*splash* *splash*

Dean (paddling): Aaaargh! What happened?

Sam (treading water): Somebody pushed us! Hey, where's your jacket?

Dean: I dunno. Why are you wearing a bathing cap?

Daaaaaaaa-dum

Dean: Did you hear a double bass?

Daaaaaaa-dum

Sam: Oh no! Are there nuns in here?

Dean: Worse, I think there might be… Denizens...

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

Sam: Oh God, something just bit me!

Dean: EEEEEEEEP! Something just did the most dreadful thing with a piece of chocolate!

Chapter Twelve

"I guess we could make a start," Sam said, after the nuns in the refectory had served them a late lunch, "At least introduce ourselves to Sister Helen the archivist, and get an idea of how much we have to go through."

"Attaboy, Sammy," Dean encouraged, "You two brainiacs can go nerd it up – don't do anything to upset Sister Helen – whilst I will retire to our room to digest lunch."

"It would look a lot more priestly if you went and spent some time in the chapel," suggested Sister Felicity. "You don't have to do much – I suspect that Father Callahan naps in the confessional, sometimes – but it would look good."

"If anybody asks, tell them I'm working on a homily," Dean waved a hand dismissively.

"Dean," Sam began in a warning tone, "If you freeze the laptop on one of your disgusting porn sites, you'll just end up having to reset your watch on your curse-breaking. Plus, I'll be really annoyed at having to clean it up. Again."

"Yeah, I guess I shouldn't," Dean sighed, "Not with this curse." He paused thoughtfully. "Hey, does it count as breaking my outward chastity if I do or say something unchaste but there's nobody to see me?"

"Yes it does," Sam replied quickly, "So, no porn."

"Damn." Dean stood. "Okay, I'll give the dog collar a public airing later," he announced, taking hold of Jimi's harness. "Try not to get too excited with all that paper in one place. You'd better have a bucket of cold water to dump over him just in case, Sister Fic."

"Jerk."

Dean headed back to the spartan but clean room the nuns had shown Father Angus and Father Malcolm to. He let out a stifled bark of outrage when he discovered that Sam had deleted his Porn, Other Porn and Other Other Porn folders (again), so he whiled away some time surfing car magazine sites and watching re-runs of Doctor Sexy. Then, never having been one who could sit still for long if he didn't have to, he decided to head into the chapel, if only to look a bit priestly, just to keep Sam from bitchfacing at him later.

He genuflected – Jimi dropped beside him then stood again, and Dean heard the two older ladies already there titter at the dog's mirroring of his kneeling – then seated himself in a pew. It was actually kind of peaceful, he decided, surreptitiously looking up at the stained glass windows without raising his head. Yep, he decided, Michael was definitely a sissy. A bully, and a sissy. The Living Sex God was way too handsome to be the vessel for an angel who was happy enough to be depicted looking like a cross-dressing Bette Midler impersonator. In fact, he liked him a whole lot better with a dog as a vessel.

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Sister Louise, Mother Superior of St Basil's, had been worrying about the bout of 'flu that had been doing the rounds in recent weeks, knocking over both religious and lay personnel alike. They had ended up short-staffed for a number of the programs and activities that usually ran, and when Father O'Brien succumbed, leaving just a sniffling but fading Father Roderigues to soldier on, she was at her wits' end. Then, on top of that, they'd had visitors arrive unannounced the day before – the paperwork for such short stays often got lost, but it was one more thing to worry about, when she had so much on her plate already.

She was walking past the chapel, and happened to glance in, when she spotted Father Angus and his guide dog.

It was a revelation. Possibly even a Revelation.

Her residual annoyance at her unannounced guests evaporated in a flash of understanding, and she smiled to herself. It made perfect sense. She entered the chapel, genuflected, and made her way to his pew.

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

"Father Angus?" Dean heard a tentative voice behind him, and turned.

"Hello Reverend Mother," he smiled for the older nun, who looked decidedly flustered. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, Father Angus, I am so terribly sorry to disturb you," she said, "But I'm afraid we have something of an emergency on our hands."

