Ermagerd, the reviews! The feels! THE PLOT BUNNY! Speak, little Petunia, speak!

Chapter Two

Sam didn't mind soccer. He was a bit of a fan of soccer. He'd played a bit, when he could, when he was at school. He'd enjoyed it. He also approved of soccer, as a formal organised sport or an informal kick-to-kick activity between friends, on general principles, on the grounds that it got people outdoors, exercising and socialising, which was generally acknowledged by the medical community to be A Good Thing.

Sam didn't mind golf. He wasn't a fan, and didn't see the attraction in playing it himself but, again, any activity that wasn't immoral, illegal or bad for your cholesterol was okay by him – if it got people out for some healthy exercise and socialising, and they enjoyed it, it was A Good Thing.

He also understood that in theory it was generally deemed beneficial to let children make up their own games. They used their imaginations, had to negotiate to establish rules, and then, in the end, ran around outside, socialising and exercising. A Good Thing.

He would've been entirely supportive if Dean had ever decided that he wanted to play a bit of soccer just for fun. He would even have been supportive if Dean had decided to take some golf lessons just for fun – he would've laughed like a loon, yes, he admitted that, but he would've supported him. Hell, he'd be willing to caddy to watch Dean attempt to play golf.

However, he drew the line when Dean got bored with being out of action, and started to make up his own games...

"Winchester is lining up on the final green," Dean announced in his best sportscaster voice. "The wind has dropped – Sam didn't have the burritos for lunch – so this should be a straight shot..."

"Trying to work here, Dean," humphed Sam, making some notes then following another link.

"He selects his putter," Dean's commentary went on as he turned around the walking stick he'd been using, wielding it like a golf club. "The green is flat, but this could be a tricky hole..."

"If you're not going to do research, it would at least be helpful if you could go play on another course," Sam informed him.

"There's the hazard, the rampaging emo, it's claimed several players already with its merciless bitchfacing..."

"Dean," Sam's tone took on a warning note, "Seriously, I think I might have found..."

"FORE!" yelled Dean, giving Oinker Stoinker (the blue squeaky pig that was Jimi's favourite toy) a solid thwack with his cane, wending it scooting across the floor in the direction of Sam's chair. "It's headed straight for the net! Oh, no! There's Winchester, the crack keeper, nothing has gotten past him all season..."

"What?" Sam looked around. "Dean, what the hell are youuu AAAAAARGH!"

Oinker Stoinker shot under Sam's chair, hotly pursued by Jimi. The dog might've been half-Hellhound, but in the physical mortal plane, he was shaped like a Rottweiler. A very large, decidedly oversized Rottweiler. So when he shot under Sam's chair in hot pursuit of the toy, the effect was somewhat akin to a whale coming up underneath a boat.

"What the fuck?-!" yapped Sam from where he had been sent sprawling on the floor. Jimi triumphantly grabbed the toy, pausing briefly to kiss his Second on the nose whilst he was at floor level. "What the hell are you doing?"

"We're playing Pig-Soccer-Golf," Dean informed him, "But still no score. Jimi is a better goal-keeper than I am a putter."

"Well... don't!" snapped Sam, with a well-aimed Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). Ow," he rubbed at his arm, "That hurt."

"Huh, don't you talk to me about pain and suffering," griped Dean, rassling for the squeaky toy with Jimi. "I'm dying here! I'm dying from boredom! I'm dying from lack of sex!"

"You could do something useful, and give me a hand here," Sam suggested.

"I can't sit still for long enough, my leg aches," Dean moaned, "It's not right, you can't tell a guy not to have sex and expect him to recover..."

"Dean, no person ever died from not having sex, all right?" Sam told his brother pointedly. "Female ferrets, yes, but not people!"

"Good thing for you, or you'd have died ages ago," muttered Dean. "But seriously, I'm not just any human, I'm the Living Sex God!"

"The Living Drama Queen, you mean," Sam snorted.

"Two weeks!" Dean practically shrieked in outrage, "Two weeks! That's, that's, that's, it's just unreasonable! I don't want my boys to turn blue and drop off like yours did years ago..."

"Oh, go jerk off then, you jerk!" snapped Sam, "And find somebody else to annoy!"

"I can't," Dean said sadly, "It kinda made my leg hurt too much, you know, when you get to the point where..."

