"Sammy, man, I'm telling you," Dean Winchester said as he entered the motel room, a tired look on his face. "I'll figure something out, okay?"

"You've been saying that for the past four months, Dean!" Sam Winchester exclaimed, closing the door behind them. He pulled a hand through his hair, an exasperated expression tainting his features. "Look, you have eight months left. Eight months, and then you'll be heading downstairs, and I can't just sit here and look at you throw away your shot at doing something about it!"

"Well there's not much I can do, is there?" Dean asked, frowning deeply. "I've been looking, okay? You know I have! I just… I have no idea how I'm supposed to reverse this. And that's why I've decided that as long as I don't have any leads, I'll hunt down as many evil sons of bitches as I can. I mean, if I'm going to hell, that's the least I can do, right?"

Sam sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. Their situation was definitely complicated. Only four months earlier, Sam had been stabbed to death, and Dean – being the over-protective and caring brother he is – sold his soul to a demon to get Sam back. He'd gotten one year before he would be sent to hell. Yet the only thing Sam's brother wanted to do was hunt monsters. And Sam wasn't even surprised.

"We'll get through this, Sammy. You know we will." Dean smiled. It's not like he wanted to admit it, but going to hell wasn't exactly something he wanted to do. But he also felt as if he deserved it. As if going there would redeem what he caused his father to do for him. Seemed like selling your soul was usual Winchester stuff. But still, Dean was set on hunting monsters. He wanted to get rid of as many of them as possible before he died. The world would be missing one hell of a hunter, after all.

Dean shrugged away his thoughts and sat down on one of the beds, using the remote control to turn on the little TV they had in the motel room.

"Jesus christ," Dean mumbled, immediately catching Sam's attention. "Sammy. Take a look at this." He said as he turned up the volume. Sam, looking annoyed about the fact that Dean was so eager to change the subject, walked over to him and looked at the screen.

"It's just… a lot of trash bags," Sam uttered, frowning in confusion. Dean just stayed quiet until the reporter on TV started talking.

"It was early this morning that a group of divers explored the bottom of the waters here in Miami. What they found was not what they had been looking for. Large amounts of these plastic bags have been recovered from the water, and they have been said to all contain the same thing. Human body parts."

"What?!" Sam exclaimed, looking at the number of bags. "But those are like… that's a lot!" He uttered.

"Yeah, no kiddin'," Dean huffed, rubbing his forehead. "So, what do you think? This worth checking out?"

"Dean, we have no proof that it's a monster," Sam said, rolling his eyes at Dean.

"Since when was a human being capable of killing that many people?"

…

There are times in life where nothing is as it should be. Where nothing ever goes the way you want. Only days ago, all my deepest secrets surfaced and showed themselves to the world. To the police department. At least for now, they don't know that they're my secrets. And I need to keep it that way. After the incident with Paul, Rita seems to believe I'm a drug addict… and decided to throw me out of the house. There's a "pause" in our relationship, and I don't know how long that's going to last. These are all things I need to take care of, as soon as possible. At least I still have her.

"She'll take you back soon, Dexter," Debra Morgan said, patting her brother's shoulder as she sat down next to him at the kitchen bar. "She'll realize how good you are for her."

"But what if I'm not?" Dexter Morgan asked, looking up from his plate. "I mean, I'm not exactly… boyfriend of the year."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Debra frowned. "Dude, you're not just boyfriend of the year, you're the person of the year. Seriously, if she can't see how fucking great you are, I'm not… I'm not sure if she can see that in anyone."

Dexter chuckled softly and rolled his eyes a little. "Whatever you say, sis."

"So why did she throw you out, anyways? Like, was there any particular reason?"

"I don't know. I think Paul's death was a bit hard on her, and she just… needed a break, I guess." He shrugged. Debra nodded weakly.

"At least we'll have much to work with now," Debra said, a lighter tone to her voice. "I mean, we have the Bay Harbor fucking Butcher to catch."

