I can never write about the Heartland boys without thinking of that Rolling Stone magazine cover the Jonas Brothers did once, they look INCREDIBLY gay.

Btw, in case the pearl references make no sense, real pearls have a grainy texture, so if you see someone sticking a pearl necklace against the inside of their lip, that's what they're testing for.


Dean was halfway to the conference center, midday sun burning down his neck, when he heard someone crying.

"Sammy?" he said, jogging and then sprinting to the figure in the middle of the street, sobs muffled by the hands over his face as he shuffled along the median.

"Dean!" he yelled, eyes wide in surprise, "I thought you were in jail."

He wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him in close. "We have to steal a ride," Sam whispered in his neck, "I saw a van on the side of the road back there, if I can hose off before we hit the road-"

"Holy shit what happened to you?" Dean asked, prying his wrists apart to see where all the blood had come from.

Sam's breath hitched, his voice raw. "She...she..."

"Who?" asked Dean, "The Senator?"

Sam nodded, and Dean's voice turned ugly. "What did you do?"

Sam looked scared all of a sudden, and it made Dean's stomach knot with suspicion. "Sammy you had all night to look for me, you didn't even try to post my bail."

He'd spent the last several miles daydreaming about this next hunt with John, all perfectly chaste, but a tiny, tiny, black part of him wanted a reason to push Sam away and make those dreams into something more.

"I couldn't help it," Sam whispered, crossing his arms protectively as everything came out in a rush, "I went to her office to ask for your release, and when I got there she was in a meeting with her interns, and they were really mad about something and they had her pinned to the desk and I had to fight them off and..."

He trailed off and Dean shook his head, not wanting to hear what came next. "And then?" he asked.

Sam's lip trembled. "She was so scared."

Dean wiped his mouth, furious that Sam could have fallen for a damsel in distress but already playing out how he could use the boy's faithlessness to cash in on John's sympathy later that night. "Tell me you didn't," he said, grabbing Sam's shirt, "Tell me you didn't do this."

"I'm sorry Dean," he said, eyes shining, "One thing just led to another-"

"You're sorry," he said, mouth stretched tight, wishing he could throw him to the ground and wash his hands of him, "I'm gone for one night-"

"Please, not now," Sam pleaded, looking around for witnesses, "We can't stay here, they have my picture, they'll have a warrant out for me."

"Why?" he asked, his voice breaking, "Because you fucked her?"

Sam blinked. "What? No, why would you think that?"

Dean looked down at his clothes, tacky with blood, none of it Sam's. The boy smelled more like flopsweat then sex, and now Dean was scared. "What happened?"

Sam's eyes went blank, as if someone had blown out the light behind them. "I killed her."


Ten hours earlier...

The Senator sat down at her desk and flicked open the evening post, smiling at the headline. ABSTINENCE HORROR SHOW DRAWS IN DONORS

She fiddled with her pearls as she read, sucking on them gently to tell the fakes apart. She'd changed out of the ballgown into a houndstooth jacket and skirt, her hair pulled back into a bun as if it offended her propriety. Behind her, the moon reflected a framed needlework of My Country 'Tis of Thee, the sole memento of her rough upbringing. Without moving her head, her eyes slid sideways to the knock on the door, and she covered the headline with a stack of receipts.

"Come in." she said, cradling a phone between ear and shoulder, so that when the Heartland boys entered they immediately asked permission to interrupt. Sometimes she forgot how distracting they were, each one a different example of masculine beauty. The three dark-curled ones that hinted at Jewish ancestry, the coal-miner's son with the green eyes and trim build, the corn-fed blonde with the freckles across his nose. But then Harold entered, and even though John Winchester had been half a lifetime ago, she always had a soft spot for soldiers.

"Just a minute," she said to no one over the phone, and covered the receiver with her manicured hand, "Can I help you?"

"We need to talk," said Harold, walking heavily to her desk and then changing tack as her perfume hit him, "Ma'am."

She looked away, as if her priorities were printed on the wallpaper and his problems ranked right below adjusting her bra strap. "Can I put you on hold?" she said, crushing the red button with her thumb.

He cleared his throat, having rehearsed this in the mirror. "You should have these," he said, placing six promise rings on her desk, "We don't have a right to them anymore."

"Oh hush now," she said gently, as if he had stolen a five from her purse to appease a bully, "It's not the end of the world, you were coerced."

She took his hand, understanding writ large on her face, but he pulled away. "We were six against one. Sam was hardly a threat."

"He had a gun." she said, her mouth hanging open at the last word, a note of accusation as she noted Harold's empty holster.

"We all had guns."

