hopefulwriter27

Title: Perfection is God’s Business (And Sam Winchester’s, the Anti-God) Part 3/?

Author: hopefulwriter27

Rating: R

Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Dexter

Summary: Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds him.

Author’s Notes & Warnings: This is a sequel to The Perfect Man. Read that first. Also, none of the Supernatural or Dexter characters belong to me. Note, this is a dark fic! There will be graphic violence and death. Evil!Sam and evil!Dean.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

Part 3 (3,400 words/ 7,300 words so far)

                “I’ve picked out the perfect man for you,” Dexter says while handing over the last wet dish. Dean automatically runs the damp dishtowel around the plate. The taste of grilled steak hangs on the back of his tongue, and the scent of Jack Daniel steak sauce lingers in the air. The man really does love the American staple of steak and potatoes. Since their relationship began anew, Dean’s had it six times.

As Dexter’s words register, Dean’s hands stop. “Yeah?” he asks tentatively. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Dexter. The other man isn’t the teasing type; at least not when it comes to this. It’s just that Dean’s been waiting fifty-nine days for Dexter to pick out the perfect mark. Fifty-nine fucking days.

The older man turns off the running water and dries his hands on the towel hanging from the stove handle. He walks towards the desk in the living room and says, “Dry your hands.” Dean quickly obeys. His eyes stalk Dexter across the room. When the man opens a desk drawer and takes out a thick manila file folder. A spike of excitement zings through Dean. Dexter nods to the cleared kitchen table. They slide into opposite chairs.

Dexter sets the folder flat on the smooth wooden surface and taps the four fingers of his left hand in quick succession across the paper. Dean eagerly reaches out to take the folder. “Nn-uh,” Dexter shakes his head. “We need to go over the rules before I let you see him.”

Rules, rules, rules, Dean silently whines. There are too many fucking rules. I’ve had fifty-nine days of rules!      

Dexter slides the folder closer to his chest. “If you don’t want the file, that’s fine by me. I can take care of it by myself.”

“No!” Dean schools his face into the picture of perfect patience. At least he tries. “Rules. Not a problem.” He presses his palms into the curve of the round table and lets his thumbs noiselessly tap against the smooth edge. “Well, I guess you’ve already done the research for this guy, so I won’t be doing that part. I know he’s guilty of something.”

Dexter nods; his face is still as a statue. “Correct.”

“So I’m going to have to study his habits, find the perfect time to lure him away from others.” Dean pauses, but Dexter doesn’t move or say anything. “Then I have to find a secure spot to set up. Put up plastic and set up my equipment. I need to be prepared for all possibilities.” It sounds so mechanical, so boring. Dean’s a spontaneous, do-as-he pleases kind of guy. He likes the slash-and-dash method. Being careful is Sammy’s thing.  There are more rules, a whole brain’s full, but Dean figures those are the basics.  

He glances at Dexter and eyes the folder. The man sighs and shakes his head, like he’s regretting the day he let Dean into his life.  He slides it over. Tingles prickle Dean’s fingers as he takes the folder. He would like to make it special- maybe make a little speech, but patience isn’t Dean’s forte. He immediately flips it open.

There is a picture on top of the inch-thick paperwork.  It’s an eight by eleven, glossy head shot. From the shoulder up the man looks, well, old. He’s got tan, wrinkled skin.  Someone who’s lived in the sun his whole life. Salt-and-peppered hair is windblown across his head. Dean’s not really into the gray thing, but he supposes it’s nice and thick. Not going bald in his age. He has a boxed jaw and a large, strong nose. Coco colored eyes stare off into the distance.  Italian blood somewhere in there, Dean guesses. He once had a guy from Italy. He had been lousy in bed. The thing that gets Dean though, is the expression on his face. The man’s mouth is pulled back in a half-smile. His eyes are slightly narrowed, displaying a type of hunger that has nothing to do with food. It’s a hunger that’s as familiar as greasy hamburgers.  

“Who was he looking at when you took this picture?”  

Dexter’s eyes turn sharp and his grin turns questioning. “How do you know he’s looking at a person?”

Dean pushes out his bottom lip. Dexter’s testing him. He’s sick of being tested. “I just know. Now answer my question.”

A flash of irritation lights Dexter’s eyes. “Don’t get sharp with me.”

Dean huffs. “Sorry. I realize this whole student-teacher thing is hard for you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for you taking me on.” Because god knows, Dean needs it. “But, this isn’t my first time around the block. I can recognize a predator just as well as you can.”

