor misguided Miguel. I kept my hand clenched around the parking break, just in case. It wouldn't do to let him kill my new friend in the throes of physical passion.

I looked down at Miguel with the eyes of my Dark Passenger, and I felt I could see everything. I saw the surprise on his face, mingled with the slightest touch of perfect fear and a lust that I was surprised I never noticed before. I could smell the blood, warm and pungent in the air, and a touch of sweat, though who it belonged to (Miguel, the corpse, or even myself) I couldn't know. I could feel his muscles, hard and taut under my hands.

It was almost too much for me, but my Dark Passenger was thrilled. We may have been deprived of our kill, giving it over to Miguel, but it seemed he'd be able to sate us in other ways.

This time, when our lips met, it was fierce and hungry and so free of restraint. I tugged on his shirt but quickly realized that I'd have to get up and let Miguel sit up before it would come off and it all seemed like way too much effort. So, like any good sociopath, I just reached for that knife instead. I broke our kiss, (though I maintain that really the whole thing was too violent for such a pretty word) and I cut his shirt off in one quick stroke.

Still holding the knife, I glanced up at him with a smile only befitting a monster like myself. I was somewhat surprised that he didn't push me away, calling me a sick freak. Since he didn't, I continued.

I traced the ridges of his muscles with the tip of the knife, carefully as to not actually hurt him. Ah, hell. Hurting him a little wouldn't be so bad, I supposed, and pressed just a little harder, making a shallow cut down the center of his chest. He gasped and grabbed my knife wielding hand.

I was too focused on watching the blood well up slowly and pondering the possibility of putting a drop of Miguel's crimson blood on the yet-to-be-used glass slide in my pocket to stop him from pulling the knife out of my hand.

"Dex…" he began, dropping the knife to the floor, out of both of our reaches. At least he didn't decide to try to turn it on me. That would end badly, I'm sure. "I didn't realize…"

"Realize? Realize what?"

He smiled up at me in that It's-cute-how-you-keep-denying-it way that I was almost positive was meant for little children, not serial killers.

"You're a sadist, Dex. That's why you didn't want my help killing, right? Because you thought I'd be repulsed it?"

I actually never really considered myself a sadist. Harry always made sure that I didn't enjoy it all more than I had to. That meant no real torture, and therefore not that much pain to enjoy. Though I must admit to enjoying the mental anguish my victims go through before I kill them.

Miguel misinterpreted my silence as not wanting to admit it. So he laughed in a way that was supposed to be comforting, I suppose and said, "It's okay." He held my face between his two big hands. "As long as you don't slice me up," he added with a smile.

I was starting to get annoyed. He started this, and now he was interrupting to talk? The duct tape was, unfortunately, on the other side of the room.

He seemed to sense my annoyance, however, and immediately stopped talking in favor of pulling off my shirt. That I approved of. I tore his pants off of him quickly before he could stop for another little chitchat.

Despite his protest to the knife, he was still quite hard. I took his cock in my hand gently, and began sliding my fingers up and down its length slowly.

He groaned and arched into the touch. I smirked down at him, maintaining my unhurried pace.

"Faster," he gasped as I ran my thumb across the tip, smearing a bit of precum across it. When I didn't change my pace, I was rewarded with a whispered plea. "Please, Dex. Please for the love of God, stop teasing me."

I sped up a bit, not "for the love of God," because I was pretty sure he wouldn't approve of this no matter what speed I was going, but because he did ask so very nicely. He tilted his head back, his lips spreading in a loud groan and he thrusted up into my hand. I could tell that if I went any faster, he'd be coming, but I just wasn't ready for out game to be over.

The vaguely sane part of me decided that what came next was too disgusting, but apparently my Dark Passenger wasn't so squeamish. And by "squeamish" I, of course, mean "comprehending of the meaning and importance of hygiene." But I'd agreed to let him drive, and to try to fight for the wheel while flying down the highway a good 30 mph over the speed limit was never a good idea.

Miguel, for his part, didn't seem to enjoy the feeling of a finger in his ass either, not at first anyway. By the time I had two fingers in him, kindly stretching him out lest I hurt him in the rudest of ways, I remembered my anatomy class and the awkward silence and whispered lewd comments that day of our lesson on the prostate after the brief mention of its function as source of pleasure. I raised an eyebrow at Miguel and pressed my fingers into it.

His response was something between a scream and a groan that simply didn't have a word to describe it.

I was surprised to find that I was enjoying this so much. Ever since I let my Dark Passenger take over, all I'd been doing was pleasuring Miguel. But I loved the way he gave himself up to me and was oh so desperate for me, the Daunting, Dangerous Dexter.

I imagine that if real life was anything like what porn movies portrayed it to be, my dear best friend here would be lewdly begging me to fuck his brains out. Or something. But, I suppose, the closest I'd get from Miami's proud ADA was that please from earlier and I wasn't about to test my luck. Not when we'd come so far.

His gaze met mine for second before I roughly thrusted into him. His head tilted back again and squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers dug into the strips of plastic still wrapped around our victim, one hand even pressing into the pale thigh of the dead man. If there was one expression I knew perfectly, that was it. Despite my attempts to be a gentle monster, I was hurting him. There was a quite chuckle inside my head, and an urge to disregard Miguel's pain and to continue fucking him like the monster I am, but I didn't. After all these trust games, it'd be a shame to lose it like that.

After a short while of holding oh so still and sliding my hand up and down his shaft, he began to relax. I could see it in his face and feel it in the way that his muscles loosened around me.

He met my gaze again and gave me what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. "Go ahead," he said, as if I needed his permission.

I pulled back out most of the way and, after pausing a moment, pushed back in. Pain flashed across his face, but it was brief and I was done caring. Pulling out again, I made sure I rammed into his prostate on the way back in, inspiring that wordless groan/scream again.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me to him. My hand was still between our bodies, now gripping his cock hard and jerking quickly, trying to keep a steady pace of jerking and thrusting, but my need for order was quickly being washed away by more urgent needs.

He came, spraying disgusting human fluids all over us, but I couldn't bring myself to care all that much. I'm sure I will later, when my good sense has returned. And then I came, with my chest pressed against his, feeling his warm blood and semen between our bodies, contrasted with the puddle of cool blood that slowly dripped from the table.

Suddenly I had the keys back and was firmly planted in the driver's seat, but I had no idea what to do.

I pulled out of him and backed away. I picked up those carefully chosen pictures and set them to the side, deciding to claim the spot as a chair for myself. I tried very, very hard not to think of the mess that was spread across my chest.

Miguel got up and came over to me.

"Dex? Are you okay?" he asked. Why did he ask now, I wonder. A nice question like that should have been best asked before we let it get this far. Ah, well, too late now.

"We really, really need to clean up this mess," I deadpanned. What were you supposed to say after fucking your friend atop a corpse, I wonder? "It's a complete disaster. We need bleach. It'll create quite a smell, and we'll have to be careful, but..."

Before I could finish, he kissed me.

And this time, kiss was the right word. It was kind and reassuring and sweet.

Or it would be, if I wasn't Delightfully Deranged Dexter.