…

The tires of the old Chevrolet impala rolled over the asphalt, the sound of the motor having eventually become a calming sound to the Winchester brothers. REO Speedwagon blared over the speakers as they drove, Dean idly tapping away at the steering wheel.

"Cheer up, will ya?" He grinned over at Sam, having to speak loudly for Sam to hear him. "I don't want no grumpy behavior, that's just boring."

"Dude, we've been driving for 12 hours!" Sam exclaimed, gesticulating with his hands. "Aren't we there yet?"

Dean laughed heartily, cocking his head a little to the side. "Good point," he nodded. "We'll be there in the early morning. Probably around 7 am."

"Oh my god," Sam groaned. "That's five more hours."

"It'll be fine!" Dean chuckled, patting Sam's shoulder with his right hand. "Try and get some shut-eye. I'll wake you when we're there."

"Easy for you to say," Sam sighed, rolling his eyes a little. He mumbled grumpily under his breath. "Damn music."

They drove through the night, and when Dean saw that Sam was about to fall asleep, he quietly turned down the music and let the motor and his low humming of a random melody lull his brother to sleep.

They drove through the night, and the first thing on Dean's list when getting to Miami was getting a good few hours of sleep. Once they arrived in Miami, Dean drove until he found a pretty cheap motel. He woke Sam and they went in and rented a room, and it didn't take long before they were both sleeping in each their bed. They didn't pay any attention to the footsteps out in the hallways as someone passed by their door, or the sounds of cars passing by on the streets outside.

Dexter passed the motel in his car, paying no extra heed to the shabby looking building as he looked in the rearview mirror.

Doakes isn't following me tonight. I guess he didn't notice me leaving my apartment at all. Perfect.

He drove down the road for ten minutes until he reached a suburban area, pulling up next to a house at the end of the street. He exited the car and crept towards the house, quietly pulling a pair of black rubber gloves onto his hands. He snuck up to one of the windows and peered inside. Inside was a man, passed out on the couch next to several bottles of beer and whiskey.

Perfect. You knocked yourself out so I wouldn't have to.

He walked over to the door and tried the handle. It opened. This was almost too easy. He silently made his way inside, and inside his head he was scouring the walls and floors of the grease that covered them. Disgusting. He pursed his lips and walked into the living room, readying his syringe. He wouldn't take any chances. He stuck it inside the man's neck and hoisted him over his shoulder.

Time to get to the kill-room.

Dexter put the man in the trunk of his car and drove off. He couldn't help but feel that this was even more exhilarating now that people were after him. He was the subject of a gigantic manhunt and no one even knew that it was him. He felt the pulse rising inside of him, and it felt amazing.

The room he'd chosen wasn't far away. He drove there, and after making sure no one was watching, he carried his victim inside.

…

"W-What the fuck?" The man uttered in slurred words as he woke up, the plastic straining against his chubby body.

"Richard Moltain," Dexter said in a monotone voice, his eyes flickering from the side to the man on the table. "Killed your brother. Killed your wife. Now it's your turn to go."

"I-I didn't-"

"Yeah, and I didn't kill all those people that they found on the bottom of the ocean," Dexter said, holding his hands up as if surrendering. "I'm innocent!" He exclaimed, and for a few seconds, he was silent… and then he broke into laughter. "But that's what we do, isn't it? We lie. It's our best way to defend ourselves. Only I do it much better than you."

"I don't understand what you're talking about!" The man trembled, and Dexter walked over to him with a scalpel and ran it down his cheek. "O-Owh!"

"Of course you don't," Dexter said, rolling his eyes a little. "Doesn't matter really, you're about to die anyways." He said, and before the man could say anything more, Dexter picked up a knife and plunged it into his chest. He stood there for a while, before exhaling calmly. That felt good.

…

"How come we didn't consider this, huh? I mean, it was pretty obvious!" Sam exclaimed as they walked out of the Miami Metro police department. They'd walked in there with their FBI badges ready when they'd seen the actual FBI there. It hadn't taken them long to get the hell out of there.