"Er, an emergency?" echoed Dean anxiously, standing up.

"Yes," Mother Superior stated. "I'm afraid that Father O'Brien is not well. We have a number of people unwell at the moment – some terrible strain of the 'flu, honestly, it's been like the house of the living dead, here – and he was due to take his class. Oh, Father Angus," she took hold of his elbow, "I know it's short notice, but could I possibly impose upon you to stand in for him?"

"Er, what class is this?" Dean asked dubiously.

"Oh, it's part of the Human Development curriculum, for the tenth to twelfth graders from St Catherine's," she replied as she steered him back up the nave, a small black tugboat effortlessly manoeuvring a reluctant ship out of its berth and into the shipping lane. "Thankfully, Sister Juanita is still well enough to take the girls, but poor Father O'Brien, between you and me, I think he has enough trouble dealing with them at any time, and this is such an important aspect of their spiritual development, it's something that I really don't think any of them should miss out on, and I'm sure you'll do just fine with them..."

She kept talking as they made their way back through the main building, towards a classroom. Dean knew it was a classroom; he could hear the muffled sounds of an unsupervised class as they approached.

"Uh, so, what exactly is this 'Human Development' curriculum?" he asked, having a horrible premonition about what the answer would be.

"Well, it covers a gamut of issues that young people need to be educated about," Mother Superior explained, "From the biology of human reproduction, to the religious and spiritual aspects of becoming an adult." She took hold of the door handle, and opened the door. The pandemonium associated with a classroom packed with 16 to 18 year old boys spilled out.

"Boys!" Mother Superior called in a loud voice, "Boys! Quiet! Quiet!" The riot of horseplay, tallking and general mayhem continued around her. "SILENCE!" she bellowed in a most unnunly fashion. The noise level gradually dropped around her. "Boys," she went on, "I'm most terribly sorry to tell you that Father O'Brien is not well, and cannot take your class today. He's been in bed all week, with the doctor."

"Is she hot?" asked someone to Dean's left, which was followed by a generalised sniggering.

"However, we are most fortunate to have Father Angus here visiting, and he has agreed to take today's class," she went on, smiling brightly, "So, I'll leave you to it!"

"Er, thank you?" replied Dean hesitantly. "Oh, uh," he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Reverend Mother, what was the topic of today's, um, discussion going to be?"

"Oh, today is 'The Joy Of Monogamy and the Sanctity Of Marriage'," she informed him. "I shall come back at the end of class."

"Oh. Great." Dean offered her a smile that was more a gritting of teeth, and made his way, with Jimi, to the front of the classroom. He turned, and from behind the glasses, he saw bored, sullen eyes fixed on him, the way that a bunch of wolves might sit around looking at a crippled rabbit – We're not going to tear you to pieces just yet; first of all, we're going to watch to see if you do a trick.

Maybe Father O'Brien did have the 'flu, he thought. Or maybe he was just a cunning old bastard who knew the fine art of well-timed sandbagging.

"So," he addressed the class, "What did Father O'Brien talk about last time?"

Mother Superior closed the door behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was sure that he would be just fine. He was, after all, a young man, as priests went. And if things got really rowdy, she was prepared to bet that the dog could hold off most of them if necessary.

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

"Wow," breathed Sam, taking in the jumbled stack of boxes piled haphazardly in the dusty store room.

"That's nothing," Sister Helen sniffed in amusement. "I've actually managed to work my way through about a third of it so far. I tried to get them to put stuff in the same order it was removed, but when it was stashed away at St Claire's, I think it was done in a hurry, without much thought as to retrieving it later. The damp had gotten to some of it, but I've separated the damaged boxes where I could."

"Throws us in at the deep end," mused Sister Felicity, shaking her head. "Well, thank you, Sister Helen. We can start with what you've catalogued, then we'll check as much of this as we can, I guess."

