What's a political storyline without our favorite White House intern?
Dean leaned against the wall, the hallways empty save for the security guard by the press room entrance and a table laden with the Senator's re-election propaganda.
"The heck?" he muttered, plucking a paperback nearest him. While most politicians stuck to flyers and lapel pins, the Senator had commissioned a slew of romance novels aimed at her constituency, the Heartland Brothers series. He turned to a random page.
"I love you Betty, I do," said Harold, clutching the flag to his chest, "But I love the Party more."
He snorted and looked up. Posters for sale hung in neat black frames, all depicting beautiful young boys with executive haircuts and pillowy lips. One boy stood defiantly on a mountaintop, gazing into eternity as his shirt flapped open to reveal a flash of belly button. Another boy stood knee-deep in water, stripped to the waist with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder as he carried a kitten to safety. But the one that stood out most was of three boys in suits, similar enough to be blood, the outer boys tugging open the shirt of the one in the middle. All the posters read the same at the bottom: I VOTE
"I know all those guys," said a voice near him, "They've been photoshopped to shit."
Dean looked round, into a pair of electric blue eyes beneath a shock of black hair. "I know you?"
The boy smiled, but it vanished quickly. "Probably not," he said, "I've been out of the country for a while."
"Name's Dean." he said, holding out his hand.
"Misha," he said, glancing at the security guard and deciding he didn't he give a fuck, "You like Wild Turkey?"
Dean smiled at the proffered flask and took a swig. "You an intern?"
"Sort of," he said, taking a long drink for himself, "I'm one of her Junior Achievers. Just got back from Haiti, trying out my new business model."
"Who does business in Haiti?"
"Construction companies," said Misha darkly, "My father wanted me to get a foot in the door with the Senator, so I proposed a business model where state construction companies could bid on who got to rebuild Haiti's schools, hospitals, offices, right?"
"Well that sounds pretty damn cool actually." said Dean, impressed, "Did it make money."
Misha took another draft, and his voice dropped ominously. "We made millions."
Dean was about to ask more when the press room doors swung open and several anonymous-looking girls scuttled out with a TV on a rolling tray. "Hey, are they done in there?" Misha asked.
"They're live," one whispered, "Senator wanted us to take notes out here for editing." Where the boys advertised on the wall were tossled and sensual, the girl interns were pin-perfect and frumpy, all long skirts, long hair, tennis shoe worker bees.
"We get to watch Sammy?" Dean asked, nervous for him all of a sudden.
"Ssh." one of them said, a finger at her lips, and Sam's face appeared on the moniter, seated in a high-backed chair across from a local journalist.
"So you just arrived from Crabbe County, that's correct?" the journalist asked.
"Yes." Sam replied, very much at his ease despite all the cameras. After a lifetime around guns, a Canon was hardly going to frighten him.
"Do you feel the government has done it's utmost for the youth there?"
"I...have my own opinions." he said, his brows knitting. He had seen the posters in the hallway on his way in, and the message rankled within him.
"The Senator has worked hard to preserve the innocence of-"
"There's nothing patriotic about the sexualization of children," Sam fired back, a flush creeping into his face, "That fiasco in Crabbe, the media played to the public's fantasy of a bunch of high schoolers having secret gangbang parties, and you all spun the syphilis outbreak story so hard that those kids are never going to have normal lives now."
"You think Americans have fetishized teenagers?"
Sam stared at him, voice gone cold. "I think America has turned into a culocracy."
"What's a kool-aid-cracy?" Dean whispered to Misha.
"Culocracy," Misha corrected him, a smile toying at his lips, "Governed by the desire for ass."
"So you're advocating celibacy?" the journalist asked.
"Don't be an idiot," Sam snapped, "I'm asking our government not to cheapen sex."
His voice softened, and Dean could tell he was lonely. "I'm not perfect, but... I know that out there, there's someone who loves me, who's willing to work around my flaws. What young people need is an open, honest discussion of that fact, that love isn't something you can boil down into a slogan."
"So how would you put love in your own words?"
Sam thought for a moment, looking over his own track record. "Every one according to his ability," he said, the camera cutting to his hands, where he unconsciously kneaded the ring with his thumb, "Every one according to his need."
"Wow," Misha whispered, leaning in to Dean's ear, "Your friend is hardcore."
Dean looked at him sideways. "What are you talking about? He's not even old enough to vote."
Misha raised his eyebrows. "You don't know?"
"He's just like Harold in The Eagle's Promise," sighed one of the girl interns, "When he vowed his eternal love for Jeffrey."
Dean laughed, but stopped short at the look on Misha's face. "You're kidding," he said, "I thought neo-cons were allergic to The Gay."