"Is that what you're going to tell the news?" she said, her face sharp in the lamplight as she leaned forward, "That you let a delinquent take advantage of you?"

"I didn't let-"

"This isn't about you," she said, "Honey there's only one word in the army that's worse then fag, and that's whore. Soldiers have enough heartache, they don't need it from their heroes too."

Harold looked down. With his combat credentials, and assuming he could graduate from a good school, he'd planned on a job in the State Department, acting as an advocate for gays in the military. The romance novels had earned him a lot of fanmail from closeted soldiers.

She picked up one of the Heartland novels, Harold's mighty thews gleaming on the cover. "Ever since we lost to Kennedy, the GOP has invested in the business of pretty people, and you are what people think you are. Brilliant, brave," she said, tracing the metallic raised lettering, "Unobtainable."

He raised his head. "I don't care what people think."

"Choose your next words," she said, tossing the book down, "Those colleges you applied for? They want respectable boys. The alumni association won't be too pleased knowing there's two hundred and fifty pounds of insatiable beef sleeping in the dorms."

He took the hand of the boy standing next to him, all of them looking down at her in solidarity. "I don't plan on sleeping with strangers."

"Ah. Well, I hate to spoil your little..." she paused, lips curling, "...democracy, but I sign the checks around here. So here's my counter offer."

She pulled out a paper tablet and began scribbling down notes.

"You will take this statement to the press tomorrow," she said, hand traveling swiftly from left to right, "Provided you do exactly as I direct you, you get to keep your jobs until the election, after which I will happily write any number of letters of recommendation to the school of your choice."

She tore off the paper and pressed it flat on the desk before him.

"Until then, wear the rings and keep it in your pants," she said, plucking the phone from it's cradle with a sharp click, "Or you'll be in line for Food Stamps by the end of the week."

Harold scanned the press statement, eyes lighting upon buzz words like lewd advances and conspiracy.

"And take a bath," she said, waving them away in dismissal, "You smell like a French cathouse."

Harold set his jaw. "Can I ask you a question ma'am?"

She raised her eyebrows, the rings still glittering on her desk.

"When was the last time you got fucked?"


Sam watched Misha leave, turning back toward the Senator's office right as the light moved under the door, as if a lamp had been pushed onto the carpet.

"What are you doing?" she asked, and when Sam pressed his face to the keyhole, he saw two of the interns pinning her arms from behind while another swept the desk clear.

"You're out of your minds, I could have you all arrested..." she said, trailing off as Harold began unbuttoning her blouse.

"We're not stupid," said Harold, opening her blouse to reveal firm, tan breasts, nipples hardening before he even touched her, "Of all the Republicans in the Capitol, you hold the record for best behavior. No rent boys, no meth deals, no underage sex chats."

Sam froze, not sure if he ought to interrupt. She was watching Harold very carefully, like a rottweiler that had slipped it's leash.

"Instead you've been staring at us for the last two years," he said, his hand an inch from her heart, "Were you waiting for us to ask permission?"

She pressed her lips together, breathing fast thru her nose as she struggled against her captors. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're really not interested?" he asked, fingertips trailing lightly on her skin, "Short skirts, six inch heels, frying your hair into place every day, for what, the press to notice?"

He bent over slowly, a little sigh escaping her as he pressed his mouth to her neck. This wasn't exactly how she'd pictured it, her shower fantasies usually involved more begging on their part, but then her self-respect won out. "You're only hurting yourself by doing this," she rasped, "You wanted state jobs, think about your credibility."

"You're so beautiful..." he said, and as two of the boys knelt to take off her stilettos. She was surprisingly short without them, so that when they got down on their knees and wrapped their arms around her waist, her tits were right in their faces.

"Put her on the desk." said Harold, and before she could protest she was lifted by several sets of hands, thumbs pressed cruelly into the soft flesh above her knees.

Wealth had given her a degree of separation from a great deal of unpleasantness. She lived by the service of others, meals prepared, shirts ironed, gas pumped, vibrators mail-ordered in exchange for money. She touched nothing and nothing touched her. Until now, she thought as hands traveled up her bare calves.

A blonde curl came loose, falling over one eye as she looked up at Harold. His hands were rough and calloused against her, inexperienced enough to be curious and young enough to think he wanted this more than she did. She'd always assumed the novel covers had exaggerated the boys' build, but as she watched his forearms slide under her skirt she suspected the artists had not lied.

"Tell us what you want." he said, fingers kneading her thighs, leaning over so the light spilled across his shoulders like molten gold.

"I don't...want..." she whispered, and two mouths began to work at her neck from behind, until she found it very hard to speak. Other hands spread her blouse open, pressing their faces into her breasts, her sides, her shoulders, feasting on her while below them, the rings lay scattered on the floor, forgotten.

