Go, Petunia, go!
Chapter Three
"I've identified more incidents that I think might be linked to our convent hits," Sam told his big brother over breakfast.
"Be still my beating heart," griped Dean, poking listlessly at a piece of bacon.
"I've marked 'em all on the map, and drawn up a list of dates, so maybe you could take a look," Sam went on, "Do your pattern recognition thing."
"Whatever," Dean muttered, pushing the bacon around the plate. Jimi whuffed, and butted against his Alpha, who patted him absentmindedly.
"This could be a job for us, bro," Sam persisted, "I was wondering witchcraft, but I've read some more reports, and it sounds more like demons..."
"Yeah, yeah, demons," sighed Dean. "We'll go kill 'em, or exorcise 'em, or you know, deal with it."
Sam paused at his brother's lacklustre response. "Ganking things, Dean!"
"Yeah, okay."
"We can drink beer while we wait to gank the things."
"Yeah, beer."
"Nuns, Dean, nuns!"
"Yeah, you said, Sam."
"Strippers! There's probably a bar with strippers!"
"Probably."
Sam pulled out all the stops. "Ganking things then drinking beer with stripper nuns, Dean!"
"I guess." Dean sighed again, and prodded at his bacon unenthusiastically.
Sam peered at his brother suspiciously. "Dean," he began suspiciously, "Are you not feeling well? You're not running a fever, are you? Do we need to get back to Doc Taylor for another course of antibiotics?"
"No, the leg's healing up pretty good, not infected at all," Dean replied. Jimi whined, left the kitchen briefly, then returned with Oinker Stoinker. He sat by Dean's chair, and honked soothingly.
"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam pressed, "You don't want to eat bacon, you look like a kid who's had his favourite toy crushed in front of him and been told that he's getting tripe and Brussels sprouts for lunch." Dean stared at his plate. "Come on, big bro," Sam tried in a softer voice, "What's the matter?"
Dean turned miserable eyes on Sam. "It hurts, Sammy," he said quietly. "My leg, it hurts. And it's... getting me down."
Sam smiled fondly at his big brother. An admission like that from Dean, that pain was getting to him, was an amazing demonstration of trust, and meant more to Sam that he could articulate – Dean rarely, if ever, dropped the he-man act, in front of anybody, including is baby brother. Especially his baby brother. "Why didn't you say something?" he chided gently.
"I didn't want to bother you," Dean looked away unhappily. "It's not something I thought you needed to know about. I'm not supposed to worry you with this stuff..."
"Dean, I'm your brother!" Sam burst out. "Of course I want to know! So, are the painkillers not helping?"
"They're okay," Dean shrugged, "The leg isn't really giving me trouble, mostly. Just when I try to jerk off. But if I take enough painkillers to stop it hurting when I jerk off, they make me sleepy. I can't jerk off if I'm falling asleep."
"Well, perhaps... what?" Sam's brain pulled a handbrake turn. "What do you mean you can't jerk off if you're falling asleep?"
"Even the Living Sex God has his limits," Dean offered Sam a small wan smile.
Sam stared at his brother. "So," he started in disbelief, "You're depressed and moping because your leg hurts when you try to jerk off?"
"I got so close," Dean said mournfully, "This morning, I thought, yes, today's the day, but then, well, you know how things start to tense up when you get to the point where..."
"Gaaaaaah!" went Sam, shooting a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual) at his brother. "That's it? I thought there was something really wrong!"
"It is something really wrong!" protested Dean. "I told you, going without for so long, it's not normal, it's not natural, it's not possible! It's not right!"
"I don't believe this," grumped Sam, dropping his head into his hands. "It's ridiculous."
"I know," Dean agreed, "Totally ridiculous. The Living Sex God, reduced to this, this, this pitiful state of non-gratification. Somebody has put a chastity curse on me."
Sam glared at him. "Dean, your leg got injured, and a muscle in your thigh was lacerated!"
"Exactly!" declared Dean, "What was the chance of me getting injured in a place that would make it hurt to get off, huh?"