"It's worth a shot," Sam agreed, "You never know, we might find something. At least we have a date to look for."

They quickly worked through the list of documents that had been archived, but they were much later than what they were interested in, so they made a start on checking the dates in the boxes.

They'd been at it for about an hour when an older nun, in the habit of the fully professed, came in.

"Oh, hello Reverend Mother," Sam greeted her, taking in the look on Mother Superior's face. "What's wrong?"

"It's Father Roderigues," said the senior nun, "He's been feeling ill for a few days, and he's collapsed and had to go to bed. And he was meant to be hearing confession!" She took hold of his elbow. "I'm afraid I am here for nefarious purposes, Sister Felicity," she beamed, "I have come to steal Father Malcolm away from you!"

"Er," went Sam.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to impose upon you with no notice," Mother Superior apologised, all engines ahead full as she got the SS Reluctant Priest moving, "But there really is nobody else. This terrible 'flu, it's been hitting everyone. I fear that it's a sad inevitability when our priests, frankly, tend to be men who are not young anymore..."

"Er, I, uh," went Sam.

"Go ahead, Father," Sister Felicity smiled, "I'm sure I can manage here until you are done."

"What the hell do I do?" Sam hissed sotto voce for Sister Felicity's ears only.

"Just sit and listen and try not to fall asleep!" she hissed back. "Or at least don't snore. And try not to laugh!"

"You are a godsend, Father Malcolm, and absolute godsend," said Mother Superior, once she had Sam under tow and steaming along on the desired course, "I could almost believe that you arrived here because we would need you!"

"Well, uh, God does work in mysterious ways," he agreed nervously. "Or possibly also ridiculous ways," he muttered to himself.

She finally let go of him when they arrived in the chapel. There were a number of women waiting, reading their missals or holding their rosary beads. A couple of them looked up, saw Sam, and began to fuss with their clothes and mantillas.

With a final encouraging smile from Mother Superior, Sam gave her a small uncertain smile back, and folded himself into one side of the confessional. It was dark. It was claustrophobic. It was clearly designed for priests well under the six-foot-four mark...

He took a couple of deep breaths, and told himself to stop being silly. This shouldn't be a problem – he was familiar with the rite: confess your sins, ask forgiveness, then receive absolution and a penance. His initial trepidation had probably been a bit of a panic reflex, he decided. He could do this, and if people didn't know that he wasn't a real priest, and he wasn't actually dealing out kosher absolution (and that right there was a bit of terminology he didn't want to dwell on for too long), then he was pretty certain that God would forgive them, although he might well earn himself a smiting, karmic if not actual, for impersonating a man of the cloth.

All he had to do was listen to them, maybe give brief advice or a reality check, and send them on their way feeling cleansed. Oh, and squelch the impulse to scream for his big brother to come and rescue him from the scary dark little box.

The first penitent moved into the other side of the confessional, so he cleared his throat and slid open the panel.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," said a husky female voice. "It has been a week since my last confession."

"Very well," Sam replied, in what he hoped was an authoritative yet reassuring priestish voice, "Tell me your sins."

"Father," the voice hesitated, "Father, I am an unmarried woman, but I have been having... impure thoughts."

"Impure thoughts?" Sam said.

"Impure thoughts," she confirmed. "I have them."

"Uh, okaaaaay," Sam mused. "Impure thoughts. Well, the thing about having impure thoughts, is that it's a very human thing. What's important is how you choose to act, when you have impure thoughts..."

"I have a lot of impure thoughts," the voice went on.

"A lot, huh?" Sam nodded. "How, er, how often do you have these, um, impure thoughts?"

"Oh, all the time," the voice continued, sounding alarmingly like it was warming to its theme. "Let me tell you about the one with the bearskin rug in front of a fireplace..."

So, for the Sam-In-A-Box fans, is Sam-In-A-Confessional adequate? It does sound to me like he's about to be tortured...

Reviews are the Impure Thoughts On The Bearskin Rug In Front Of The Fireplace Of Life!