Gaaaah! Curse you, Real Life! Now I have a new laptop, and it has this Windows 8 bizzo loaded. Somebody get me a thirteen-year-old to teach me to drive my new 'puter!

Chapter Six

Usually, when he felt the temperature drop several degrees suddenly, Sam would be on the look-out for an angry spirit. But although what he detected was a metaphorical drop, it still made him shiver.

The nun – Sister Fic, they'd called her, presumably a nickname (a shortening of Fiona, or Felicity, or Phillipa, maybe) – was in her late thirties or early forties, Sam guessed. The details of her habit suggested that she was a novice, not yet professed; a late-comer to her vocation. She had welcomed him and Dean to the class, and they'd told their stories; he had experience to draw on, and the whole abstinence thing had made Dean more convincing as a jonesing user than he ever would have thought possible. (Sam had felt no need to add any qualifying remarks such as "Oh, yeah, just for info, the stuff I was addicted to was demon's blood, no, that's not some party drug, actual demon's blood, sucked out of an actual demon in an actual human host, yeah yeah I know, gross, right, because it made my freaky powers stronger, which I thought would help me kill the demon that held my brother's contract when he sold his soul for me and went to Hell, but I just ended up kick-starting an Apocalypse, but Dean's a less serious case, really, he's just hanging out to get laid again, although I think he'd probably even be happy with jerking off, which as far as we know won't actually start an Apocalypse but with Dean trying to be abstinent there could be tears before bedtime and breakage of furniture at some point...")

It had been pretty much what he'd been expecting: Sister Fic had accepted their stories, then congratulated Dean on realising that he had a problem, and they had started to talk about free will, and choices, and the consequences of an individual's actions. Confession, Contrition, Atonement, Forgiveness.

And then, the temperature had, metaphorically, dropped. The shiver had been real.

"Confession, Contrition, Atonement, Forgiveness." Sister Fic's eyes raked the class. "Fess up, be truly sorry, do what you can to make it up, and maybe, just maybe, you'll be forgiven. And that, people," her smile became less like a greeting from a happy labrador, and a more like a teeth-baring warning from a prowling wolf, "Is what we are going to talk about today."

Sam looked around the class and wondered if he was the only one who felt like a little a swimmer who, thinking that he had been frolicking with a friendly dolphin, suddenly realised that the dorsal fin circling in the water now looked less like Flipper and more like Jaws.

"You are here because you have screwed up," she told them in a voice with steel under it. "Some of you are here because you realise that you've screwed up, and you want to fix it. And some of you are here because you think it's the easy option – anything's gotta be better than jail, right?" she gave them a smile that made the word pointy pop into Sam's head. "With free will, you chose the path of screwing up. It's your free will as to whether you will undo your screw-up. You are here, not in jail, because you have made a commitment, a promise, to undoing your screw up."

Sam thought that somewhere, in the distance, he could hear a double bass tuning up...

A hand went up. "Sister Germaine says that no matter how bad we screw up, God is prepared to forgive us," a young man said – there was a small note of defiance in his voice that withered under Sister Fic's gaze.

Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum...

"Well, yay God," she replied, twirling one finger in the air. "He forgives you. Is that going to help you stay alive? Stay out of jail? Get a job? Show me the bit of paper you have that says God forgives you, and explain to me how you're going to take that to the bank, and use it to pay your bills." She stared hard at him. "God's forgiveness is all very well," she conceded, "But, frankly, right now, you lot should be more concerned about forgiveness from the society you live in, and the judicial system that polices it. Don't get me wrong about God, He can help," she went on, "And He will, if you just ask Him, but there's a catch – you have to be sincere. You have to be genuinely sorry. And you have to be prepared to do all you can to undo your screw-up. It's not so bad," she smiled that shark-smile again, "You'll find that He is a lot easier to convince than Mr and Mrs Citizen, The Law, or me. His standards are the lowest – He's happy to look into your heart. The rest of us demand action to back up the words."

"But Sister Germaine said..." another woman began.

Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum...

