Author: Seazu
Fandom: Supernatural/Dexter crossover
Characters: Dexter M, Dean W, Sam W, Castiel
Contains suggestion of horror and gore, blood and some mild violence.
Summary: Dexter's been researching the Winchester brothers for a while, convinced their serial killers of some kind. When he finally tracks them to somewhere in the vicinity of Miami, he decides it's time to strike. Tonight's the night.
AN: Probably a one-shot, unless it's pretty well received. Took a notion to write this, but it wasn't planned, kind of just typed it up off the top of my head. Let me know what you think though!

Tonight's the night.

And it's going to happen again and again; has to happen.

I've been tracking them for months now – they've escaped custody more times than should be possible, but that won't happen this time. I've got them in my sights. They finally settled just outside of Miami, in another cheap motel with another set of fake names. But there are patterns. Their actions aren't as random as it might seem.

I've gotten a room in the Rouge Motel, right next to theirs – rented in the names of Bruce Hall and Bryan Hitt. Honestly, how more people didn't catch on to their rock-star pseudonyms is beyond me – if people would just use their brains, just think…

The code of Harry, my foster-father, is satisfied – and so am I. My kill room is ready; wrapped in plastic and perfect for them. I'm a very neat monster. Photos of men, women and even some children cocoon the two platforms in the centre; deathly images of the people they've killed and the tornado of devastation they leave behind as they flee from state to state. They think they're ghosts, but there's always a trail to follow, and it's as clear as day as long as you know what you're looking for.

And tonight, my very own brand of justice will be served; by knife's edge and a bittersweet song of flesh and blood. After months of watching and tracking and putting together their case, this will be my prize. The dark passenger is pulling for the steering wheel, but at this moment we drive together.

I wait patiently for them to turn out the lights and go to sleep. It's the early hours of the morning before the mammoth Sam finally closes his laptop and Dean stops cleaning his gun. These monsters… they're keen, but they're sloppy. Still as I move swiftly from my car, leather gloves pulled on tight and my tools ready to pick the lock, I know I must be careful. There's only a short distance between the doors of the two rooms, but both men are bulky and it's a particularly lively motel at this hour.

I fold into the darkness of the shadows in the room, the door stays open just a crack so I have an easy escape point if needs be. Watching them in silence, my syringe at the ready, I try to adjust to the lack of light and listen to their breathing to make sure they're both asleep before I strike. The tranquilizer acts quickly, but it's barely noticeable since they're already out for the count.

I move Dean first, knowing he will be the more manageable of the two, and throw him over my shoulder, bending to his weight at first before I check there is no one to witness my stealing of the men. If anyone cared to notice, it would become apparent that the cameras for this row are conveniently adjusted so these few rooms would be a blind spot, leaving little to no trace of my presence.

Sam is more difficult to move, but I manage it. Stripping the Winchester's down and saran wrapping them, and binding them to the tables reveals peculiar matching tattoos on each of their chests – Pentagrams? I pause to examine them for a moment, and press a gloved finger into the flesh of Dean's chest and frown; my research into their practices had unveiled some interesting rituals, and I had considered Devil worship at one point… perhaps this proved it. But why put a cursed symbol on your own body?

The curiosity is pushed away by the thrill of the process, and I immediately returned to stuffing their mouths and duck-taping it securely in place. I check the bonds one last time, made sure my tools were all in place, adjust some of the pictures, check the windows are covered properly and the door is secure, check everything as I always do and then I sit and I wait for them to come around.

Heavy eyelids flicker, Sam's first. Slow and reluctant. Blurred vision, confusion and then… panic. I watch the man struggle with his bonds unsuccessfully, and then catch sight of his brother and eventually the careful collage of corpses all around them. I'm surprised to see what I thought was a look of pain at the images; they are becoming more and more curious to me. Finally Dean comes to life, with the utter of a guttural growl which becomes more aggressive as he realises his surroundings, Sam makes noises back and suddenly it becomes a scene from a show on Animal Planet.

I step forward, concentrating on the scalpel in my hand, they bend as far as the bonds will let them, and give me their best "you'll burn for this" look. Brushing it aside I draw the blade down Sam's cheek, and his wince seems to encourage Dean's rage. I wonder if I could replicate that undying family loyalty if myself and Debra were in such a situation. Not that I would let that happen. I place the blood between two slides of glass and watch the drop spread with hunger as I push them together. I follow suit with Dean; and place the blood carefully on the table between them.

"What do you think?" I say finally, my hands gesturing to the meticulously created display around them. "It took a lot of work to figure out all of the people you two have gone through – and there are a lot."

I stand by a particularly gruesome photo of a decapitated girl – there are a lot of them, and boys too. Teenagers. I don't like people who hurt children; perhaps it's my growing affections for Astor and Cody; or maybe it was after all of the times people have said, "imagine if that was your kid". And I'll admit to having pictured Astor, Cody, even Harrison in some of those situations.

