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00
Dull brown earth. Gray-blue sky.
Autumn had rolled across the American Midwest just as it always did—golden prairie grass weaving through the breeze, the gaps between bent stalks revealing brown-and-black cattle markings. A few wispy clouds drifted overhead, and a line of geese slipped silently into the corner of the view, fading gradually at the seam where sky met earth. The gravel underfoot was scorched by the autumn sun, hot enough to make you shift from foot to foot. Even the light blue denim had gone warm from the heat.
The sun—humans are born loving it, even depending on its warmth. Dexter's no exception. He felt the sweat trickle slowly down the back of his neck, felt his skin relaxing under the light. How long had it been since he'd felt this loose? His eyes, in this sunlight, were that deep forest green, and his reddish curls caught a faint golden sheen, tousled by the wind. He couldn't even remember anymore—time had flown, leaving only the memory of light on his skin.
"Tell me, little brother—do you have any regrets?"
Dexter squinted and turned to look at Brian, who had his eyes closed. His brother's dark hair was a mess of cowlicks, a bead of sweat hanging off the bridge of his sharp nose. His hands were propped behind him, barely a pinky's width away from Dexter. As if sensing Dexter's gaze, Brian opened his eyes—those piercing pupils contracting sharply as they locked onto Dexter.
Dexter's mouth curved into a bitter smile. He looked up at the tree looming over them—black vines twisting around it, branches growing wild, rust-red leaves rustling against each other. Regrets? He had more than he could count. But it was all too late now. The branches had already grown into their trained shapes, and the layers of burls had sealed away whatever was really inside. Dexter couldn't do it. Not yet. He'd just stepped out to catch his breath—thirty-something voicemails from Debra on his phone, and he hadn't listened to a single one.
He just… needed a break from that world for a while.
Brian was still waiting for Dexter's answer. No rush—his brother was right beside him. He followed Dexter's gaze, tilting his head, and the two of them sat there in the silent sunlight for a long time, beer bottles slowly emptying, white light dancing on the sandy ground.
"Come on. Let's hit the road."
01
"Deb,hey, it's me."
Not many cars on I-95. Maybe because Dexter had slipped away. The sun hung low, casting long shadows, the scenery whipping past. The rental car hummed along the overpass, the endless river flowing toward where the sun was setting.
"You know,I’m gonna need more than a day to clear my head—it’s hard to concentrate.There’s a lot to digest,I guess."
Time. That's what he needed most right now. Work. The Doomsday Killer case. His sister Debra. Harrison. All of it eating into his limited "fun time." He'd turned into some kind of family man, just like Brian teased him—a househusband. Dexter snorted softly. His life was mostly just obligations now. He'd left Harrison with Jimmy, but he already missed that pretty blond hair—just like his mother's. He wondered if it would darken as he grew up. Rita's never did. Then again, who could say?
"I'll be back in four days—five tops. Hope that hearing thing goes well."
Dense forest on both sides, branches whipping past in a blur of color. Sunlight spilled over the roof, warming the cabin through the windows, only to be sliced away by the endless trees.
Brian sat in the passenger seat, the lower half of his face lit up by the sun. He pulled down the visor to cut the glare, the warm patch sliding down to his thigh. He leaned back comfortably, turning his head to stare at the back of his brother's neck—that little patch of skin where the ends of his hair brushed against. Brian had never imagined he'd get the chance to take a road trip with his brother. It was like getting everything he'd ever wanted—time alone with Dexter! No Miami PD, no Harry Morgan's rules, no fake sister Debra clinging to him—and Dexter had chosen his real brother. The dark-haired man couldn't help it; a grin spread across his face, the corners of his mouth curling up against his will.
Dexter shot a glance at Brian, frowning in confusion. "What? I'm not allowed to smile?" Brian asked.
"No…" Dexter mumbled. "It's just—when you smile, nothing good follows."
"Hey, I'm just happy my cute little brother invited me on a road trip!" Brian tried to explain.