"AAAAARGH!" Sam yodelled in horror, "Too much, Dean!"

"You're telling me," snorted Dean unhappily, "You probably don't know what it's like, to be lying there, with a boner that could split oak, and be completely unable to..."

"Too! Much! INFORMATION! Dean!" Sam slammed down his pen. "I wonder if Bobby has any potassium bromide," he wondered out loud, "I'm going to make a saturated solution of it and force feed it to you."

Dean sighed. "Where did I go wrong with you, Sammy?" he asked the uncaring universe, "Where did I go wrong that my baby bro grew into the world's tallest prude?" He lowered himself carefully into a chair, mindful of his damaged leg. "So, what have you got?"

"Not completely sure, yet," Sam replied, "But we're not going anywhere for a while, until you've healed up enough..."

"So I can watch my little brother's back," nodded Dean.

"...Because if I get trapped in the car listening to you complain about how badly you need to get your rocks off, there will be blood," finished Sam, "But I think there may be something here. A series of apparently unconnected events involving break-ins at church buildings and convents..."

"Convents?" Dean suddenly brightened up, "Convents, as in, full of nuns? Oh, Sammy, have you found us a job with nuns? I never should have doubted you..."

The thing is, there hasn't been anything stolen, and some of these places have items that could be readily sold for pretty good money, if that's what you were after."

"Could just be a religious loony, or an incompetent burglar," Dean theorised, pulling the map Sam had been marking towards himself.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But there have been some confrontations with the intruders, too – the descriptions have varied, but a couple of the people who were witnesses said that the burglar had black eyes. Not dark eyes, but black eyes."

"Oh, great," groaned Dean, "Frigging demons." He studied the map. "This looks like it could be a search pattern," he declared, "Casting a wide net, but it's a systematic search. Could be more than one searcher. And it's being carried out by someone who knows what they're looking for, but not where to start. But searching for what?"

"Something associated with churches, or convents. Something specific, presumably, since nothing has been taken so far," shrugged Sam. "Whatever it is, they haven't found it yet."

"Some sort of holy item, then?" mused Dean. "An artefact, or a relic?"

"Maybe," Sam noted, "Hard to say."

"Whatever it is, if it is demons, they want it for something dishonourable," Dean said, "And it's our job to stop them. And save the nuns. Those wonderful, sweet, untouched, virginal women..."

"You don't have to be a virgin to be a nun," corrected Sam automatically. "Just celibate."

"That's even better," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Riding a guy is like riding a bicycle – you can get out of practice, but you never forget."

"What the... how would you know that?" demanded Sam, vainly trying to derail his brother's relentless train of thought.

"Because I've been told by an ex-nun," Dean waggled his eyebrows in a fashion that was probably illegal in some of the more conservative states, "And it all came back to her pretty damned quickly, I can tell you. Just climb on, and start working those thighs..."

"Go and take a painkiller, Dean," instructed Sam, with a solid Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).

"It's okay at the moment, it's not too bad," Dean shrugged.

"It's not for your benefit," huffed Sam.

"You makin' any progress?" asked Bobby, coming into the living room with two mugs of coffee.

"Well, this morning's boner went down eventually," Dean stated matter-of-factly, "But now with Sam talking about nuns, it's..."

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, "Can we lock him in the panic room?"

"Don't lock me in the panic room!" yelped Dean.

"Fine," snarled Sam, "I'll lock myself in the panic room."

"If you do, give me a call," suggested Bobby, handing over the coffees, "I'll bring you some dinner. Maybe pizza, I can slide that under the door."

'Are you saying you'd rather sit in the panic room than listen to me try to educate you?" asked Dean in a hurt voice.

"Dean, I'd rather sit in the Cage than listen to you relate your exploits," griped Sam. "Especially now that the archangels have vacated it."

"You wound me, Sam," sighed Dean, sipping at his coffee as he sat on the sofa and reached for the TV remote.

"Not yet, but it's a possibility," Sam replied with a brittle smile.

"I got a couple of books that might help," suggested Bobby, "Might give us some idea about what they're after."

"That'd be great, Bobby," Sam smiled as the Winchesters' practically father headed for his study. He returned with some hardbound volumes in varying states of disrepair, and sat himself at the other side of the table.

