"Hey Dean," said Sam, brows knitting over the computer screen, "Just got a heads-up from Frank."
"If it's another Evite to his Mayan calendar apocalypse party-"
"It's a job," said Sam, keys clicking as he typed a response, "Another Leviathan in the area, a big one."
"Anybody we know?"
"Not unless you're in finance. Dude's all over the place, trains, shipping, mortgage loans..."
"Mister Monopoly got a name?" said Dean, poking a finger thru his day-old french fries and giving them up as a bad job.
Sam glowered as a handsome face filled the screen. "Mister Christian Gray."
Maybe if I whine enough, thought Anastasia, clutching her battered copy of 'Jane Eyre', He'll put his dick in me.
Gray's office building towered over it's neighbors, disappearing into the rainclouds. She pushed wet bangs out of her eyes, straightening the new dress he'd sent her the other day. Oh my gosh, the note said he spent twenty thousand on my clothes, she thought, I'll just never get used to this.
"Ms. Steele." said the indigenous motorcycle mechanic, rain dripping down his gleaming thews as he held out an umbrella.
"I don't have time for this." she said, walking ahead of him.
"This relationship isn't healthy, don't degrade yourself like this." he said, barefoot and stripped to the waist in the middle of a busy intersection.
"Fuck off Food Stamp." she said, pushing him away with a hand to the face.
"Well, me and the guys will be in the woods making a gay porno, so if you change your mind..."
"La la la I'm a pretty pretty princess and I can't heeeeeeeear yoooooou." she said as the front door swung shut behind her.
"Whatever man," said another brown guy in jean cutoffs, "She wants to lets Mister One Percent's fill her with his two percent, she's welcome to it."
Indigenous Mechanic looked up at the skyscraper, considering his next move when the sharp tang of motor oil and Wild Turkey hit his nostrils. The pack stiffened.
"Oh crap," he said, instinctively dropping their shorts to the delight of a passing gaggle of Young Republicans, "The Winchesters."
"Gosh, your job must be so hard," said Anastasia, dollar signs in her eyes as she ogled his custom furnished office, "Teleconferences, trans-Atlantic martini lunches, waving away the servants in irritation..."
"Yes yes, it's...trying, but what good is all this," said Gray, turning away in a troubled profile, "Without someone to share it with?"
"Oh Mister Gray," she said tremulously, "I can't stop thinking about you."
"Nor I you." he said, tilting her chin with his finger, "Why are you wet?"
"Um..." she hesitated, "It's raining outside?"
"Oh, hadn't noticed," he said distantly, "My office must be above the cloud-line."
"I love the outfit," she cooed, running her hands seductively down the polyester dress patterned with different kinds of sushi, "I bet it was expensive."
"It reminded me of you," he said, measuring her with his eyes and deciding he would need to order more garlic sauce before the guests arrived, "Now, are we ready to begin?"
She shuddered. "Yes Mister Gray."
"You know I don't like to be disappointed," he said, voice dropping dangerously, "I don't appreciate a lack of...discipline."
"No Mister Gray."
"Have you been a bad girl?"
She giggled nervously. "Very bad," she said, "I need to be punished."
"You know I need you. I need you..." said Mister Gray, idly tracing her belly button, "...deep inside."
"Yes Mister Gray, whatever I can give you Mister Gray." she said in a rush, her cheeks reddening.
"Good girl," he said, brandishing a meat tenderizer, "Now take off your clothes."
Nodding to Dean, Sam put a finger to his lips and slowly palmed the doorknob, machetes glinting in the florescent light. Inside, a mousy-haired girl struggled on a conference table, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey while a businessman grated Parmesan over her head.
"I thought you needed me!" she yowled.
"Please, I'm about to clinch the deal on the biggest shipping container contract between here and Sydney. The last thing I need," he said, looking down at her in disgust, "Is a sex toilet."
"Why me?" she asked pitifully, "You could have gotten anyone off the street."
"Because my dear, even though I am your social, intellectual, and material superior, your desire for me transforms you into a culinary rarity," he said, swiping his thumb across her cheek, "Nothing compliments a crisp Moet like nerdy bitches in heat."
"I'm n-not useless!" she squealed, "I can give a blowjob and cry at the same time, you know what the street value for that is on Craigslist?"
"Whatever Porkchop," he said, dialing his personal chef on speed dial, "My guests will be here soon."
"Well, well, well I heard you're hung like a cherub!" she fired back, just now realizing the trouble she was in, "And you can't get it up unless it's totally silent!"
"You think playground taunts are going to slow me down?" he said, stuffing an apple into her mouth, "I spent an eternity fighting off things that would pull your brains out through your eye sockets. Trust me, I am top shelf. This morning I ate breakfast off the thighs of Swedish virgins, while you no doubt were dumpster diving behind the Olive Garden."
Gray was about to go back for some oregano when he heard footsteps, turning just in time for Dean to clip him on the ear and send him into the wall, a boot digging into the side of the man's face.
Dean tapped his machete against Gray's nose. "Good morning Sparkle Pony."
"Winchester!" he growled, his beautiful features twisted.
"In the flesh," said Dean, smirking as he lifted the blade, "Any last words before I turn you into a soccer ball?"
"I'll get you for this!"
"Lame." he said, a spray of black goo spraying in his face as he made the kill. Anastasia screamed thru the apple in her mouth, over and over again as Dean stuffed the head in a burlap bag and made sniffing sounds toward Gray's liquor stash.
"Oooo Blue Label." he said appreciatively, wandering away as Sam untied the girl.
"But...but..." she stammered as she looked down at the body, a black stain slowing spreading across the carpet, "What am I supposed to do now?"
"Why were you here?" asked Sam, concerned as he handed her dress back.
"I was...I'm a journalist."
"Well," said Dean, shoving some of Gray's business folders toward her, "Get on out of here and journal."
"Anastasia!" yelled the mechanic, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she said, pushing a gooey lock of hair behind her ear, folders stuffed protectively under one armpit, "Who's that creepy old guy waving at us?"
"Oh that's Congressman Balzac," he replied, waving back, "He just offered me a job as his personal luggage handler. I was thinking, since you've got this good thing going with Gray-"
She pressed her mouth to his, hands roaming over his bodybuilder physique. "You already have a job."
His eyebrows shot up, daring her to say it. "And what's that?"
She took his hand, leading him back to her apartment at full tilt. "A mercy fuck."