"Nope," said Misha, shaking his head, "The G.O.P. wants to soften their image."
"This is softening their image?" Dean asked incredulously, pointing at a poster.
"Ah, but did you look at their hands?"
Dean furrowed his brow, trying to catch what he was referring to. "Nothing's wrong with their hands."
Misha laid a finger on one of the brothers in the poster. Glinting atop a fistful of designer shirt shone a simple silver ring.
"Promise rings." Misha explained.
"What's that mean?"
"It means that the party can advertise anything they want, so long as traditional values are in the mix," said Misha, shooting the noble virgins a dirty look, "An abstinent fag is a safe fag. Those guys could be naked and covered in whipped cream bikinis, and it would be cool so long as they wore those rings."
"You have GOT to be kidding me," said Dean, "That's what they think Sam's going on about? That he supports this..." he gestured, at a loss for words.
"The party is not known for their sense of irony." Misha deadpanned.
"You shouldn't joke," reprimanded one of the girls, "Your Haiti model's gonna be on CNN this week, this could get you a place in the White House."
Misha sniffed loudly and looked her squarely in the eye. "You know the first thing I saw when our plane landed?"
She shook her head.
"I saw a five-year-old boy drinking out of a mud puddle," he said, his eyes stinging, "Most of those people are living in the stone age. They don't need air-conditioned waiting rooms. They don't need IPads. They don't need our second-hand khakis. They need water that didn't come out of some crony's bootprint."
Dean laid the book down on the table. "Is that why you're here?" he asked, "To ask the Senator to help those people?"
"I'm gonna try," he said, looking up as the press crew exited the room, "Here she comes."
But Dean had eyes for only one person. "Sammy?"
Sam looked up, and the hard exterior he'd put on for the camera fell away. "Dean," he said, breathlessly, taking his hands, "Let's get out of here."
"Uh uh," said two of the girls, grabbing his arms, "The Senator needs you for tomorrow night. We need to get your measurements."
"What's tomorrow night?" Dean asked, as Sam was hurried along to a different room, "Will someone answer my question?"
"In here Mister Winchester."
His heart skipped a beat. She looked as good as she had in his unbidden daydreams, the home-grown girl who drank to forget the taste of squirrel, on friendly terms with four-star generals, who could value a bottle of wine in dollars or lira.
The Senator was seated behind an expensive desk free of clutter, a miniature of a Pony Express rider set by a drawstring lamp. Her pen scracthed across a pile of forms. Around her sat all of the faces Dean had just seen mounted on the wall outside, all dressed in polos and khakis, lounging about the office in various states of repose like a Red State harem.
"Ah Sam," she said, not bothering to look up, "Good of you to drop in, I was hoping you might be available to linger in our company another day or two. Harold?"
"Yes ma'am?" one of the boys answered, standing to attention.
"Take Sam to my tailor. I hate renting tuxedoes, there's something..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...unwholesome about sharing with strangers."
"Wait, no!" said Sam, as he was shuffled away.
"He's not your mascot," Dean said, the exit blocked as he tried to follow, "You can't keep him here."
Misha stood behind the Senator, eyes wide and shaking his head at Dean in a silent warning.
"You'll see him in an hour," she said calmly, as Sam's voice faded down the hall, "I've arranged for you to have a room next to mine this evening."
"He ain't stickin' around." said Dean, rushing up to the desk.
A sickening crack sounded in his left ear, and suddenly the room turned ninty degrees and he was facedown with six guns pointed at the back of his skull. Of course they're packing heat. he thought belatedly. The big one, the Kitten Rescuer, looked the most relaxed with a piece in his hand, and Dean guessed he had a military background.
"Your cooperation is appreciated Mister Winchester," she said, her pen still scratching, "Girls, see that he is made useful. I'm sure you can find something for him to do in Recreations."
"But...but we thought we could have a break from working on that." one of the girls asked tremulously.
"The Hell House is necessary," the Senator said, an edge to her voice, "I expect your best efforts."
"But the ball...aren't the girls invited as well?" one of the other interns asked. She was a dishwater blonde whose eyebrows disappeared into her forehead, with an unfortunate nose and dark gums.
The Senator cast them a critical eye, as if they were strays caught licking their own sick-up. She had no patience for the unfuckable. "The Chastity Ball is a haven for those who might attract sexual predators," she said, checking off a tiny box on her form, "I think your hymens are safe."
"She has a point," Misha piped in, "They've been giving up their weekends for the past month, can't they have-"
Two of the boy interns stopped him, grabbing his arms so a third could punch him in the breadbasket, and he pitched over beside the desk. Dean shouted, but the boot on his face kept him in place, and soon Misha was curled up in a ball, trying not to throw up.