Dexter gave a flat response: "You talked me into it."
Brian feigned hurt. "You're the one who wanted to track down Jonah for answers—I just gave you a little nudge from behind." He gestured. Of course, they both knew Brian had had more than a little to do with this sudden trip.
A brief but genuine smile flickered across Dexter's face. He pressed the gas, accelerating past the car in front. The tires hummed over the asphalt, a faint vibration coming through the chassis, the straight road stretching out before them—lane markers swallowed up one after another. He just kept driving, chasing the horizon. It felt different from driving around the city, where he mostly cruised around stalking prey. Out here, there was no fixed target, no fear of exposure—just his foot on the pedal.
Reddish-brown fields appeared on either side, bordered by layers of bushes, with cream-colored farmhouses dotting the farmland. Livestock trucks kept appearing on the road, pigs and cows poking their heads through the slats, snorting restlessly at the moving air and the jostling space.
"Hey bro, I got your message."
The car radio was playing music—Brian's pick. He always liked those mellow classical pieces, just like Dexter. After all, the Ice Truck Killer had some taste. Dexter remembered those drained, bruised, frozen body parts—arranged like works of art, cut with surgical precision. Even after all these years, Dexter still felt something seeing his brother's work. It mesmerized him. Admit it—he was a little glad Brian was back. He really had missed him.
“Um,I know this is a tough time for you,so take today off.But please don’t take four.What’s left off my ass just got handed to me on a paper plate at the compstat hearing,DDK is either gonna make my career or and it.I need your help.”
His sister's earnest voicemail floated through the car. Brian rolled his eyes. Come on, she's an adult—why does she need Dexter for everything? It was about time his real family took up Dexter's attention. Hearing the recording, Dexter's face was unusually tight. A selfish, dark little thought was taking root inside him. Hadn't he helped her enough? Debra seemed to take it for granted—ever since they were teenagers. Dexter wanted to be a good brother, not a full-time babysitter. Harry had warned him: never let the people closest to you see that side of you. It would destroy them. Bullshit. Brian was right here, wasn't he? Sure, Brian was on his hunting list, but he was also the one Dexter most wanted to spare. Brian had held onto their shared memories—the mystery of Dexter's past. And honestly, Dexter really, really wanted to play with Brian. He deliberately ignored Debra's voicemails and finally reached out and turned off the player. Brian saw it all—and his twisted love fed on it.
They pulled over at a roadside convenience store.
Everything was scorching under the blazing sun. Dexter just wanted to get inside. A yellowed piece of paper caught his eye—just a wanted poster taped to a telephone pole. Wait. He stopped short, ignoring the burning sun, and carefully peeled it down. An FBI wanted poster from five years ago. The mugshot—Brian Moser.
"…Wanted nationwide for the Ice Truck Killer—Brian Moser, also known as Rudy Cooper—number of victims unknown… currently at large…"
Some of the text was missing, the corners doodled on by kids. The photo was still Brian's old prosthetist headshot. Looks like the Midwest was even more out of the loop than Dexter thought. He looked anxiously toward his brother—Brian had already gone inside to pick out hot dogs. Dexter folded the poster and shoved it in his pocket. Shit. He couldn't guarantee no one around here would recognize Brian.
Dexter shoved open the glass door—bell jingling—and the girl at the counter was just chatting away on the phone. Brian was bent over the condiment station, squeezing out a mountain of ketchup. He waved when he saw Dexter coming. Even though Dexter was starving, this couldn't wait. He grabbed Brian's shirt and dragged him behind a shelf, out of sight.
"Whoa, whoa—what're you doing?" Brian asked, frowning at Dexter's pinched expression.