Harold was silent, watching her face as he pressed his mouth to her knee. She shivered at the look in his eyes, wanting more but too proud to ask. His hands dug in, refusing to go any higher, and a little voice in her belly began to whimper. It had always been there, sleeping between her legs when she looked at them, untouched, restrained for a nobler purpose, when really all she wanted was for him to move his hand and jam two fingers inside of her, opening her until she was a hot mess and ready to hopscotch each of them two at a time.

She grit her teeth, wishing he could read her mind and move his hand higher, to fill her, move with her until he begged for satisfaction...

And then Sam kicked in the door.

"Step away!" he shouted, all the boys bolting up straight.

"This isn't what it looks like." said Harold, hands up in the air, and she nearly kicked him for stopping.

"I heard her," he said, looking at her splayed out on the desk, "She said no."

She wanted to shake her head, but found she couldn't. Old habits die hard. "That's right," she croaked, "I said no."

She looked up at Harold, who was still kneeling between her legs, not believing her.

"The fuck is wrong with you, you heard her!" said Sam, and when Harold still did not back off, he laid a bone-rattling punch on the side of his face that knocked him into the wall.

Harold looked more surprised then hurt, and looked up at Sam with one hand pressed against his cheek. Sam, the entitled street trash who thought he was good enough to turn down the Senator's job offer. Hope he likes having a hand up his ass, he thought bitterly.

"Fuck this," said Harold, standing up to leave, and the others followed suit.

"Harold..." she whispered, clutching her jacket to her breasts. She sat there panting, watching the last of the boys whip around the corner and out of sight.

For two years she'd worked on the Heartland Boys project, carefully cultivating the Great American Wet Dream so that, come election day, every girl would yank that lever and think of them. Only to have to have it scared off by Sam Winchester.

"Are you alright?"

She turned to him, her hair bone-bleached under the lamplight, shadows blacking out her eyes and mouth.

"I heard voices, and I should have come in sooner, if they hurt you I swear-"

For someone so short, she could punch like an Irish dockworker, and he went down with his legs straight out, blood gushing from both nostrils. He choked for a few seconds, head lolling on the carpet as the ceiling spun at right angles.

"The fuck..." he whispered, eyes a little unfocused as he watched her fix her clothes in the mirror.

"Fuck is right." she said, tucking her little feet back into her heels so that she towered over him. "They almost made me do it," she said stiffly, "But I held back."

She turned to the mirror to straighten her skirt, the needlework reversed in the glass, and the anthem came to her as natural as a bedtime prayer.

Land of the noble free, thy name I love,

I love thy rocks and rills,

Thy woods and templed hills,

My heart with rapture thrills, like that above.

She sniffed long and loud, dabbing at her eyes. It sounded too much like a love song. "Stupid kids," she said, buttoning her shirt, "I got a hundred phone messages just from tonight, all from people who want to sponsor me this fall. All because of my Hell House."

He rolled over on his side, spitting out a slimy red mouthful while she poked inside her purse for lipstick.

"I was a fool to rely on sentiment to produce change," she said, painting her lips until they shined like a fire hydrant, "When fear and trembling get the job done much quicker."

She looked at him in the mirror, lipstick hovering near her mouth. "My backers are very curious to see what Dean managed back there, no one's been clear on the details."

He pulled himself up on one elbow. "If you're talking about the thing that killed one of your men, Dean didn't manage anything..."

"Well whatever it is, it's made a good impression. We ran out of virginity pledge cards, I had to send someone to the copy shop," she said, plucking a kleenex from a box on the shelf, "Misha let on that you had it caged. I would very much appreciate your assistance in utilizing it for my purposes."

John had not told her about the monster. She was under the impression that the recent deaths were due to a rabid animal, wild and highly sexed, and having grown up in a midwest town that celebrated bull-riding, she was not alarmed when John hinted at Sam's predilection for risky behavior.

"You don't know what you're messing with." Sam rasped, watching her press the tissue between her lips.

"Well, apparently you do," she said, noting his bloodstains, "The fight in the kitchen must have been impressive, my insurance is still touting up the property damage."

"I got lucky."

"And you'll get lucky again. My investors want to see a dancing bear," she said, licking a bit of lipstick off her teeth, "That makes you the organ grinder."

"I've been trying to kill that thing all night, if you could just let Dean out maybe he-"

"Heh. John talked about Dean. Not a lot, but..." she said, the tissue coming away with a phantom mouth, "They deserve each other."

"You put them on a job together, in Atlanta."

"There's not a lot of people we could have called," she admitted, turning toward his prone figure, "It's better for him this way."