Sam considered that. "Given what we do," he decided, "It's amazing that it doesn't happen more often."
"It's a curse," Dean insisted, "Some asshole witch, or asshole demon, or some other asshole fugly we've dealt with is taking a terrible revenge. Like a total asshole."
"Wow. It just doesn't make sense, does it?" nodded Sam, radiating confusion. "The idea that you could be so annoying that somebody would want to curse you, it just doesn't make any sense at all. I confess myself completely baffled as to how anybody could possibly think that you were that annoying. It's one of life's great mysteries."
"What are you two idjits hollerin' about now?" asked Bobby as he came into the kitchen.
"Dean would like your help to lift the chastity curse that he's sure has been placed on him," Sam replied in a tone dripping with scorn. Dean looked up with a terribly sad expression on his face that was remarkably similar to the one that Jimi wore when he was required to get into the bath.
Bobby gave Dean a long look. "Boy," he announced finally, "I am goin' to start referrin' to you as Dean the Diaper, because you are so full of shit."
"Nobody understands my pain," moaned Dean, as Jimi squeaked supportively on Oinker Stoinker again.
"Dean, it's not that we don't understand how important sex is to you," Sam told him in a compassionate voice. "It's just that we don't care."
"Fine," growled Dean, "I'll look at your map, and look for your pattern, and we'll go Hunt down whatever is molesting nuns... ohhhh, molesting nuns..."
"Should I have a bucket of cold water handy?" asked Bobby solicitously.
"Maybe just a strategically placed ice pack," mused Sam, "To take the swelling down."
"I hate you both so much."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sister Felicity kept her head bowed during the prayer, but her eyes roamed the room; old habits died hard. Especially with people like... this.
Charity and obedience, she reminded herself, charity and obedience, this was an opportunity to practise charity and obedience. She would be obedient, and think charitable thoughts...
Half the people in this room are lying, manipulative con artists, suggested the treacherous little voice in her head.
Okay, the charity bit needed more work, but the obedience bit...
"Try not to stab anyone, Fic," Mother Superior Emily had instructed her with an amused expression, "And don't pray so hard that anybody gets thrown across the room, the power of Christ notwithstanding. Don't let it compel anybody at high speed."
Yep, having more luck with the obedience. Definitely had not stabbed anybody since she'd arrived in Virginia, nor had she been responsible for anybody going flying across the room (with or without divine intervention). No sir, Reverend Mother sir, no stabbing or throwing here. Although I reserve the right to fantasise about it in the privacy of my own head.
She knew that it made sense: divert drug users away from incarceration and into some sort of rehab, or make it a condition of parole to make sure that they weren't just thrown out of The System and right back into their old habits. Doing something, anything, had to be better than doing nothing. She thought that some of them were genuinely in hope of kicking their addictions – but she also knew that others were using it as a soft option, abusing the process and thumbing their noses at the system.
Personally, laws notwithstanding, she didn't have any problem with people putting substances of dubious origin, questionable purity and dangerous pharmacology into their bodies if that's what they wanted to do. A person's body was their own business. Besides, as somebody who had once had the dubious honour of sinking more shots inside an hour than a 220-pound SWAT officer (AND she'd practically carried him outside and tucked him in with the tarp in the bed of his pick-up afterwards), she didn't feel as though she was in a position to lecture anybody about cultivating purity in the temple of one's body. No, you want to do that to yourself, it's your own business.
It was what she knew they were prepared to do to other people in order to get the money to finance their personal temple defilement that made her hackles go up.
And she did know. She'd read their files. And, where she deemed it necessary, she'd gone digging for more information (that was one thing people never seemed to realise about cops – even after they'd retired and moved interstate, they networked harder than the most ardently amoral share traders, or anaemic Facebook addicts). She'd only been here about a week, and had already mentally divided the attendees into the Really Tryings and the Smug Scumbags. The sheep and the goats. Or, as she thought of them, the sheep and the wolves. Except that was probably unfair to wolves, who only preyed on other animals out of absolute necessity in order to survive. They didn't lie, rob, swindle, burgle or cheat without any thought for the consequences. They didn't damage or destroy other wolves' lives through their own selfishness. And they certainly didn't attempt to justify their actions by combining a sense of entitlement whilst wallowing in self-pity...