Dexter shoved the wanted poster at him. Brian took it in one hand, chewing his hot dog thoughtfully. Dexter paced nervously, hands clenching and unclenching, palms sweaty, the front of his shirt damp. He was fighting the urge to scream at Brian, but this was making him genuinely anxious—heart pounding. If the poster was still up after five years, there was no guarantee someone wouldn't recognize him—
"Dex," his brother suddenly called out. Dexter's green eyes snapped to him. Brian placed a hand on Dexter's arm, slowly pulling him into an embrace. "Breathe. One-two—one-two—again…" Brian murmured in his ear, low and warm.
Dexter closed his eyes and leaned into his brother's chest, his nose unconsciously brushing against Brian. Brian pushed the sweaty hair off his forehead, his palm grazing his cheek.
Brian squeezed the back of Dexter's neck gently, soothing him. "Hey little brother, you okay? You look like you're about to have a panic attack."
Dexter's warm breath brushed past Brian's chin. Brian couldn't help thinking about touching those soft lips, kissing those trembling lashes. Oh, his little brother—so worried about big brother Biney's safety, caring about him so much. Brian felt a twitch in his lower belly.
"Dex, that was five years ago. Nobody's gonna pay us any attention. Relax."
"But—!" Dexter's voice was sharp; he glanced around and forced himself lower. "But that doesn't guarantee nobody will recognize you."
"You really think anyone in this godforsaken place cares about a five-year-old serial killer who's not even from their state? Come on. This isn't Florida."
Brian pressed on, ruthlessly poking holes in Dexter's little self-deceptions. "Or are you worried that sticking with big brother Biney will get you dragged down, and your little fake world will come crashing down—your fake sister crying her eyes out?" Sharp and cutting.
Dexter pulled back slightly from Brian's embrace, turning his head away without speaking—but the tips of his ears were faintly red. Sometimes Brian thought his brother was just adorably childish. "We're blood brothers. I know you. You know me. Right?" He patted Dexter's shoulder. "If we stay back here any longer, people are really gonna wonder what we're doing."
Dexter rolled his eyes at his brother's suggestive tone and followed him out from behind the shelf. But his heart still hadn't calmed down—his chest was heaving faster than normal. Brian wasn't wrong, though. He was scared. Dexter had spent his whole life in the shadows, carefully maintaining that well-crafted mask. He couldn't imagine what Debra or anyone else would think if they saw the monster behind it—though he could picture a few people looking at him the same way James Doakes did. He glanced up at his brother's relaxed expression. Brian was born a killer—wasn't Dexter too? They'd survived that horror together. Relax. Nobody here knows Dexter. Nobody knows about the knives and tranquilizers in his trunk. Relax.
They walked past the register with their hot dogs. A gun stock under the counter caught a sliver of light. Dexter's gaze darkened, but he said nothing. Just then Brian turned back, catching that flicker of longing. He smiled to himself, shoved his half-eaten hot dog into Dexter's hand, and walked up to the blonde girl on the phone.
"…I told you, I'm don’t like fucking when your mom’s home." The girl looked the dark-haired man up and down, then turned to the phone. "Register’s over here, I gotta go."
Brian flashed his standard fake smile—all eight teeth gleaming. The dumb girl was cute. Cute enough to drain dry, until her skin went pale and all her little veins showed through.
Dexter watched Brian chat her up, confused. He didn't get why all women seemed completely blind to his brother's obviously fake smile. Brian leaned forward, hands on the counter, saying something that made the girl twirl her hair. Dexter couldn't quite put his finger on it—watching his own brother hit on other girls made him feel… weird. Uncomfortable. Like tiny bugs crawling under his skin.
The blonde giggled and disappeared into the back room. Brian winked at Dexter and followed. Dexter raised an eyebrow, fiddling with his hot dog. If Brian wanted to have fun right now, fine—whatever. But that didn't mean Dexter approved. He'd never really understood sex. He filed it under "biological necessity." Rita was different, sure, but Dexter still tried to avoid unnecessary entanglements—emotional or physical.
A shrill scream came from the back room—cut short instantly. Then Brian burst out, covered in blood, shoving the door open. Dexter nearly choked on his hot dog. Brian lunged to the counter, snatched the gun from under it, and tossed it to Dexter. His face was a mess of barely contained excitement—pupils pinpricks, blood splattered across his grinning lips.