"I won't let him-"

"Sam, I am a person of high places," she said, pointing to the ceiling, "Give me five minutes on a phone and I will bury Dean in red tape so deep he'll never see the sun. Are you familiar with the phrase 'conditional detention'?"

Sam swallowed, the tip of her shoe now pressed against his Adam's apple. "He's not a criminal," he whispered, his book-learning coming back to him, "You can't just bury someone in a prison without due process, Habeas Corpus states-"

"You're adorable," she said, flicking the tissue back and forth like a lurid flag, "After what he did at the Hell House, I can stamp him as a clear and present danger and make sure he's stared at thru a tiny window for the next fifty years."

"No you can't..." he said, shaking his head.

"Yes, I can. And will you love him then? When he's forgotten how to speak English? Forgotten your face?" she said, leaning down, "Forgotten his own name?"

She released her toe and knelt down beside him, her voice more animated now. "This...nation," she began, as if said nation had wet the bed, "Has forgotten the gravity of evil. Our slavery to sentiment has proven to be detrimental to the public welfare. We must cut it out, you and me, together. No more second chances. No more slack," she said, Harold's face looming before her, "No more love songs."

"You don't have to do this."

"Sam, let us help each other. I heard you through the walls, my boy you are no different then this great country of ours. You have a sickness," she whispered, "Let me be what you need."

He shuddered at her offer, her hand opening until the tissue drifted over his face, a lipstick kiss as light as a moth. Finally, he thought, someone who accepted him for what he was, willing to share in his troubles.

But she didn't. She had listened to him and Dean thru the hotel wall the other night, and then again thru the loudspeaker when he'd been with Harold. She took him for a sex addict, no different from the teenagers of Crabbe County, not knowing it was all a side effect of something much worse.

And though she tried to be professional, she had wanted him the moment she'd laid eyes on him, broke and hungry like she'd been at his age, and all the bottled up longing pooled into her belly like lava. The Heartland Boys had been a waste of time, boring little Ken dolls. Taking her face in his hands, he pulled her down for a kiss, her lipstick smearing across her face like a gash. Real pearls are always rough on the mouth.

"Sam..." she whispered.

He sat them both up, fingers running thru her hair, over her neck, not attracted to her so much as the idea of sharing a monster with someone else. "This may sound a little forward, I've always wanted to try this, but..."

"But what?" she asked, eyes shining with anticipation.

He smiled wickedly. "Wanna invite a third?"


He leaned against the bars, arms stretched on either side until he was hanging off of it. "Ready?" he asked.

"Can I take this off?" she asked, a fingernail itching at the blindfold. She was seated in a metal folding chair, a bare lightbulb buzzing overhead.

"Not yet." he said, the color high in his cheeks as he reached for the lock.

She was delirious with excitement. Her few sexual escapades in college had been pretty vanilla, and even though John had left his mark on her, there's only so much you can achieve in the backseat of a car. With two men...

"Will it hurt?" she asked.

"Don't worry," Sam assured her, "I got this. You just relax."

Secretly, she wished she hadn't shunted Dean off to jail. Or insisted that John leave town by noon. She hated the idea of high school dropouts putting their hands on her, but now that Harold and the boys were gone, her cunt had a shopping list for the Great Mall of Dick, and she remembered her time with John when they were both eighteen.

"Can you wash your hands?" she asked disgustedly.

John looked down at his nails, black with motor oil. "Why, they'll just get dirty tomorrow."

"You're not putting those in me."

He smiled, shoving her knee aside with one hand. "Trust me, you're going to be best friends."

And as his head disappeared between her legs, she let out a surprised whoop and-

-Sam's face dropped into her lap.

"Sam?" she asked, her hands touching the back of his neck, "Are you okay?"

He grunted, wrapping his arms around her waist. Behind him, something shifted.

"Can I look now?"

"No!" he said suddenly, "Keep it on."

"Is...is he here?" she whispered.

He panted into her skirt, hugging her tightly. "He's holding onto me."

She bit her lip. Whoever Sam had invited made a low bass rattle in his lungs, and she pictured meaty hands spreading the boy's ass cheeks, driving into his vulnerable flesh.

"He wants me," Sam hissed, "I almost let him earlier. He had my cock in his hands."

She sighed, twisting her fingers in his hair, pressing his nose into her skirt.

"Can I?" he begged, "Can I let him?"

She began to pant, breasts rising and falling, wishing she could look, watch him be taken by this big brute like John used to with her.

And with Sam facedown, breath hot thru the fabric, she reached for the blindfold.


"And then what happened?" asked Dean.

