Yes, yes, yes, it's a sister fic, about Sister Fic. I regret nothing.
So many depraved Denizens happy to help Dean break his curse. Good grief. Petunia the plot bunny will be dictating with her eyes closed. And I'll be transcribing with mine closed. It's a grod thnig that Ican touch tyhp,e...
Incidentally, right now Bundaberg, home town of Ronnie Shepherd (the Jimiverse's Crankiest Werewolf) has been hit by tornadoes, and is now subject to the worst flooding that parts of it have ever seen. It's home to Australia's most culturally significant rum distillery, producer of Bundaberg rum, a disgusting brew that's the preferred tipple of broke students and uncouth bogans across the country (I should know, I swilled enough of it in my yoof.) Aaaaaaaargh! I blame that bastard Al. Al Nino. He keeps messing with the weather, curse him...
Chapter Four
"Ah, Virginia," mused Dean, around slurping his coffee and drumming on the steering wheel along with the stereo. Behind the wheel of his beloved car, his annoying cheerfulness asserted itself. "It's been a while since we headed east. Do you remember that Hunt with an angry spirit and a poltergeist in the great big plantation style house?"
"I remember you having a very large and very solid period book-case dropped on you," replied Sam. "I also remember having to drag your protesting ass to the clinic to get possible internal injuries and a concussion treated."
"But we got the job done," Dean reminded him, shovelling up a handful of corn chips, and making a disappointed noise when the crinkling of the bag indicated that it was empty. "Oh, crap, we need more food."
"Dean, you only had breakfast a few hours ago!" Sam protested. "And you finished off the last of Bobby's bacon."
"Exactly!" agreed Dean. "Hours ago. So, we gotta get more food. Hey, J-Man, you want crumbs?" In the back seat, Jimi sat up and happily accepted the practically empty bag, shoving his head into it and enjoying himself enormously in the way any dog given an empty chip packet to lick out will enthusiastically do. "See? See how fast he's eating? Jimi would like some food too. Wouldn't you, huh?"
Jimi lifted his head, with the packet over it, and whuffed in an affirmative, if somewhat muffled, fashion.
"He's as bad as you," griped Sam. 'Except his table manners are marginally less disgusting."
"Come on, we don't want him to lose condition," Dean said, "He needs to keep up his strength. We'll need him if we're going to deal with demons. He can't do that if he's fading away."
"Dean, Jimi weighs around 170," Sam snarked, "He is not in danger of fading away at any time in the near future."
"And I'll make sure he stays that way," confirmed Dean. "Watch for an exit sign. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Virginia, poltergeist and angry spirit tag team. One of the nurses at the clinic where you dragged me after I didn't need to go there, her name was Virginia, but that's not why I remember her, it's because she had this amazing waterbed..."
"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "You hooked up with a nurse from a clinic that treated you?"
"There's something to be said for doing it with a woman who's had formal instruction in anatomy," grinned Dean, "And who knows how to snap on a pair of gloves like she means it..."
"Gaaaah!" yelped Sam, "What the fuck? You were concussed! What were you doing hooking up when you were concussed?"
"That's just how awesome the Living Sex God is, Sammy," smirked Dean. "Don't hate me because I'm talented."
"I don't," Sam assured him with a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "I hate you because you're disgusting."
They pulled into a town later, and found a diner where Sam picked at his laptop and his food while Dean groaned orgasmically over his fries.
"Ohh, you should have some of these," he told his brother, pushing another one around in the ketchup, "These are fantastic. I think my tonsils just came. Again."
"You're gross, Dean," Sam replied on auto-pilot, frowning at the screen.
"What's so damned interesting that it's more important than orgasmalicous fried food?" demanded Dean.
"Research," Sam answered tersely.
"How much more is there to know about nuns?" Dean wondered out loud. "They wear habits, they don't get any, and for some reason in films they often turn out to wear really naughty lingerie. Do real nuns wear naughty lingerie? I mean, wearing naughty lingerie would be okay, wouldn't it? Because nobody would ever know. You could wear naughty lingerie and still do chastity. Damn, what a waste..."
"It's not about nuns," Sam told him, "It's about your curse."
"...Because there's something sad about the thought of... huh?" Dean blinked, and stared at Sam. "My curse? I thought you didn't believe me."
"Well, I didn't," Sam managed to look apologetically sheepish. "To start with. But since you've been so adamant about it, I thought, it couldn't hurt to check it out. I mean, you're a Hunter, Dean, you've got damned good instincts for this sort of thing."
"Well, yeah," agreed Dean, somewhat taken aback.
"And you're always telling me, big brother is always right, so..." he waved a hand at the laptop. "I had a look at a couple of books that Bobby pointed me at, and it turns out, well, there is a kind of curse it might be." He turned a puppy-dog eyes face to Dean. "I'm sorry, bro, I should've taken you seriously, and gotten onto this earlier..."
"It's okay, Sam," Dean smiled, "Just remember next time, big brother knows best."
"Totally," Sam smiled back gratefully.
"So, what have you got?" pressed Dean.
"Well, to start with, I was barking up the wrong tree," Sam explained, peering at the screen. "I found several descriptions of 'unmanning' curses, but, uh," his face coloured slightly, "In your case, there's no suggestion of, um, you know, impotence..."
"Definitely not," smirked Dean.
"So it occurred to me that this must be something different," Sam went on hurriedly, "It's not intended to 'unman' you as such. That would be forcing chastity upon you. I think you were onto something when you wondered if it was a jealousy thing."