Dexter looked back. From the amount of blood on the wallpaper visible through the door, that girl was definitely dead. He screamed at Brian in fury: "What did you do?!"
"I cut her throat!" Brian screamed back. Everything was chaos—classic Brian: crazy, impulsive. "Run! Move!"
It all happened too fast. Before Dexter could process it, his brother was dragging him toward the car. Adrenaline surging, the street blurring past, the sun blinding him—he just followed the dark figure ahead. They slammed the doors shut, and Brian floored it before Dexter even had his seatbelt on.
"For fuck's sake, Brian! You better explain what the hell you're doing!" Dexter grabbed the overhead handle, cursing.
Brian spun the wheel, dodging pedestrians. "I told you! I killed her—with a knife!"
"That was an innocent girl!" Dexter glared at his way-too-cheerful brother.
"So?" Brian scoffed. "I'm a fucking serial killer—it says so on the poster!"
Dexter was fuming, while Brian howled with laughter, speeding into the distance. Hot wind poured into the car, blasting Brian's blood-caked face, smearing blood all over the steering wheel. Sunlight glinted off the hood, stabbing at their eyes. The speedometer was deep into the red. Wind roaring in their ears, bushes falling away behind them, exhaust trailing—engine screaming. Dexter still couldn't believe Brian had just killed someone right in front of him. He didn't like it—it was messy, unplanned. The girl's blood had smeared onto his shirt hem. Blood dripping down the walls of that store. Their fingerprints everywhere. Dexter pressed his lips tight. Brian was humming a little tune. Dexter was still holding the gun—its heavy weight pressing against his thigh. He tossed it into the back seat.
Night fell. The orange sky melted into deep purple, one half of the heavens swallowed by darkness. Stars dotted the firmament; the moon hadn't risen yet. Brian switched to high beams, the pale light fanning out ahead, bat silhouettes occasionally flitting across. Road signs glowed fluorescent in the dark, flashing past the windows. The dashboard lights hit Brian's face from below, sharpening his angular features, shadows pooling in his brooding eyes. His little brother hadn't spoken a word since they left the store. He wouldn't even look at him—just leaned his head against the window, staring out into the pitch-black nothing. Brian kept tapping the steering wheel, a dull thud against the leather.
Brian held something out to Dexter. "Dex, eat this." He saw Dexter's eyes dart briefly to his hand, but no words—just those pressed-tight lips. "Dexter," Brian switched to his big-brother voice, "eat it. It'll make you feel better."
Dexter's eyes rolled, catching the dim light in the car. He looked at Brian's upturned palm—a small white pill with a score line down the middle. Great. His brother's a junkie too. Dexter picked it up and asked quietly, "Where'd you get this?"
Brian pulled his hand back. "The blonde always had a few on her."
Dexter was zoned out. The lights ahead carved out Brian's profile—sharp, angular, eyelids lowered, his whole face all cold tones on the spectrum. "Don't tell me you've never done drugs. You're not some good boy, are you? I don't think Harry would agree."
"…In college. Tried it a few times." Dexter mumbled, his voice evasive. Admitting things always made him squirm.
"Did you get hooked?"
A pause. Dexter's voice dropped to a whisper. "I've got a bigger addiction."
Brian's laugh echoed in the car—his real laugh, weird and screechy, like some kind of bird.
"Don't we all?" He grabbed a water bottle from the side and handed it to Dexter. "Now. Take it."
Dexter held the pill up, watching the light slide across its surface. It had been over a decade since he'd touched drugs and tasted that loss of control. That baseless euphoria—not as good as the rush of killing, but definitely memorable. The image of the girl's body, that wanted poster flipping in his mind. He looked at Brian. Should he take it? Let his brain stop spinning? With Brian here…
Dexter swallowed the pill with water, his throat bobbing, a bitter taste spreading at the back of his tongue. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, trembling. Soon the drug kicked in—his muscles loosened, and he let out a long, slow breath.