Sam stared at his shoes. "She screamed," he said distantly, "Over and over and over. And then she didn't."

Dean swallowed. "She's not that old."

"She's got a hard job," Sam said, "You don't sleep, you don't eat right, five espressos a day..."

"You sure she's dead."

Sam clutched his hair and nodded. "I couldn't get her to breath," he whispered, "After I stuck it back in the cage I tried CPR and when that didn't work I tried calling an ambulance but..."

He grabbed Dean. "And the look on her face when I left, she was so scared," he said, nails digging into his arm, "She was scared of me."

Somewhere, church bells were ringing in the high noon. Dean looked down at the bloody hand on his jacket, and remembered his appointment with John.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked as Dean pulled away.

"I..." he said, torn. Sam's revelation had rankled within him, and he felt dirty just standing this close.

But Sam could read it in his face. "Don't leave me," he begged, "Please, I can't do this without you, if I go on the run alone..."

"Sammy-"

"She was gonna take you away from me!" he shouted, grabbing him with both hands, "I had to help her, or she was gonna bury you under a prison somewhere."

Dean couldn't look him in the face, his head aching with the tolling of the bells as his opportunity slipped away from him.

"I couldn't let her lock you up, I even...she told me about the job in Atlanta," said Sam, "I would have let you go with John."

Dean's head snapped up, eyes wild with shock and hope. "You would?"

Sam held onto him tightly, desperate for what he might have lost, and he almost couldn't get the words out. "You'd be free."

The bells rang twelve, and somewhere a door closed, the car peeling away east for perils unknown. Dean waited until it had receded, and let out his breath.

"I am free." he said, and taking Sam's face in his hands, he pressed his mouth to his. His heart swelled in relief as they crushed against each other, knowing he'd made the right decision. No one else could give him this, the sun in his soul that burnt away all other desires, and damned if anyone could take it away from him.

"Dean..."

Sam's hand ran up, inside the boy's shirt so the ring was hard against his back, and Dean knew that even at his most terrifying John could never inspire such devotion in him.

"I fucked up bad-"

"Ssh," he said, lifting his chin, "There's time for that later. Can you hot-wire that van on your own?"

Sam nodded.

"Then meet me three exits north of the perimeter, by that trailer park we passed, wait for me," he said, his mouth a hard line, "I gotta score to settle."


The Senator awoke to the sound of scraping steel against stone. "Nurse?" she muttered.

"Your detail at the hospital was pretty good," said Dean, his voice a few feet over her head, "Maybe if you paid him more he'd have bothered scanning my badge."

She turned her head, her plump pillow replaced with a rocky, earthen floor. "Where am I?"

"The conference center," he said, scraping something into place, "They never paved this part of the basement. Didn't pass inspection, the clipboard at the front door was last signed in, what, 2009?"

She looked up him, his face visible thru a small window as she struggled against a pair of handcuffs. "I'll scream."

"You sure that's wise?"

Behind her, that low bass rattle echoed in a small chamber. "Where am I?" she shouted.

"Now now, keep your voice down," he said, "Sammy beat it down pretty good, give it another day or two and it should starve out."

She began to tremble, looking futilely thru the gloom for signs of the creature, and when she looked back she found the window had shrunk. "What are you doing?"

He slathered on another layer of mortar, straightening the brick until it was flush with the others. He'd been at this for hours, he was beginning to think she'd never wake up to see his handiwork.

"Dean, please!" she wailed, and then dropped her voice in terror, "You're not a killer."

"You're right," he said, laying another brick, the window so small he could only see her face, pale and drowned-looking without the make-up, "But you are. You would have let that thing off it's leash, all so you could make the news."

"No, no..." she said, a hiss filling the air. Dean had considered a lot of ways to exact his revenge, but then he remembered the kennel out west, the one John recommended should Sam ever cross the point of no return, and he wanted to see if he was capable of sealing someone up in the dark.

"You are so fucked." she said thru her teeth, her hillbilly twang rising up.

Slather, brick, scrape.

"Ya hear me? I'm gonna put the word out til you won't be able to look at the sky without feelin' my eye on you."

Slather, brick, scrape.

"Your face'll be on the men's room door of every precinct from here to the North Pole!"

"It already is," he said, putting the last brick in place, "And underneath it says FOR A GOOD TIME CALL DEAN WINCHESTER."

"I'm gonna hunt you down you cracker ass piece of shit!" she shrieked as he walked away, wiping mortar dist on his bluejeans, "If it's the last thing I do!"

And Dean smiled, leaping up the steps two at a time, knowing the Feds and the monsters and a beautiful young boy were awaiting his return, as the Senator was swallowed up screaming in the creature's embrace.


TBC