"There may be something that predates white settlement in North America," Bobby noted, turning a page and frowning, "Europeans brought a lot of stuff with them to the New World."

"I might just have to get more information on these incidents," Sam said, flicking through several pages. "Hey, Dean, you want to make yourself useful and take one of these?"

"I'm busy," Dean informed him, stretching out on the couch, "Supervising."

"What?" Sam turned to see his brother concentrating on an infotainment show. "What the hell? Supervising?"

"Supervising," Dean nodded at the TV, "You see that llama there?"

"Llama?" Sam echoed incredulously.

"Uh-huh," Dean waved a hand vaguely at the screen. "The llama. With the pimples."

"Well, her hair is kinda frizzy, okay, but I don't think..."

"That llama," Dean intoned seriously, "Is planning something. Involving pickles in blue jello. And whirling carpet hats. Doorknobs. And zebras on acid that live in cakes in trees with scarves that go flappity flappity flappity flap..."

Sam sat in bewilderment, but Bobby just cocked an eloquent eyebrow at him. "You're doin' a fine job there, son," He told Dean, "So, you just keep on supervisin', and so long as we got you to keep an eye on that damned llama, we can get on with the job in peace."

"I'm on it," Dean nodded seriously, not taking his drooping eyes off the screen.

"He'll pitch a fit if he figures out you roofied him," Sam smiled later when Dean was snoring gently and cuddling Jimi, who had joined him for some sofa snuggles with his Alpha.

"Well, it stopped you pitchin' yours," reasoned Bobby. "Swings and roundabouts, boy."

"I think this might be a job for us," Sam decided, "But I'll need to find out more before we work out how to tackle it. If we just knew what they were searching for..."

"Well, it'll come to you," Bobby shrugged. "Not like he's fit to travel, let alone Hunt, like this."

"Try telling him that," humphed Sam. "He thinks he's fit enough to play Pig-Soccer-Golf."

"Get him to look at your map again, when you got more intel," Bobby told him, "He's good at pickin' out patterns that way. He'll most likely be able to tell you where they'll hit next."

"Yeah, he is good at that." Sam smiled at his big brother, then moved to pull a blanket over Dean. Dean sighed contentedly, and stroked Jimi's fur in his sleep. "I like you like this, bro," Sam said, "You're less disturbing."

"Hmmmm, your hair is really pretty," mumbled Dean to Jimi. Jimi humphed in contentment.

"Or at least, you're still disturbing, but you're quieter about it," conceded Sam, turning back to his research.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"And so in closing," the President of the parents' committee of the Skunks junior baseball team raised his glass of lemonade, "I would just like to congratulate the team again on a fantastic win, and once more, offer them my condolences for the impending departure of the most dedicated, most capable, and sometimes most scary coach they've ever had, Sister Fic." Applause went around the room once more, as Sister Felicity smiled, and raised her own lemonade glass. "Ladies and gentlemen, to the Skunks, this year's premiers!"

"To the Skunks!" enthused the audience of parents, players and supporters of the baseball team that had turned their form around under the watchful eye of Sister Felicity. They then turned their attention back to the large celebratory cake.

"Do you want some more cake, Sister Fic?" asked a small boy whose face was smeared with icing.

"Not for me, thank you," Sister Felicity replied, "Nuns are supposed to practise Temperance."

"What's Temperance?" asked another sticky boy.

"It means self-control, and not doing anything too much," replied the novice nun, "And that includes eating cake. No matter how yummy it might be."

"Ew," a third boy screwed up his face, "Temperance sucks."

"If God doesn't want you to eat any more cake, Sister Fic, how come He made this one so big?" asked a budding theologian with a confused frown.

"Well, for a start, God didn't make this cake," Sister Felicity answered, "It was made especially for the team by the bakery."

"It had a skunk on it!" the first boy chirped. "I got the nose!"

"That's great," nodded Sister Felicity, "But the idea is, even though there might be a really big cake, God trusts us to try our best to behave like sensible people, and not eat too much. So, we have to do our best to warrant His trust."

The proto-theologian thought about that. "So, did the Devil make the cake, then? To tempt people?"

Another boy looked confused. "The Devil works at Boyd's Bakery?" he queried.