"Did you forget everything I worked for back in Crabbe County?" the Senator asked, standing up, her voice very low, "You can't sell safe sex," she said, punctuating her words with a pointed shoe in the ribs, "If they aren't scared of sex in the first place."
"The Haiti funds are in my name," she said, bending over to lift him by the hair, "You will help them get the Hell House in order before the dance tomorrow night, or I'm dumping all your money into Greek penny stocks. Do you understand?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came out, so he nodded. She seemed satisfied, and motioned to the girls to deal with him.
"As for you Mister Winchester," she said, re-seating herself, "I would limit myself to fruitful labor over the next few days if I were you."
"I ain't interested in your cult of personality." he said, earning him a dig in the face that he'd feel when he brushed his teeth that night.
"Will you look at that," she said, glancing around the room with a smile, "He read a book."
The boy interns laughed at the joke.
"You have a record," she said, back to business, "A few words in the right ear and you'll be spending the night in a county detention cell. Is that really in Sam's best interest?"
He swallowed. This was her territory, her rules. "No ma'am."
"Fast learner," she said, "Keep an eye on this one, the Washington brass will want some extra muscle in the coming days."
"Get up." said Harold, and Dean and Misha were shoved into the hall where a girl with a clipboard stood by nervously.
"Ah," she said, squeaking a little at so much beefcake all at once, "Soooo you're helping with Hell House?"
"I am now." Dean replied miserably.
"Well there's not much left to do," she said, walking toward the back entrance, "I guess we could use someone in lighting though."
"What's a Hell House anyway?" he asked, pushing open the doors into the afternoon light.
"Am I supposed to be scared?" Dean asked, walking past the open doorways.
The girls had converted an old school into a series of frightening tableaus. At least, what had been approved as frightening according to the official party handbook.
"I mean come on," he said, holding out a hand, "Glue sniffers?"
Inside, a dark-haired mannequin in a trenchcoat was accosting a Fair Flower of Girlhood, a slimy trail trickling out of his left nostril.
"And this, what the hell is this?" he asked, pointing to another room where four mannequins sat around a table littered with ten-sided die and pizza boxes.
"Gamers," she said, shaking her head sadly, "Poor schmucks."
"Why do they have such bad teeth?" Dean asked.
"Because the party surveys show that they jerk off more often than they brush their teeth." Misha answered drily.
"All they do is masterbate," the girl said pittingly, "Where are they supposed to find a job?"
Misha mulled this over. "YMCA?"
"You're not gonna scare anybody with this," Dean said, "Who's in charge of this operation?"
The girl pursed her lips, and Dean realized his gaffe. "What I meant to ask was," he said quickly, "What are you getting out of this? Out of helping the Senator?"
"I want to get into a good school," she said, hugging her clipboard, "She can pull strings for me."
"And what if she doesn't get re-elected?" Misha asked coldly, "You really think she's gonna do you any favors?"
She looked away, but Dean took her arm gently. "Look, I dunno what that bitch's plans are for Sammy, but they can't be good. I know what scary looks like, and if we do this right we can really screw her over."
She considered his offer, chewing her lip. She couldn't see Misha's bruises, but she could imagine what those jerks were capable of when there were no witnesses. "What do you suggest?"
He looked her up and down, and smiled. "Ever considered a career in theater?"
"You're out of your mind." said Misha, shuffling the index cards in his hands.
"Shut up and deal already."
Misha laid out three cards at random, turning them face up for Dean to read. "Naked. Horde. Cannibal." he said, tapping a pencil against his lips as he attempted to cast the dishwater blonde intern, "Congratulations, you're the Cannibal Queen of the Naked Amazon Horde. You should be able to get a bikini out of this." he said, tossing her a fake tiger skin rug.
"Where do you get these ideas?" Misha asked as the next two girls in line approached.
"Stag magazines," Dean replied, looking at the next three cards, "Communist. Orgy. Torture. Congratulations, you and your friend are now Communist torturors capturing American soldiers for your midnight orgies. Your shirts will be allowed one button apiece."
"You think this'll scare people?" Misha asked.
"Why should the boys have all the fun?" asked Dean, a wicked smile playing at his lips, "I'm a big believer in gender equality."
Hours later, night had fallen, and Dean was shown to his hotel room. Sam stood up the moment he entered, and rushed into his arms.
"You're hurt." he said, laying a hand gently on his bruises.
"Never mind, what happened with you after you left?"
"Nothing really," Sam admitted, "They fitted me for a suit and locked me in here afterwards, to talk about this." He held up a folder.
"We should leave, this doesn't feel right."
"We can't," Sam insisted, "It's a police report, look."