"And of course this is only the murder part – you guys have quite a record: grave mutilation, assault, grand theft auto, bank robbery, attempted murder – and the list goes on, and on, and on," I move around them, finally stopping at their feet, my gaze switching between each of them, taking pleasure in their rage, the furrowed brow. "I'm almost impressed you've lasted this long without getting put away – which of course you have, and you still managed to escape. Can't say I've met Satanic Dillinger fans before."

I move with some haste to their heads again, standing between them, in front of the little table with my tools, and pull away the tape from their mouths, removing the cotton to let them speak, "well boys, any last words, some desperate plea telling me I've got the wrong guys?"

"You touch him and I will rip your lungs out," Dean spits immediately, his throat obviously dry and cracked. I raise an eyebrow and nod, turning to Sam, "and you?"

Sam looks confused more than anything, "you think we're Devil-worshippers?" He shares a somewhat amused glance with Dean and looks back at me with a smile, "seriously?"

They're almost laughing, and a flash of rage burns through me right then. They were going to taunt their killer? What have I missed that's so funny? The rituals, the chanting, the grave-mutilation and now tattoos – doesn't that all point to the same thing?

"Oh buddy, we are so far from Lucifer-fans it ain't even funny," Dean says with a grin.

I grit my teeth, and look between them. This wasn't going as planned. "Did I miss something?" I ask dryly, tapping Dean's chest at the tattoo.

He shares another look with Sam, as they have some strange telepathic discussion made up of nods and head-tilts before Sam finally says, "anti-possession tattoos."

"Excuse me?"

"We're hunters," he continues, and Dean sighs with exasperation, looking away as I just stare incredulously at him, "Hunters?" I ask bluntly.

"We hunt Demons and uh, Ghosts and stuff like that," Sam says, his voice weak as he grasps for a way to explain, his eyes flit around the room, and he nods in the direction of a photo of one of the decapitated kids, "Vampire," he says, and another photo, "Skin-Walker," and another, "Changeling," and another, "Witch."

I've heard a lot of strange pleas in this job, but this has to take the cake. What is this supposed to be, some distraction, some way to convince me they do what I do but in some strange supernatural way? I shake my head, "nice try, guys. Tell Lucifer I said hi."

I pull their gags back on and move to my tools, finding the perfect knife for the job I position myself over Dean, angling it over his heart, where it would slip between his ribs and smoothly sever the organ. For a moment he seems to genuinely fear for his life. And my dark passenger slips into place. And as I start the plunge there is a sudden movement in the room, and with a flash of what looks like a tan trenchcoat, and a pressure against my forehead I'm suddenly falling to the ground, and my world goes black.

The darkness lifts and I find myself back in the kill room. But it's not the room, the plastic is gone, the images – everything is gone. I try to move and realise that my hands are tied behind my back, and my legs are bound as well. Blinking the sleep away, replaced by a pounding headache I try to find the people which the low hum of conversation I can hear must be connected to. Sam and Dean sit on a couch on the other side of the room, and judging by the strong scent of starch, I gather that I've been placed on the bed. They're not alone. Someone sits with them, rigid and seemingly dressed in a suit with a pale overcoat which doesn't match the tone of his mess of dark hair and stubble.

They stop talking when they realise I'm conscious again and Dean comes towards me, the others following, "rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he says darkly, rolling me onto my back and they tower over me. I feel helpless, my arms and legs burn where they're being pressed into the bed under my own weight, and I feel exposed. The heavy fog of confusion settles over me as I try to recall the moments before I blacked out. But I'm too disorientated, the throbbing in my head along with the sense of bewilderment overwhelms me and I can barely connect my thoughts together in order to speak.

"What happ-… who's-"

"This here's my buddy, Cas," he continues, slapping the other man on the shoulder which makes him look a little unsettled. "He swooped in to pay a visit and wasn't too happy to see what was going on."

That didn't seem to make things any clearer, "how did he…"

"That's a little Jedi-mind-trick of his," Dean answers with a grin, seeming a little too cocky. "Pretty cool, comes with the wings – he's an Angel after all."

"You're an…"

"Yes, I am an Angel of the Lord – my name is Castiel," he says finally, his voice even deeper than Deans or my own; sounding like gravel in a cement mixer.

"We weren't lying about the Hunting thing," Sam says, his voice a little softer than the others, "Cas says you do this a lot, that you're a killer."

"I kill the bad guys," I manage to say, still discombobulated.

"You've got a darkness in you, but you can use it. You can be a Hunter and kill the real bad guys."

I frown, searching their faces for something – insanity, humour, something; but they all look serious. "You're kidding."

"There's a lot of Evil out there," Sam says, "Cas thinks you can do what we do, that you're a perfect soldier for the job."

"You're insane."

"You saw him appear out of nowhere, you saw him knock you out cold just by touching you – it's all right before your eyes, there's no need for faith."

I watch them in disbelief. They're serious about this. But as sloppy as they are, they've been untraceable to the police, invisible to everyone else, and they seem to be doing something right. It did seem to fit, somehow. And if this could be some way to feed his dark passenger and do good in the process – isn't it at least worth considering?

"At least untie me first."