"I don't know, Sammy. It's not often FBI gets involved." Dean said, looking around as if trying to find something.

"No, but this case is… it's huge, Dean. It's no wonder they're here."

"Guess you're right. So, how're we supposed to get any important information now?" Dean sighed, his gaze returning to his brother. "Think we gotta break in or something?"

"Not exactly the greatest idea, Dean. This is Miami. Then, on the other hand," Sam said, turning to where some people were working on getting up a huge tent. "That field tent… shouldn't be too difficult in the middle of the night, should it?"

"Good going, Sammy," Dean chuckled, patting Sam's shoulder. His attention was drawn towards an Asian man walking towards the police department with a laminate around his neck. "Maybe we could… uh." Dean bumped Sam and pointed towards the guy. "Worth a shot, isn't it?"

Sam shrugged a little, and Dean approached the Asian man with a smile.

"Excuse me," he said, and the Asian man turned towards him. "Hi, I'm with the Miami Today newspaper. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Uh, sure, ask away. I can't promise you that I can answer all of them, though," the man answered, correcting his glasses a little. Dean had noted that his laminate said something along the lines of 'forensics investigator', so he was almost sure he worked the Butcher case.

"You working on the butcher thing?" Dean asked, and the Asian man nodded. "How much can you say on the case?"

"Not much apart from what you've already heard on the news. Fuckton of bodies. And sadly, no DNA traces to tell us who did it."

"I see… anything else?"

"That's the thing… we're not really allowed to say anything else." The man said, gritting his teeth a little. He opened his bag and pulled out a card, handing it to Dean. "Here, if you want to take contact some time later, maybe I'll be able to help."

Dean took the card and noticed the corner of a magazine in the man's bag. "Hey, that… couldn't possibly be the new edition of, uh… B.A.B?" He asked, a knowing smirk on his face. The Asian man's eyes lit up.

"You a fan of Busty Asian Beauties?" He grinned.

"Yeah. I'm especially fan of Harumi Nakohoto." Dean said, screwing up a little on the pronunciation.

"A Nakohoto fan too, huh? I can't lie, she's a real beauty." He said, and what Dean could only describe as a perverted laugh escaped the man's mouth. "Look, I can give you one more thing, seeing as how you're a fan of the motherland and all. We'll just say this is not from the mouth of a man working with the police, but strictly from me. Vincent Masuka. From what we've found so far… it seems like the butcher only kills, you know…"

"What?" Dean asked, perching his eyebrow curiously.

"Bad guys. You know, murderers."

"You for real?" Dean uttered, his eyes wide with surprise. "That's… unexpected."

"I know, right? Anyways, don't tell anyone. And please don't put it in your paper, I mean it's… still confidential. You can imagine the uproar if people found out that the guy's a vigilante."

"Yeah, no, of course. I'll keep it all to myself."

He returned to Sam, and the brother was more than just a little confused. "What? It kills murderers?" He asked, frowning. "That's weird… Only thing I can really think of is a vengeful spirit out for murderers, but… first of all, those bodies were out in the ocean. And, I mean, since when would a spirit go through the trouble of slicing and dicing their victims like that?"

"I don't know, Sammy. Looks like we have some research to do." He said, throwing another glance at the field tent that was being set up. He was looking forward to checking it out once everything was set up. They stood there for a while, discussing a little, and several people passed them on the way. But for some reason, the two of them noticed one man.

He walked towards the station entrance, him too wearing a forensics laminate around his neck. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he had a black bag over one shoulder. He turned his head for a moment, meeting Dean's eyes, but it was as if he wasn't looking at him. He was looking beyond him, or… he was looking at nothing at all. Dean shivered unpleasantly and nodded a little towards the man who had finally looked away.

"Lab geek over there give you the creeps too?" Dean asked, gritting his teeth towards Sam.

"I'm… not sure. Something felt off." Sam shrugged.

Something.