Darkness brightens the green in Dexter’s eyes and thins the lines of his mouth. For a minute, Dean thinks he’s said too much. Then, Dexter says, “He’s outside of a junior high school- watching a group of boys play basketball.”

A burst of energy shocks Dean’s stomach. A grin tugs at his mouth. He slides the picture above the folder and looks through the rest of the papers. The next page is a rap sheet. “Nicholas D’Arlo,” Dean reads aloud. Mr. D’Arlo has been arrested twice for being part of a child prostitution ring, but never convicted. He spent six months in jail for assaulting his ex-wife then was released early for good behavior. There are a few more pictures, much smaller ones with Nicholas doing mundane things like eating and driving. It’s not what he’s doing that’s of note; it’s where. He’s chomping down a hot dog, sitting on a bench at the playground in Pedro’s Park. His red Mustang is parked on the corner of Neil and Marcum, across the street from Martin Luther King High School.

“He’s a pedophile,” Dean states.

“He’s raped and killed at least seven boys. Probably a lot more.”

Dean flips to the end of the file and find seven pictures of boys. The youngest is about eight the oldest thirteen. He looks at Nicholas’ head shot again.  Finally, he looks up and asks, “So what’s the plan?”

Dexter smiles and leans forward to share his plan. When he’s done Dean licks his lips. “So tomorrow then? When it gets dark?

“I’ll see you around eleven.”

***

                Brick Street is a sports bar, and it’s crowded for nine forty-five on a Saturday night. The front door jangles as Dean’s tugs it open. He’s hit with the sticky scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke the moment he steps inside. A thrum of music, whinny songs he doesn’t recognize weave around the inhabitants. The lights are dim, and combined with maroon walls the atmosphere is dark and seedy. The only thing that saves the place from being a complete dive is its size. The main room holds a dozen square tables and a long bar. Three bartenders, two female one male, run like busy bees pouring drinks. There’s an empty stage with a gray flat screen hanging on the wall. I wonder if there’s a big game on tonight? A large poster advertises karaoke Tuesday nights from eight to eleven.  

                Fifty feet from the door is a short hall that splits into two rooms. The first room holds another bar, a couple of booths, one large table and six or seven small hanging televisions. All of them are on, each showing a different sporting event. The smoke is so heavy there that a haze of fog pollutes the air. On the other side of the hall is a billiards room.  There are four pool tables and a waist high ledge running the lengths of the room. Drinks and baskets of fries and chicken wings littered the ledge.

                The clientele is older than Dean expected. From what he knows about Nicholas D’Arlo, Dean expected the man’s regular haunt to be filled with barely legal college boys. He only sees one group of young men. They’re crammed around a table in the main room, laughing and talking, clearly drunk. Mostly, the occupants are middle-aged, middle-class workers. There are a few men in suits, but there are far more in jeans and button-ups. Dean sees no unattached women, and the women he does see appear tough. Dad would have liked this bar, he muses.

                Dean slides around the full tables, looking for D’Arlo. He doesn’t see him the main room, so he ambles towards the other areas. Just as he’s crossing the wooden frame into the hall, a hand clamps around his shoulder. His heart leaps into his throat and his hand shoots to his pocket. It’s only the knowledge of the crowd that keeps him from flipping out his knife and stabbing the stranger behind him.

                “How old are you kid?” a voice behind him rasps.

                Dean turns and slips his shoulder from the man’s grip. He’s a big guy. At least six five, two hundred fifty pounds, Dean estimates. The man’s shirt reads Property of Brick Street in big black letters and he figures the man’s a bouncer. “Eighteen.”

                The giant lifts his eyebrows. Dean scrambles to pull out his wallet. “See look.” He shows the man his fake ID. The man stares at it in the dim light and hands it back to Dean with a frown on his face.

“Eighteen huh?” he questions.

Dean shrugs. “I know. I look young. Everyone says so.” At least Sammy was right about this outfit, Dean thinks. Normally, he tried for older, but for tonight, for D’Arlo, Dean went younger. Sammy picked out his soft white v-neck sweater and his faded, pale jeans.

His brother had grumbled the whole time. “I don’t like this Dean,” Sammy had said after Dean had babbled out his and Dexter’s plans.

“Don’t worry Sammy,” Dean had replied. “It’s going to be fine. And awesome!”