"Sister Germaine is a wonderful, loving woman, with a heart as big as a racehorse's, a faith as strong as an ox, and a capacity to see the best in everybody that does her credit," Sister Fic's smile was momentarily genuinely warm, "Because Sister Germaine is one of those rare creatures, a genuinely charitable person. If she could, she'd do all the work for you, to undo your screw-ups. Because that's just the sort of person she is." The smile lost its warmth. "I, a humble novice, am nowhere near emulating her excellent example. So," she pointed to the whiteboard with a ruler. "Confession. You're here because you've used. Contrition. Your being here, participating in this course, is taken to be an indication that you are sorry. You don't have any control over whether you receive Forgiveness or not, except by your actions, so, let's talk about Atonement." She whacked the ruler against the board; Sam jumped in his seat. "Making amends. Undoing your screw up." She gazed around the room with frank distaste. "Some of you have a lot of amending to do. And I also know that, right now, some of you have no intention of doing any amending at all."

"Now, just a minute," protested a middle-aged man in a well-fitting casual suit, "You have no right to speak to us like that!"

"Oh?" Sister Fic's expression was all solicitous attention, not necessarily the attention of someone who thinks you've just said something interesting, Sam thought, more like a shark that's just spotted a whaling ship where a large carcass is being butchered and there will soon be large chunks of offal thrown overboard... "I am of course interested to hear why you might think that, Ray."

DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum

Sister Fic," the man went on expansively, bordering on patronising, "What is, this good nun – bad nun? Isn't that a little clichéd? Do you think you can frighten us into reforming?"

For fuck's sake, dude, Sam thought frantically, Stop throwing blood into the water!

Sister Fic paused. "No," she said solemnly, "No, I know for a fact I can't. In the end you'll do it for yourself, or you won't do it at all." She circled around the room towards him; Sam tried not to think about large marine apex predators. "Because the one thing, the one thing, I do know about junkies..."

"I find that word offensive," snapped the man called Ray.

Doodle-OOOOOOOOOO!

"I don't give a shit what you find offensive," Sister Fic snapped back as members of the class looked at each other in astonishment. "Because the one thing I do know, is that junkies – shut up, Ray – junkies will lie, and cheat, and bullshit themselves as hard as they do the people they end up preying on." She glared at him. "Bullshit yourself if you like, Ray," she said, "Bullshit the justice system, but don't try to bullshit me, I'll take it as a personal insult."

"How dare you!" shouted Ray angrily. "Drug use is a victimless crime!"

Sam had the sudden urge to yell a warning to the guy. Get out of the water! She's not a penguin, she's a killer whale!

Sister Fic was not a small woman, but she moved like a snake. With astonishing speed, she closed the distance to Ray and slammed his head onto the table, pinning him there.

It wasn't often that Sam's mouth went into gear before his brain did, but the sheer shock of what had just happened jolted him into action. "Hey!" he yelped, halfway out of his seat, "What are you..."

And then...

The most awful thing happened...

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

Dean was worried. There was something wrong.

He and Sam had made their way to the right room, and introduced themselves to the nun taking the group, Sister Fic. Within the first five minutes, he had, as a professional con man himself, identified about half the class as bullshit artists who were there to work the system, then he and Sam had told their stories, and he was sure he'd been pretty convincing. But there was definitely something wrong.

He'd been prepared to defend himself against any occasion of sin, and had successfully avoided any outward show of amusement at the idea of the nun having to teach a young guy anything in the sack, but then he'd realised that he didn't have anything to guard against.

Because, for reasons he could not fathom, he found Sister Fic to be totally unhot.

And that really worried him.

She should've been the sort of thing he could fantasise about: a smart-talking but strict woman, in a nun's habit, for Christ's sake – he should've had half a dozen cheeky one-liners pop into his head in the first sixty seconds on the strength of that alone. But, for the first time since he was fifteen, the Living Sex God's bottomless well of potential pick-up lines had run dry.

It's not like she wasn't attractive. In fact, under the penguin suit, she actually was something of a looker. She wasn't thin, but her size wasn't due to fat, either – she was athletic. And he liked athletic. And that was just from the chin down. Her face had a fine bone structure, with high cheekbones showing a very faint dusting of freckles, and plump lips, and deep green eyes with impossibly long lashes. Then, the way she smiled when she was clearly getting angry, but keeping a leash on it and getting ready to pounce – the tiny little tremor of anger in her deep pink, fulsome top lip would've been enough to make any red-blooded Living Sex God want to don his leopard print loincloth, swing from the nearest vine and yodel his lust to the entire jungle...

And she was totally unhot.

It was ridiculous. It was unheard of. He should've been battling to keep a lid on his unchaste thoughts, he should've been struggling to wrestle the Killer Smile off his face, he should've been popping a totally inappropriate boner right there and then, but...

