Written because I wanted Dexter to pour his heart out to someone.

…and I kinda wanted to write Dexter/Doakes. Doakes/Dexter? The few I've read I don't really like.

WHY HAS NO ONE WRITTEN ANYTHING ABOUT THE CAGE, DAMMIT.

FINE THEN.

I'LL DO IT.

MOTHERFUCKING CAPS LOCK BITCHES.

Doakes has never suffered claustrophobia, not even when he'd been shipped in a crate across the state tracking a drug ring kingpin, but he might be developing it now.

He might also be suffering fromseveral other phobias at the moment.

Pnigerophobia; because Dexter choked him, half-drowned him before he blacked out, and dragged him in here.

Nyctophobia; because light doesn't penetrate very deeply into the cabin, boarded up windows and dust choking what little there is.

Sonophobia; because Morgan drugged him, made him slumber, deeply, deeper than he ever has before, and his slipping away scared him more than anything thus far.

And Thantophobia, the fear of death.

Morgan is the motherfucking Butcher; so intertwined with the case he knew something was up, knew Morgan had to be connected somehow. He just didn't know how.

Well, now he does. And look where it got him.

Trapped in some godforsaken cabin deep in the Everglades, held captive by some fucking serial killer who plays at normality.

Those slides…the trophies he kept, of his kills, his victims, the only little part that was supposed to be kept alive. That was what raised the hairs on the back of his neck, set his haunches on edge, sped up his pulse, made his blood run cold.

Motherfucking trophies.

He's killed a fair share of people in his time, for himself or the country. He shouldn't be so disturbed by death.

So deep in his own head is he that he doesn't hear the crunching of dirt under tires, the low hum of a motor being turned off. But he hears when heavy footsteps begin plodding up the stairs.

His head turns to face the door, whiplash fast, as it's opened. In steps the fucker himself, in khakis and t-shirt, carrying a large bag of groceries. It's so domestic, so normal that Doakes wants to cry, to scream; this is a killer, a wolf that's very good at playing the part of a sheep, capable of hiding his nature from almost everyone. He almost envies that ability.

Morgan shuts the door behind him with his hip, grunting as he sets the brown paper sack down on the table. The little grin he directs towards Doakes sends a shiver down his spine.

"Good evening, James." Doakes grinds his teeth at the use of his first name. "I brought you some fruit. Thought you might like some tangerines."

"Fuck you, Morgan."

"Now, now, that's no way to greet your captor." He hates that condescending tone, like an adult to a child.

"Fuck you!" he yells, rattling the chain links separating them.

Dexter's eyes go flat, dead, blank, and James shuts up, because this scares him. The deep, unending emptiness that shows no remorse, no shame, fucking nothing.

"How the fuck are you even human?" James can't stop the tremor in his voice as his knuckles go white, bitten-down nails digging roughly into his palms.

"How is anyone human?" Dexter replies, and his eyes gain a thoughtful look, a relief from absolute darkness that Doakes wants to collapse. "People are capable of some very dark things, James. Darker than animals, that only kill to survive. A man who brings over immigrants from Cuba illegally and those people who only hope for a second chance at life are sold into human trafficking or killed if they can't pay him what he wants. He and his wife were in on it. Oh, I have to admit, I hadn't planned on the both of them, but it was too much to ignore. I was just going to do the husband, but I couldn't stop there with such a ripe little bit of murder just begging to be put down." Doakes furrows his brow. This sounds familiar.

"Sound familiar?" Dexter seems to echo his thoughts. "It should be. The woman in the trailer? Valerie Castillo. And her husband, Jorge Castillo. I was almost caught that time. But, well, you can do quite a bit with just a small drop of dried blood." His face fell, sorrowful, hiding his eyes. "I had to hurt Deb. Weaken her case to the point where it wasn't even an option. But now," his face lifted to meet Doakes' eyes, "It doesn't really matter anymore."

"Why are you telling me this?" Doakes asks.

"So that if I ever let you out, you'll have your facts straight about me. Who knows, I might even ask you to write my biography." Dexter smiled, more of a grimace than anything. "Besides, it's nice to finally tell someone this. It's…liberating."

Something nags at Doakes, so he voices his thoughts. "You dump the bodies, don't you? Somewhere in the ocean? Then why the fuck was it still in the trailer?"

Something flashes in Dexter's eyes (pain, remorse, guilt, sadness, anger) before his face goes flat again, his voice a rumble. "That would be my brother's fault."

"Your brother?" Fuck, there are two of them?!

"You don't need to worry about it. He's dead now anyways."

"Wait a moment…" Doakes starts thinking, and the pieces fall into place. "The Ice Truck Killer…" Doakes breathes out, eyes wide as comprehension sinks in. "It wasn't suicide, was it." He says it like a statement rather than a question.

"No, it wasn't suicide." Dexter takes in a shaky breath, like the thought of it and the emotions it brings to the surface are almost too much to bear. "I killed him. I had to. I chose a sister I'm not even related to by blood over my own brother, the only person who truly understood me."

"What the fuck happened to you two? What made you this way?" Doakes asks, simply because he's finally figuring out what made Dexter tick, why he'd doing what he is, solving the question he's waited so long to have answered.

"Drugs." Doakes snorts, but Dexter ignores it. "My mother was a snitch for the police. A few of the wrong people found out and, well, locked us up in a shipping container. The Estrada cartel was very powerful."

"That day I found you sniffing around those containers…"

"Yeah." Dexter shudders. "That was the one where it happened. I thought I would find my brother there."

"There were three other users in there with us, as well as three from the cartel. They cut up the users first. Then my mother." Dexter's voice falters. "Me and my brother were forced to watch our mother's murder. They cut her up with a chainsaw into so many little pieces."

"Two days. Two days me and my brother sat soaking in blood that went up to my ankles. I think I was so thirsty that at one point I tried to drink it." His laughter is shaky and broken. "I can remember the taste now. Thick, because it had congealed. Rich, metallic. My brother made me spit it out. We held hands throughout those two days until they found us. That is what made me who I am." His voice hardens. "I was reborn into a killer of killers. And that is what I am." He glances over, and this time Doakes can't help but flinch. "I hope that clears things up for you. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Fucking hell…" Doakes whispers, horrified, as Dexter slams the door behind him, leaving Doakes in the semi-darkness to process the terrible knowledge he now possesses.