When he opened his eyes again, his pupils were blown wide. Brian's soft throat-clearing echoed and bounced around in his ears. There was a constant beeping sound. Dexter fumbled for the radio dial. "I don't like those sounds…"
"What sounds?" Brian asked.
"I said—!" Dexter screamed at Brian, "I don't like those—those beeping sounds! They're so loud! So annoying!"
Brian made a face. Well, it's working. Dexter cranked the late-night radio to max. "…Not this… not this—fuck!" He slammed his fist on the already-busted radio.
"Hey baby, need a hand?" Brian asked cautiously, tilting his head.
"No—! No!" Dexter finally found the right channel. "I got this." Metal rock exploded through the dark night, blasting down the highway. Dexter's head bobbed violently to the beat, his whole upper body twisting with the drums, hands hitting the ceiling. That mop of curls got even messier with the headbanging, strands falling over his eyebrows. He was belting out nonsense lyrics, a carefree happiness crawling up his spine and flooding his brain.
"Brian—Braa—an—Biney—Biney Biney! Bi-nee!" Dexter kept chanting his brother's name, eyes glazed, feeling the syllables roll across his tongue. His green eyes stared blankly through the windshield, his body slumped sideways in the seat. "Bii—ney! Since when did we get patterned glass in this car?" Brian laughed. Well, he didn't expect his brother on drugs to be this cute—so unguarded. Maybe he should push pills on him more often.
"We always had it! You begged for this piece—said it made you look cool!" Brian shouted back over the deafening rock.
Dexter tilted his head, watching the needle on the dashboard jump out and turn into a scorpion. He followed the scorpion as it crawled up Brian's warped arm to his neck. Brian opened his mouth—full of sharp fangs—and the scorpion's tail vanished into his throat. His brother's face looked like a piece of rubber being stretched sideways. Dexter suddenly lunged forward, grabbing Brian's shoulders. Brian jolted, hands scrambling for the wheel, tires screeching. Dexter tried to stand up in the cramped car, ended up bracing himself on Brian's shoulders, prying his mouth open with both hands.
Brian yelled, muffled: "What the hell!"
Dexter peered into his throat, then made his first surprising decision of the night—he kissed Brian.
Just a light touch of lips. Dexter unconsciously bit his brother's lower lip. His green eyes locked onto Brian's wide ones—open mouths, shared breath, chests heaving. Dexter casually brushed past him, stretching like a cat to reach for the gun in the back seat—while Brian just stared ahead, still feeling the ghost of those lips, those fucking green eyes. It's a miracle they didn't crash.
He rolled down the window—the roaring wind carrying the music out like a streamer trailing behind the car. Dexter stuck the gun out the window. "Faster! Go faster!" Brian floored it—needle shooting up like a goddamn spring. Dexter's mouth wide open, wind filling his lungs, he pulled the trigger—wildly shooting at the oncoming signs. A bullet punched a hole in one. The next target approached.
"Right through the ‘O’!" Brian yelled. Bang—Dexter giggled. He missed, but kept firing into the sky.
He screeched: "I don't even like guns!"
"Oh really," Brian's face was pure madness, "you prefer knives, don't you! Knives that hurt, that make them squirm, that make them bleed!" Red! Red! Blood flooding the car seats, gushing from under the seats, spraying into the sky—the color of the dying sun. The whole car was covered in it—flowing, swirling—Dexter was practically swimming in it. He grinned, his laugh high and shrill.
"Try different targets, something more familiar!" Dexter happily obliged—aiming at a grinning face on a massive billboard. Bang—headshot! The canvas burst open—more holes blooming around it. They sped off, leaving a trail of blood and wreckage, the rock music still echoing through the night sky. No sister breathing down your neck. No daily fear of being caught. No suppressed instincts. Just freedom, and hot wind, and the endless highway. Yeah—this ain't Miami!