A/N: Wow. This took a long time to start, and then a little over a day to write. I didn't want Debra to be defined only by her foul mouth (although all the cursing is fun to write - where else can I get away with "holy fucking Jesus on a bike"?) Then I saw 6x11 and just like that I figured out where I wanted Debra to be coming from. Kind of strange that one episode would make me "get" the character...but hey, I can't complain.

Oh, and to all the people who wanted pseudo-incest (including me, actually): looks like you're getting your wish, both in this fic and in canon! How exciting!

"Talk to me, Deb," I tell her. "Please. Say something, anything." I'm reminded of another scene, another woman, telling me the exact same thing. I threw a plate, breaking it, and let her walk out of my life. I still can't blame Lumen entirely. It wasn't her choice, but it still broke my heart. I needed to break something, pass the hurt along. Hopefully it won't happen this time. Hopefully I haven't broken my sister's heart. I truly am fond of her, and it would be a shame if that were to happen. I might even cry again. But I have to know. I need to know. So I wait for a response, and simply hope for the best.

She looks at me, and then curses. "Fuck."

It's so Debra that I laugh for a second. Normal people modulate their voices. Their faces contort, showing whatever various emotions they experience. I don't have to pretend anymore, and it's refreshing. I can let down the mask and be Dark Dangerous Dexter, the lethal Avenger. I can laugh my real laugh now, and I never realized just how much I wanted this. Debra is my sister, and now we can be honest with each other like siblings are supposed to be.

"Fuck, Dexter," she repeats after a few seconds. "I don't – just – shit."

I take a knife – four and a half inches of serrated steel, a gleaming sharp blade – and start removing the cling wrap.

"Was it you?" she asks. "With number thirteen?"

I nod, smiling. I'm proud of my work with Lumen. That might be the reason she isn't dead like everyone else who knew my secret. "Yes. I helped her out with her little problem."

I've removed the top half of the plastic and move down. Even when I'm not pretending to be a human being, I still remember what emotions I should be faking: embarrassment at seeing my sister in the nude. It appears that she has forgotten this emotional response as well. Then again, Darling Debra Dearest does have more important things on her mind, like whether or not one of us is going to die tonight.

"Are you fucking with me, Dex?" she asks, sitting up. "Because if you are I'm gonna get real fucking pissed."

"No games, Deb," I reply. I'm in balance, driving with the Dark Passenger. The shadows are grayer, everything in a sharp focus that has an alien beauty. I feel flat, dull. When I'm Deeply Devoted Dexter I feel inflated, like a balloon before it pops. When I'm being myself with my victim, I'm sharp and deadly. Now I'm stuck somewhere in the middle, and it's at once more satisfying and more bothersome than either of the faces I put on.

The last bit of plastic falls away, and it seems that Debra recovers some sense of modesty.

"Dex, why the hell am I naked?"

It's one of the things I do. I have a routine, a ritual. It's one half Harry, one half me. Harry taught me how to not get caught. I took his teachings and made an art out of them. A tapestry of blood and death and beauty that sates the beast beneath my skin. I inject my villainous victim and bring him or her to the kill room. I don't discriminate based on gender, race, or disability. Dexter, the equal opportunity killer. Murdered somebody? Give me a call, I'll take care of all your problems!

I take off my client's clothes. Blood soaks into them, and it's not as fun. I love the way the blood runs over skin and plastic in little rivers of red. I use saran wrap to restrain the flavor of the week, and then I confront them with their sins. A little bit of justice, to be sure, but mostly I love the look in their eyes. They recognize their works, and know that they have brought their fate on themselves. It doesn't stop them from pleading, of course, but it works to halt the petulant crying they sometimes do.

The next part is spontaneous. While the rest of my work is meticulously planned, the actual kill is free verse, a collection of beautiful red lines of poetry. Today I used the power drill and rotary saw. Next week might be a knife to the chest. I never know until I let the Dark Passenger out to play again.

Once the fun part is over, I clean up after myself. I collect the parts I've separated and put them in nice black plastic trash bags. I take down all the plastic wrap and put it into other trash bags before taking the collection out to sea and dumping it offshore. This is my ritual. This is artwork at it's finest.

"It's just what I do," I respond.

Debra does not look appeased by this answer. "Holy fucking Jesus on a bike, it's just what you do?"

"Yes," is my response. From the look on her face, it is not what she wants to hear.

"Where are my clothes?" she asks suddenly. People do this when they are discontent with a line of questioning. They seem to think that simply changing the topic will change the answers they are given. People are strange.

"Over there," I point. She still hasn't answered my question. "Are you going to turn me in, Deb?"

She walks over to the pile of clothing that is in one corner of the room. "Fuck, Dex, you've always been there for me. How am I – fuck."