"My oldest sister worked there during vacation," the skunk-nose-eater informed them, "And she said that it's as hot as hell even early in the morning."

"The Devil uses apples, not cakes, you dumbass," scoffed another would-be scholar of the Good Book.

"Language," Sister Felicity corrected automatically, thinking that it wasn't such a bad thing that she'd be gone before they had a chance to ask during their next religious instruction lesson whether there were baked goods in Hell, and Sister Patricia would be stomping into Mother Superior's office and demanding to know what in blazes she had been telling those kids this time. "You know, I think I might be able to master another small slice of temptation."

"I'll get you a piece of skunk!" the eater-of-the-nose assured her, trotting back towards the cake table.

"What about nuns doing Temperance?" asked the theologian-in-training.

"Ah, well, I'm not a proper nun yet," Sister Felicity tried not to smirk, "I'm only a novice. Which is like having a learner permit – people expect me to screw up."

"Do you have to go, Sister Fic?" pleaded he-who-knew-about-apples-of-temptation.

"I'm afraid so," she told him, "That's part of the job, to go where I'm sent."

"What will your new job be?" asked the first one, returning with a small slice of skunk.

"Basically, I'll be helping people who are having trouble with Temperance," she replied, "People who drink too much, or make themselves sick with drugs. Stuff like that."

"If we make ourselves sick with cake, can you stay with us instead?" one of her players asked hopefully.

She smilingly told him that no, that wouldn't work.

She took her leave shortly afterwards, and returned to her room to pack her few belongings. As she was packing, one of the younger nuns, Sister Kate, knocked at the door.

"Sister Felicity? All ready to go and help save the more wayward of the flock?" Her voice held sympathetic amusement.

"Last time I had to deal with people like this, they were usually trying to shoot me, stab me, bribe me, or otherwise ruin my evening," sighed Sister Felicity. "It was so much clearer beforehand. Grab, thump, arrest. Cleaning up the mess afterwards? There's a reason I didn't go into social work to start with."

"You could petition Mother House to find you some nice juicy lepers, maybe," suggested Sister Kate.

"No, only good nuns get to sail off and minister to the chronically ill," Sister Felicity pointed out. "Haven't you seen 'The Nun's Story'?"

Sister Kate laughed. "What are you doing here, Fic?" she asked. It was more of a rhetorical question, one that had been asked of Sister Felicity on a number of occasions, with varying degrees of exasperation.

"Hoping that if I hang around for long enough, one day I'll wake up looking like Audrey Hepburn," she replied. "And if I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"I heard a voice," offered Sister Kate, "My mother wanted me checked for psychosis."

"Well, an angel visited me," said Sister Felicity, "And I tried to arrest her for stalking."

"Really?" Sister Kate cocked her head. "What did she look like?"

"Sister Felicity paused before answering. "A bit like my third grade teacher, only she didn't smell quite as funny."

Sister Kate laughed again. "Well, I'm actually here to drop this off," she proffered a letter, "Otherwise, it could take weeks to catch up with you."

"Thank you, Sister Kate." Sister Felicity took the letter, thinking it must be something further to do with her redeployment, until she saw that it was postmarked from Kansas, at which she tore it open.

Dear Sister Felicity

I apologise for taking so long to reply to your request, but I'm sure you can understand that such matters must be handled with the greatest of delicacy, as the law of the land and of the Church is sometimes ambiguous in such matters.

Regarding your request, I'm afraid that the records from that era are somewhat patchy. Given the prevailing sentiments of the time - the belief was that a clean break from the birth mother was best for children being adopted, and the young woman giving it up - I suspect that no great trouble was taken to preserve them when the old building was refurbished. Certainly, I was not able to locate any records in the archives of births taking place at that time.

No doubt this is a disappointment to you, and I am sorry. The only thing I can suggest is that you seek permission to speak to one of the retired nuns, who may have worked during that time, and may remember something.

I wish you well in your search,

Sister Glenda Shields, administration and archives

The Reviews seem to be working - Little Petunia just wouldn't shut up today. And they are also the Cute Personalised Celebratory Decals on the Cake Of Life!

What?

Oh, all right, they're the Winchester Of Your Choice Covered In Icing Needing Your Assistance In The Living Room Of Life too. You Reprobates.