"That would be completely understandable," nodded Dean sagely, "After all, the Living Sex God is a hard act to follow. Very hard. Complete-lack-of-impotence hard..."
"Yeah, exactly," Sam continued, "So, I think that this curse is intended to make you inflict chastity on yourself. You have to act chastely to break the curse of chastity. Bobby was going to check out a couple of things for me, and I think... yeah, it's come through now... oh."
"Oh? Oh? What do you mean, oh?" demanded Dean anxiously. "Oh, as in, 'Oh, Bobby made a spelling mistake that's not like him', or 'Oh, we have to do a counter-spell that needs a hundred different ingredients and requires fluency in Swahili'?"
"Er, neither of those," Sam assured his brother, "It looks like my hunch was right. This curse is pretty straightforward to break, but...you're not going to like it."
"Oh, no," groaned Dean, "What do I have to do? Not wear a dress? I'm telling you right now, I am not getting my legs waxed this time, I got ingrowns in places I don't want to think about..."
"No, no, nothing like that," Sam assured him, "You don't have to do anything out of the ordinary, except act chastely for a day."
Dean gave his brother a long look. "Sam," he began, "Think about what you just said to me. 'Not do anything out of the ordinary', then 'act chastely'. Those two things are mutually exclusive."
"I know, I know, Living Sex God," Sam forestalled his protests, "But this page that Bobby sent me, the sentiment is pretty clear. 'The proude man, let his member stand proude, yet let hym bee chasteley humboled - but let hym bee worldly unworldly, for a tyme as from dawn to dawn and so shalle hys prowesse once more worldy bee'."
"Worldly unworldly?" Dean looked dubious. "You're doing it again. What were these old English dudes smoking when they wrote this stuff?"
"The way that the words are used has changed since this was written," Sam told him. "Basically, 'worldly' in this context means 'on the outside' – what the world can see – whilst 'unworldly' means naive, or, in this context, uh, chaste. So, it's saying, you have to give an appearance of being 'unworldly' – chaste – for twenty-four hours, and that will break the curse."
Dean's expression was astonishingly eloquent. "You might as well as tell me I have to grow wings and fly," he stated flatly. "How the hell am I supposed to not think about sex for twenty-four hours?"
"It's not quite that bad," Sam reassured him with a sympathetic smile, "Only on the outside, remember, what the world can see. So, you can think what you like in the privacy of your own head. You don't have to think chaste, but you do have to act chaste. So, you can look at women, and fantasise about them all you like, provided you don't do or say anything that might indicate what you're thinking about."
"That's it?" Dean blinked. "All I have to do is pretend that I'm chaste?"
"It might be tougher than you think," Sam warned him, "It doesn't just mean no picking up women: it means no flirting with them, no eye-sexing them, and no talking about it – for instance, telling me about Virginia and her waterbed would count as an outward indication of, uh, non-chastity. So, think about it as hard as you like, but keep your mouth shut."
"Huh." Dean snorted derisively. "This is going to be one of the easiest curse breakers I've ever had to do. By this time tomorrow, the Living Sex God will be ready to dazzle the ladies of Old Dominion with his awesome worldly prowess..."
"Yeah, twenty-four hours from that sentence," Sam humphed. "You can't go bragging about what the Living Sex God is going to do – it's not chaste."
"Yeah, okay," sighed Dean, fiddling with his watch to set a 24-hour countdown. "No problem. This time tomorrow, I will be a happier individual. Because of reasons."
"That's good," smiled Sam. He waved at Dean's plate. "You done?"
"Not quite," Dean grinned, "They got pie on the menu. I do not want to anger the Gods Of Pie by failing to make proper obeisance."
"Obviously," Sam rolled his eyes.
"I'm not kidding," Dean went on, "Don't mess with the Gods Of Pie – you'll be sorry if they call down terrible short crust juju on our asses... " he waved to the waitress. "Speaking of asses," he grinned, waggling his eyebrows in her direction.
"Dean!" Sam hissed. "The curse!"
"Huh? Oh, damn," Dean fiddled with his watch again, resetting the countdown as the waitress arrived.
"Can I get you something else?" she asked brightly.
"I'd like the blueberry pie, and another coffee," Dean smiled up at her.
"Sure thing," she noted it on her pad, "Would you like syrup drizzling?"
"Nah," Dean smirked rakishly, "I'm already sweet enough. Maybe on the pie, though."
The waitress laughed, and headed for the kitchen.
"Dean!" Sam snapped. "What the hell was that?"
"Watch and learn, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Because... oh, damn." His face fell, and he reset the countdown on his watch. "I don't suppose there's any point in trying to get her number, then? Damn." He reset his watch again.
"You're going to have to pay attention," Sam instructed him, "Or you'll never break this curse."
"I'm easing into it, Sam, I'm easing into it," Dean assured him. "Look, that's ten seconds already. I've gone a whole ten seconds without doing anything that might be considered unchaste. Fifteen seconds now. See? I can do this. Non problemo. Have a little faith, Sammy."
"I want to believe," sighed Sam.
"Just keep on believing, Sam. I'll have this thing broken before we hit Virginia. And then, when we hit Virginia, I can hit on Virginia..."
"Dean!"
"Oh, damn."
Come on, Petunia, dictate dat story!
Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You Chastely* For Blueberry Pie In The Cafeteria Of Life!
*You heard me. Chastely. Suck it up. Oh, all right, maybe just a modicum of syrup drizzling (mind the tablecloth).