Okay, so the charity thing was really going to need some work. Maybe once she'd worn the habit as long as she'd worn the uniform...
"Of course you feel like you're floundering," Mother Superior Emily had once told her, "We're imperfect beings grasping after God's perfection. He throws us all in at the deep end, Fic – but He doesn't throw you out any further than He knows you can swim."
Oh God, Sister Felicity prayed silently, Please, please, please, send me some water wings...
She focused her attention on Sister Germaine, the elderly and motherly nun who oversaw the group rehab discussion sessions. Sister Germaine had a face like a welcoming currant bun, a matronly physique that had been factory designed to give out reassuring hugs, and an aura of unconditional love that could knock over the most cynical DA at ten paces. She managed to broadcast the message that she thought everybody was worthy of God's and society's acceptance in the megawatt range just by smiling. It was amazing. It was inspiring. It made Sister Felicity wonder if Sister Germaine toked occasionally.
"Sister Fic?" Sister Germaine used the nickname that managed to follow Felicity through her whole life. "Would you like to choose a reading for us?"
...A kickboard, a pool noodle, a rubber duck, anything, or at least some of whatever Sister Germaine has been smoking...
Sister Felicity smiled back. "Yes thank you, Sister Germaine," she replied, lifting her own Bible. "I've been thinking about the nature of caritas – charity - and the wonderful description in Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. I also like this one because it gives me an excuse to say 'apostle epistle' out loud, which for some reason always made the Sunday schoolers laugh like loons..."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"East coast," Dean announced, looking from Sam's list of dates to the extensively annotated map in front of him. "Here. Virginia. That's where they'll be headed next."
"That narrows it down," Sam commented, peering at the laptop.
"So, how's the research going?" Dean asked.
"Well," Sam began, "Something else I found out about the places that have been hit is that they're not cloistered convents; they have all operated as orphanages or schools at some point in their history..."
"No, no, no," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "What have you found out about my chastity curse? How do we break it?"
"Dean," Sam muttered through clenched teeth, "There is no chastity curse on you!"
"How do you know," Dean demanded imperiously, "If you haven't done any research?"
"I have been doing research!" Sam snapped, "Into a real case, not something out of your dementedly libidinous imagination."
"It's real, Sam," insisted Dean, "It's painfully real! I took the stitches out of my leg this morning, and it's healed up well, and I thought, great, it's better, although it's gonna leave a scar, but that's okay, chicks dig scars, especially when I tell 'em how I got it, saving a cute fluffy baby kitten from a collapsing building..."
"There is no curse on you, Dean," Sam tried again, "Although I'm starting to think that there might be one on me."
"There totally is!" Dean was adamant. "I thought, great, healed up, all systems go, and I got this close to jerking off, but it still hurts like hell when..."
"It's perfectly normal for deeper muscle tissues to take longer to heal," Sam pointed out with a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "And it hasn't been two weeks yet."
"I'm disappointed, Sam," Dean told his brother in a put-upon voice, "I'm disappointed more than angry. You're the one who's Mr Touchy-Feely-Let's-Talk-About-It-And-Hug-It-Out, and I come to you with a deeply personal, highly distressing and very serious problem..."
"I'm not hugging you until you've washed your hands," Sam cut him off sharply.
"There must be something I can do to break it," Dean muttered. "It's some witch that's done this, some witch that's annoyed because I messed with her voodoo, or some warlock resentful of the awesome talents of the Living Sex God."
"Certainly not envious of his humility," noted Sam.
"False modesty sucks," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "Anyway, the way these things seem to work, there's always something really unpleasant that has to be done to break the curse." He hummed in thought. "What if I have to sit through an opera? What if I have to do something unmanly, you know, like wear a dress?"