"What, she wants us on a job?" Dean asked, as Sam walked over to the bed where several photos were scattered.
"In the last week there's been four deaths," Sam began, "All within a mile of here, all done in the same way."
"How's this our business?"
Sam said nothing, and handed him the coroner's report. Dean snatched it away, scanning it, and then, slowly, going back to reread it. By the end of the page, his face had gone completely white.
"What the hell does that to it's prey?" Dean asked quietly.
"I don't know," Sam answered, scooping up the papers, "But the Senator gave this to me this afternoon, she asked if we could look into it."
"We only have one gun."
"She can get us more."
"I hate her."
"So do I."
Dean looked up, imagining Sam on a mortician's slab, and hugged him from behind. "She's not telling us everything." he whispered.
"I know, but there's going be more journalists at the event tomorrow, and I want to be there." he said, remembering all the kids they'd run across in the last few towns, the dog food rations the Senator had provided them with before hitting the road.
Dean smirked. "You looked good on camera."
"Thanks," Sam said, smiling, "You think people will understand a word I said?"
"Culocracy? The hell'd you learn that?"
"You always sucked at Latin." said Sam, turning around to lay a hand on his face, the ring cool against his skin.
"She's gonna trot you out for that Promise Ring crap of hers," said Dean, as Sam pressed against him, "Does that mean you gotta promise to behave?"
"No," Sam said, reaching to turn out the light, "It just means I'm promised."
Dean listened to him unbutton his shirt. "Didn't think you'd be in the mood..."
Sam took his face in both hands, sucking at his mouth greedily. "I haven't stopped thinking about you," he whispered, a knee between Dean's legs, "And then she gave me that folder..."
Ah. Dean thought. Dangerous jobs always brought out the romantic in Sam, in a sick sort of way.
Dean felt for the bed in the dark, turning on the side lamp. "I want to see you."
Sam gave a little sideways smile. "Who else would I be?"
Dean left the question unanswered as he was pushed to the mattress, Sam grabbing his shoes and flinging them to the carpet. His pants followed suit, and soon their clothes littered the floor as they found their way between the sheets, Sam legs wrapped tightly around his waist.
He lay Sam beneath him, cheeks flushed against the pillow, a wicked glitter in his eyes as Dean knelt between his legs. "Give me your hand." he whispered.
He took his hand in his left, bringing the fingers to his mouth, pressing them to his tongue until they shining with slick. "I need you," he said, tilting his chin up for a kiss, "Don't you need it too?"
Dean looked down at him, this dark nymph, wondering if he would ever be this turned on by horrors, and said, "Don't ask stupid questions."
He worked himself with his right hand, slowly until he was hard against Dean's belly, and grabbing his neck he brought him down for a kiss while a hand searched him between his legs. Sam's breath hitched as he was invaded, a wanton smile spreading across his face.
"More, I need more." he said, burying Dean's face in his neck, "I want the whole building to know, fucking give it me already."
Dean slid his arms under Sam's knees, driving himself deep inside, and Sam's head bounded against the headboard as his eyes shut. Soon they were panting in time together, lost in the familiar rhythm.
"Don't be scared," Sam whispered, reading the tension in Dean's shoulders, "They won't take me away from you."
When Dean showed signs of wearying, Sam shook his head, "No no no don't stop now, I need this."
"Well what-"
"The desk," Sam hissed, "Take me to the desk."
Dean lifted him into the air and carried him across the room, where Sam's hands slammed flat on top as he was taken from behind. Beneath him, the desk rocked and the photos, nightmares made flesh, fluttered to the carpet.
"Your nails," said Sam, grabbing Dean's hands and placing them atop ribs, "Here."
Dean knew what he was after, and he hoped it would be enough to keep Sam from chasing after the real deal tomorrow. "Like this?"
"Yeah." Sam said breathlessly, working himself as Dean pounded into him, fingers digging into him hard enough to draw blood, "Oh fucking hell you are so good, don't stop."
"You close?"
"Yeah don't...fuck go faster please go faster..."
He sped up, hips snapping into him, and as the boy's voice pitched higher and higher, he could feel his own end coming, unable to hold back, and as they crashed into each other, Dean wondered fleetingly if the Senator was listening to them next door.
The Senator swirled the wine in her glass, listening to them next door. Housekeeping was going to give her hell in the morning, those desks weren't cheap.
A soft knock alerted her, and she turned to the door where an envelope was tucked under the gap. Bending down to take it, she opened the letter and smiled at the contents.
"St. Joseph's? Room 122?" she asked over the phone. She trusted the boys to get the job done, but she needed insurance. Nothing was going to ruin the campaign.
"Hello, John?" she said, looking at her bed thru the prism of her Chianti, "It's been an age."