“Dean,” Sammy whined, “I told you Sammy’s a baby name. I’m almost thirteen! I want to be called Sam.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Ever since the New Year had begun, his little brother wanted to be called Sam. “Sorry. Don’t worry Sam. It’s going to be fine.”

Sam huffed. “Are you going to be home Sunday?” The words were careful, like Sam was worried about the answer.

Dean patted his brother’s cheek. “Of course. Who else would I want to spend my birthday with?”

Sammy gave him a hesitant smile and ran the last bit of gel through Dean’s hair. “Alright , all finished.”

He looked into the mirror. “Damn,” Dean whistled. He never knew he could look so pure. “I’ll be home before you wake up tomorrow. We’ll have pancakes and bacon for breakfast then spend the whole day together. “

“You’ll tell me all about it?”

“Every gory detail,” Dean promised. Sam had set him off with well wishes and Dean took the Impala to the bar.  

Now, at Brick Street, he hopes his look doesn’t get him kicked out. The bouncer stares at him for a minute more then tentatively hands back the I.D. “No drinking,” he grunts.

Dean shakes his head. “No sir. I’m just here to watch the game and play some pool.”

“If I see you drinking, I’m kicking you out.”

“I swear I won’t be drinking.”

He gives Dean a hard look that says, You better not, then walks away. Dean shoves the card back into his wallet and starts his mission again. There are two balding men lingering in the hall, smoking cigars and chatting. They pay no attention to him, so he ignores them. Smoke from the television room wafts out. Dean checks there first.

Nicholas D’Arlo isn’t there. Dean continues on. I hope he’s in the billiards room. I don’t want to wait around for him to show up. Dexter had promised him that D’Arlo came to this bar every Friday and Saturday night. Dean had watched him here the night before. At first glance, the man isn’t in the billiards room either. There are four men holding pool sticks around the first table, and two around the second. An elderly woman with gray hair stands off to the side, watching both games. She’s a shark, Dean thinks. A pair of suits are leaning against wall near the door. Their ties are hanging loosely around their necks, and the tops of their shirts are unbuttoned.

Dean’s hopes crash. Maybe I missed him in the main room. Dean doesn’t like the idea of going back out there. That bouncer will be watching me. Then, in a snap, Dean catches sight of the man further down the hall. He was in the bathroom!

D’Arlo strolls up the hall, heading straight for him. Dean quickly smoothes down his sweater and steps back into the room. He grabs a pool stick from the rack on the wall and settles himself against the far left hand table. When D’Arlo walks in, he stops to talk with the men in suits. He says something and one of the other men slap him on the arm. He raises his beer, which Dean just now noticed, takes a sip.

Drinking, that’s good, he observes. Smiling to himself, Dean shells out the seventy-five cents that releases the balls. They roll down their path and knock into each other as they come to the end of their trip. The noise captures D’Arlo’s attention. Dean pretends not to notice the man’s sharp focus and his descent over.

Dean bends over and begins to pull the balls from their long cubby hole and sets them on the table green felt of the table. His jeans pull tight over his ass. He can feel the other man’s body heat before he sees him.

“Want some competition?” D’Arlo’s voice is raspy. He’s been smoking for a long time. The sound makes Dean shiver. It reminds him of Dad. The beer bottle has been left on the ledge.

Acting surprised, Dean straightens. “Oh,” he breathes out, “you startled me.” D’Arlo is in fine form tonight. A fitted dark suede jacket covers a crisp white button-up. The top four buttons of the shirt are undone, and thick swirls of black chest hair peak out. A quarter sized golden cross hangs from a leather cord. Expensive black jeans show off the man’s muscled legs. There’s no doubt that the man looks good for his age.         

Dean lowers his eyelashes and pulls his lips into a embarrassed smile. “Sure, I’d love that.” He reaches out with his empty hand. “I’m Dean.”

D’Arlo can’t seem to tear his eyes from Dean’s mouth, but he slides his hand into Dean’s anyway. “Nick.” His hand devours Dean’s. It’s smooth and warm. When Dean doesn’t pull his hand back right away, D’Arlo rubs his thumb across the curve of Dean’s hand. Another little shiver takes him. D’Arlo grins.

Dean lets him pull back first. D’Arlo takes the triangle, places it on the table and stacks the balls inside. He’s quick and efficient. “You play a lot of pool?”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve played a few times before, but I’m no expert.”

D’Arlo nods. “I’ll go easy on you.”  

He sets up the game while Dean stands back and watches. “You want to break?” he asks when he’s finished.