"Well, there was that Girl Scout uniform that time," Sam reminded him.
"It could be something really bad," Dean waved his arms around, "What if I have to eat a whole plate of broccoli? What if I have to... oh, no, what if I have to kiss a chick who's totally unhot?"
"Gee, because of all the things that've ever happened to you, that would be right up there in your top five Worst Things I've Ever Experienced," Sam intoned seriously. "Gosh, kissing an unhot woman – throw me to the Hellhounds, have me beaten to a pulp by an archangel, kill my baby brother, wreck my beloved car, make me give birth to a non-existent assbaby, send me to an alternative future reality where the Devil wears my little brother and breaks my neck, but no, no, no, don't make me kiss a woman who's not hot enough!"
"I think you underestimate the trauma that can be sustained by contact with a moustache," Dean said snippily. "Have you ever been kissed by a cougar grandmother with a moustache? It'll scar a guy, bro."
"There are days, Dean," muttered Sam, "When I worry that, in some ways, you are so shallow you couldn't drown a snake." He pushed the map towards Dean. "Look, there are a number of convents in Virginia, sort of east, where should we start?"
Dean let out a long-suffering sigh, and with the air of a martyr preparing to greet the peckish lions, studied the map again. "There," he said, "St Clare's is the one most likely... oh, get this," he smiled, "It's in Winchester, Virginia."
"Sounds like a good place to start then, Sam smiled back. "Provided your leg is actually healed up enough.
"It's looking good," Dean reiterated, "Definitely good enough to get on the road, and head for Virginia. And the convent. Full of nuns... hey, what if I have to corrupt a nun to break the curse? That would be beyond the capacity of most guys, but that asshole witch didn't know that she was tangling with the Living Sex God..."
Sam rolled his eyes. "We'll you're certainly a lot chirpier today than you were a week ago."
"What's not to chirp?" queried Dean sunnily. "My leg is just about healed, my nerdy baby bro has found us a job so I'll get to gank something fugly, plus, now he is apprised of the serious nature of the problem, my nerdtastic baby bro can do his laptop dancing and get on with researching how to break my curse..."
"Dean!"
"...Which means, beautiful natural acts are not far off." Dean sighed happily. "Some girls like to kiss 'em, you know. Scars. 'Kiss it better'. You'd know that if you'd go out and get some real live action with a real live woman occasionally. That one on the back of your thigh, the one that goes all the way up to..."
"Dean!" Sam shot his brother a double shot Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Shut! Up! About! Getting! Laid!"
"You're right," Dean nodded unexpectedly. "I should shut up about it."
"Huh?" Sam was bewildered.
"Well, yeah," Dean went on, "Because have you ever noticed, that it's the ones that do it the least that often talk about it the most?"
"If only it really worked like that," observed Sam trenchantly, "You'd never say a word on the topic.
"Yeah," Dean smirked, "But you'd never shut up, bitch."
"Jerk."
Sam turned back to his laptop, then paused. "Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you know how traumatising it is to be kissed by a cougar grandmother with a moustache?"
There was a moment of silence.
"Don't ask about it if you're not prepared to hug me."
Jimi picked up Oinker Stoinker, and honked reassuringly.
Ah, the unconditional love of a dog. When I'm feeling tired and run down, my Shepherd serenades me with Squeaky Headless Flea, her favourite human cheerer-upper. She used to use the real Oinker Stoinker, but unfortunately he expired during a tug-of-war quite some time ago; somewhere, I have a photo of the horrifying moment just before he underwent a traumatic bisection with fatal prolapse of the honker...
Reviews are the Dog With Any Proportion Of Hellhound Blood Of Your Choice Soothing You With The Squeaky Blue Pig Toy Of Life! (In the Jimiverse, you have thirty-one named ones to choose from. Oh, and Petunia says she'll dictate a special Winchester Of Your Choice Deleted Scene for anybody who can name thirty of them.)