Deb swears a lot. I don't understand it, but chalk it up as one of those weird normal person things.

"I'm still here for you," I remind her.

"You won't be if you're dicking around on death row!" she snaps.

Can it be? Can she really accept what I am?

"Promise me something, Dex," she says suddenly. "Don't fuck around with me on this one, okay? Just fucking promise me you won't be like – like him."

"I killed him for you, Deb," I say. This should explain everything, shouldn't it? How can I be like him – and we both know who she means, even though she doesn't say it, she doesn't need to – when that's the entire reason I killed him?

"Promise me," she insists.

"I promise," I say. It's silly. From a sociopath, promises mean nothing. I don't care about my word, just like I don't care about the majority of the people inhabiting this planet. But it means something to Debra, so I say the words anyway.

"Good," she replies, and it sounds as if that's that.

She knows me.

She accepts me.

In my mind, this is beautiful. I have sated the Dark Passenger and Dearly Devoted Dexter in one night. I am a killer and a brother, and to Debra, I am finally both.

I take down the plastic on the walls and ball it up into another black trash bag. I open the door from the room and carry a few bags outside and into the trunk of my car.

When I return, Debra is still standing in the middle of the room. "How many times?" she asks.

"One hundred nine," I reply instantly. It's one of the numbers I know by heart. My phone number, Debra's phone number, my address, and the number of people I've killed. I pick up more trash bags and make another trip to the car.

When I return, there's only two more Hefty bags. "Come on," I say, and Debra follows me outside. She's still reacting, still processing news, which is okay, because she's already decided the most important thing to me.

She's staying.

I drive out to the boat, and when Debra sees the name she nearly chokes. I'm about to ask if she's alright – I would be sad if she asphyxiated right after seeing what I am – when she vomits over the pier and into the water.

"Fuck, Dex, that's sick," she says.

My boat is the Slice of Life. I find the name amusing. Apparently that's just me.

I lead her on board and take us out to my usual dumping grounds. I start tossing bags overboard, keeping one eye on my sister. It has occurred to me that jumping overboard that far out to sea would be fairly deadly. Harry couldn't stand what he had created; can my sister survive the encounter?

She watches me and doesn't make a move for the side of the boat. Apparently she can.

"We're both fucked up, aren't we?" she asks suddenly. "Jesus on a shit-stick, that makes two times I've fallen for a serial killer."

I nearly stumble throwing a bag off the boat.

Rudy, Brian, Biney. And...

And me.

We really are fucked up, I realize. She's a foster sister, so it's not as taboo as if we were blood-siblings, but it's still fucked up. Like us. Like me.

"Compared to chopping people up and dropping their body parts off a boat, your problems don't seem quite as bad," I say. It's true. If other people know of Deb's secrets, she won't be on Death Row. For some reason, people are more upset about serial killing than pseudo-incest. Good for Deb, not so good for me.

This makes Debra laugh, though she doesn't sound as though she's actually happy or amused. "Great fucking benchmark, Dex. At least I don't kill people. Inspires a lot of confidence."

I toss the last bag over the side of the boat and start steering back to Miami. I have a special place in my heart for the city that facilitates my Dark Passenger. Special thanks goes to the city of Miami, I couldn't have done it without you.

"I mean," Deb continues, "you're not like me, right? You don't – you know –"

"Love you?" I ask. "I don't feel things like normal people do. I'm fond of you. I'd rather you didn't die. I like it when you're happy." I shrug. "Past that? I'm fairly apathetic towards everyone, Deb. I don't think I can really love anyone."

She inhales through her nose. "Right. Stupid me."

I step towards her and gently grab her face, angling it to look at me. "Hey," I say. "I have the strongest feelings for you, Deb. I'm not normal. I don't really feel like everyone else. But this is as close to love as I can probably get."

We kiss, then, of course. It was entirely calculated on my part. Increasing our proximity, a comforting tone and message, an affirmation of my feelings. All designed to facilitate that reaction. If Debra loves me, she is less likely to have regrets or leave me.

I dock the boat and we step off together. How fitting. We have both revealed our secrets, she and I, Dark Deadly Dexter and Dependably Darling Debra. Arthur was wrong. Harry was wrong. Acceptance is possible. I am free.

And I revel in the feeling as I step onto the pier.

A/N 2: First completed multichap fic (even if it is only a two-shot). Thanks to Jeff Lindsay for coming up with such a fantastic character and writing style. Thanks to Showtime and Michael C. Hall for a beautiful show that never falters in its intensity. Thanks to the reviewers who inspire me to write more and more stuff, even when I think it's drivel. And, oddly enough, thanks to my grandmother for getting me hooked on Dexter in the first place. You're the best grandma I know.