“Sure.” Dean steps forward and lets his leg brush against D’Arlo’s. The balls are perfectly lined up on the opposite side of the table. Dean eyes the white ball then plops his cue down.  

“Hey now,” D’Arlo says. He presses his chest against Dean’s back and reaches around for the cue. He smells like Ralph Lauren cologne and menthol cigarettes. “This is a gentleman’s sport. You have to be gentle.”  His hand wraps overtop Dean’s and maneuvers it around the stick. “Here,” he says while guiding Dean into the correct position for the shot. The skin of the man’s cheek is rough with the day’s beard growth; it scratches along the side of Dean’s face as he talks.

Together, they break the triangle. Balls scatter across the table, bang into the sides, and bounce away. The red and green solid balls both fall into pockets. When all of the balls stop rolling D’Arlo pulls away. “Good job,” he praises.

Dean turns and gives the man a hundred watt smile. “Thanks.”  D’Arlo squeezes Dean’s shoulder.  “Let’s keep playing. Maybe you can show me some more moves,” Dean says through lowered lashes.

“I bet I can show you moves you’ve never seen before.” It’s not the worst corny come-on line that Dean’s ever heard, but it still makes him want to laugh. Instead, he crushes the urge and sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bows his head. D’Arlo bumps his foot into Dean’s.

“Do you…” Dean pretends to fumble his words. “Do you want to see my car?”

D’Arlo’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy store. Dean lays his cue overtop the table. The two suits have left, and everyone else is gathered around the adjacent pool table hooting and hollering as the old lady kicks the crap out of the men. “I’d love too.”

Dean gives the man a shy smile then leads him through back down the hallway, across the bar and out the front door. The night air has taken a dip in temperature, but it’s still in the high fifties. Dean loves the cool air almost as much as Sammy loves the hot. D’Arlo is hot on his heels.

He’s parked the Impala a few blocks away, just in case, and the walk to it is torture. Excitement builds in his chest and Dean just wants to push the man against the nearest wall, bite at his lips, and shove a gun in his stomach. Just the thought of the warm blood spreading across his own chest as they pressed together makes him hard.  

“Here it is,” Dean says when they come to the black beauty. He pats its side and leans his behind against the long front. The street light over head is broken and the nearest ones are far enough way that shadows can bare form. D’Arlo steps closer. He stops an inch from Dean. He places a muscled leg on either side of Dean’s, barricading the teen between him and the car.

D’Arlo’s hand comes up and grabs Dean’s chin. His thumb presses into Dean’s lush bottom lip. “It’s beautiful,” he says. He’s not looking at the car. Dean takes a small nip at the plump flesh of the man’s thumb. D’Arlo jolts. Dean can feel his erection. “How old are you?” the man rasps out.

“Don’t worry, I’m legal,” Dean teases. He knows it’s not what D’Arlo wants to hear.

“How old?” He grip becomes harder, slightly painful.

“Eighteen.” Dean states. Harsh pressure on his chin sends a sandpaper rush down his spine. “Sixteen,” he whispers. At least until tomorrow.

The painful grip disappears. Chapped lips smash against his. D’Arlo forces his tongue inside Dean’s mouth. Dean rubs his clothed erection against D’Arlo’s. A loud groan rips from the man’s mouth. “Let’s get in the car,” Dean suggests.

“Yeah.” D’Arlo’s voice is deep with lust.    

 Dean fumbles for his keys and quickly opens the passenger side door. He reaches around the seat and pops up the backseat’s lock. D’Arlo doesn’t wait to be asked. He climbs into the backseat pulling Dean with him. His lips find Dean’s again. He tongue fucks Dean’s mouth in quick, sloppy movements. “Take off your pants,” Dean begs.

The man scrambles to obey. It only takes a moment of inattention for Dean grab the tranquilizer needle taped to the back dash. D’Arlo barely has time to look surprised before Dean’s shoving the needle into neck. It works fast. The man is out before Dean slides needle the out.

He’s breathing heavy- he’s so excited- as D’Arlo slumps down. Dean touches the tip of the needle. There is a drop of blood hanging precariously from the tiny point. A shudder wracks him. He scuttles out of the car. A minute later he’s in the driver’s seat and has turned on the engine. He flips open his phone and texts Dexter. Got him, he types. He buckles his seatbelt, adjusts the review mirror to reflect D’Arlo’s motionless body, and begins the ten minute drive to the abandon warehouse. Nothing could knock the smile from his face or the hardness of his arousal.