Nope. Nothing. Nada.

When she shot across the room to the slimy asshole he'd picked as some sort of white collar offender with enough money to buy a hotshot lawyer to wangle him out of jail time and into a soft option diversion program, and slammed the asshat's face into the table, he should've wanted to throw himself onto the table top, and shout, "Me! Me! Do me next!"

Nuh-uh. Not so much as a twitch from Little Dean.

And then, and then, when his little brother was half out of his seat, Sister Fic turned to Sam, and gave him a look.

It was... intense. It was... unbelievable. It was... overwhelming. It was... inspiring. And she didn't have to say a single word.

It was THE most EPIC Bitchface Dean had ever seen on anybody.

Sam let out a small squeak, his mouth snapped shut and, eyes bugging in horror, his legs folded under him, plonking him back into his seat.

By rights, Dean should've a) burst out laughing, b) proposed, and/or c) come in his pants right there and then, but...

Nothing.

And that's why he was so really, really worried...

"Victimless crime?" Sister Fic hissed like an angry cobra, "Did you just say, 'victimless crime'?" Her sneer was as epic as her bitchface. "I know about you, Ray," she went on, as her hapless victim squirmed, "I've read your record. And found some extra information to fill in the gaps. And you may think that your wild coke-fuelled weekend parties were a 'victimless crime', but I think the people you screwed over might disagree. You know, the clients you fleeced to fund your fun, your colleagues at the small but previously modestly profitable brokerage who ended up out of work, the founding directors who went down with the ship after the business crashed..."

"Let go of me!" Ray actually squealed, waving one arm futilely. "I'll sue you for this!"

"Come at me, bro," Sister Fic's grin was positively evil. "That weasel you hired to wangle you out of paying for what you've done? I've eaten pissant little shits like him for breakfast. I should be suing you. For breach of contract." She was magnificent when she was angry. "You are here making a mockery of what Sister Germaine is trying to do for you. You think you can come here, say a few prayers, a few mea culpas, and walk away, scot free? Think again, slimeball!"

"You can't do this!" Ray yelped. "You're a nun!"

"I'm not a nun!" snarled Sister Fic. "I'm only a novice. That's like having a learner's permit. It's my licence to fuck up!" The class gasped in shock. "Oh, don't worry," she grinned at them. "God will forgive me. I'm consecrated to him, and that is His job, after all." She gave Ray's head one last little bounce, and let go of him. "You know who you are," she narrowed her eyes, circling around to put herself in front of the door. "I've sat here for nearly two weeks, watching you, and I know that half of you think you're playing the system. Pander to the nice clueless nuns, and pretend you're sorry. Ohhh, I'm so familiar with that tune, people. So, seeing as I'm not nearly as trusting as our dear and much loved Sister Germaine – the woman is a Living Rule, I tell you – I've called in some back-up. And we'll see just exactly who is abiding by the conditions of their bail, parole, or diversion program." She put two fingers to her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Behind her, the door opened, and two police officers entered the room. Several of the class's constituents suddenly looked like deer in spotlights. "Meet my new friends, Officer Chong and Officer Pitman. They are here with us today for a new activity. I like to call this one, 'Spit On The Stick'!"

The two officers unsmilingly began to unpack the accoutrements of swab testing. Ray the hotshot financier let out a small sad noise. Sister Fic snapped on a pair of gloves, and picked up a testing pack. "Now," she asked brightly, "Shall we do this in alphabetical order, or would somebody like me to do them first?" She turned to Dean, smiling sunnily. "How about you, Mr Young, since you're sitting there with your mouth open? Why don't I shove something in there?"

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

Sam might've been reeling with shock from being, well, stared into submission by a swearing nun, but that was nothing compared to the shock he felt as he watched his brother's reaction to Sister Fic's smiling suggestion.

Ordinarily, a line like that would've been an invitation to the Living Sex God to slot the Killer Smile into place, trot out a pick-up line that didn't even qualify as a single entendre, and generally fill the room with enough pheromones to suffocate anybody within a radius of twenty feet in anticipation of leaving with at least one woman and enjoying several hours of gymnastically accomplished bedroom hi-jinks of a sort that would leave the most outré sex therapist weeping whilst tearing up their degree...

Dean just nodded, and obediently let her pop the swab onto his tongue. He didn't even suck on it suggestively.

Sam made a mental note to surreptitiously check his big brother for a fever, because he had to be coming down with something.

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