Sam (looking around): Is this a ship? From a nearby yardarm, a flag dangles. It's black, with a cordless mouse and crossed keyboards under it, picked out in white. That's the weirdest Jolly Roger I've ever seen. A noise from above him. He looks up.

Dean (clinging to a rope): Aaaaaaaaaargh!

He swings back and forth a few times, then falls, landing hard.

Dean: Ow. He gets up.

Sam: Dean, why are you dressed like a pirate?

Dean: No idea, I just… Sam, is that, are you wearing a dog collar? An actual, leather, dog collar?

Sam (grabbing at his neck): Eeeeeeeep!

Dean (inspecting the collar): Dude you've got studs. Oh, and a little tag with your name on it.

Sam (peering over the gunwales): Apparently we are aboard a vessel called the JIMIVERSE.

Dean: I think this anchor might be made of chocolate.

A flight of giggling cherubs descends, and a cannon fires…

Sam: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Dean: At least you've still got the collar, bro.

Chapter Fourteen

When it became clear that none of the boxes held anything that was of interest, Sister Felicity swore quietly to herself, then went in search of Sam to let him know. When one of the other nuns informed her that Dean had been dragooned into taking a high school Human Development class, she swore a lot more loudly, and broke into a run.

She barely paused to knock on the door of the Winchesters' room. "Dean!" she called, "Sister Maria just told me that Mother Superior threw you to the wolves, do you need alcohol, I'm betting that father O'Brien has some stashed…" She stopped, and blinked.

Dean sat on his bed, apparently deep in thought. The expression on his face was not the look of frazzled, overwhelmed surrender that was often to be found on the faces of priests who were called upon to try to instruct teenage boys in the Church's position on That Sort Of Thing. If anything, it was remarkably similar to the expression she had seen on the face of one of her fellow postulants the morning that a poached egg had come out of the possessed microwave with the yolk in the shape of the Virgin Mary.

"Mother Superior asked me to stand in for Father O'Brien," he told her distantly. "There was a classroom full of young guys, and… and… I've never experienced anything like it."

"Dean?" she pressed carefully, sitting next to him, "Are you all right? What did they do?"

"They… listened," he replied, in a tone of amazement. "They listened to me. It was like they actually cared about what I had to say to them. They paid attention, they asked questions, they wanted to listen. They wanted me to teach them."

"They did?" she prompted dubiously.

"Yeah," he seemed surprised. "They asked me to stay back. They asked me to come back next week. It was… amazing." He turned an earnest face to her. "I've never been in a situation like that before. I thought I was just gonna talk for a while, you know, just part of the act, just keep them quiet until Mother Superior came back but… " he waved a hand vaguely. "I started… teaching them. And they responded. I wasn't expecting to feel so… appreciated. I didn't think it would be so rewarding."

"Uh-huh," she nodded knowingly, "And I'm guessing that what you lectured in wasn't anything that would usually be found in a catechism curriculum. Suggestions for… after class practical lessons, perhaps?"

"It was a bit frightening," he admitted, "To think that I had been entrusted with these boys, ready to become young men, and, and, I had been given this opportunity to pass on what I know to them." His voice held wonder, and concern. "And I've been sitting here, thinking, did I do enough? Did I leave out anything really important? Could I have done more? I mean, this is important, and I could see that they understood that." He appeared wracked by uncertainty. "Did I do the best I could possibly have done for them? And I've realized that, as the Living Sex God, with great talent comes responsibility, to guys everywhere, and chicks too, to pass on what I know. It's not just enough to try to educate Sam. If I can, I have to help other people. I have to make a contribution to the overall sum of human happiness."

"Ding ding! Next stop Damascus," she snorted, You sound like you're having some sort of epiphany."

"It's just… they looked at me with… respect. And… they really took it all in. And…" he smiled a beautiful smile, "I think, I think they're going to go out there, and do me proud, and do themselves proud, and I'm just, I'm just, I'm just so… happy that maybe I had a hand in helping them with that, and maybe I had a hand in moulding these young men, and maybe the next generation of Living Sex Gods will occasionally think back to blind Father Angus, and remember his tuition fondly, and…" He beamed. "I feel like I've done something really worthwhile today."

"Careful there, Deano," Sister Felicity warned him, "You talk like that much more, you might end up with an angel appearing in your shower and telling you, hey, you got a vocation, pal, let's go get you measured up for your own man-dress."

"I feel humbled to have had the privilege of instructing them," Dean sighed.

Sister Felicity looked at her watch. "With the people here dropping like flies, Mother Superior came and stole Sam, too, and dragged him off to hear confession. I thought he'd be back here by now."

"I haven't seen him," Dean replied. "He's probably just handing out a few last penances – listen to ten emo songs, and eat all your salad for a week."

As he speculated about the sort of penances Father Sam might hand out, his cell rang. He took it out, and smirked. "Speak of the giant girly emo, and he shall call," he grinned, flicking the phone to speaker. "Hey, Sammy, how's it going? Telling people to say their prayers? Our Hairdresser, who art in the salon, hallowed by thy mane..."

"Dean," Sam replied, in a small voice that sounded all of five years old, "Dean… help…"

"Hang on Sam," Dean shot to his feet, "I'm coming, where are you?"

"Make them stop," Sam's voice was barely a frightened whisper, "Make them stop… "

"Sammy, listen to me," Dean coaxed, "Where are you, little brother?"

There was a distressed keening noise and the call cut.

"Sonofabitch!" snapped Dean, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, Jimi can find him…"

"No need," Sister Felicity was headed for the door, "I know where he is. Follow me."

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

Sister Felicity took them straight to the chapel; they didn't encounter anyone else. The chapel was empty. As they entered, a middle-aged woman left the confessional, and made her way out, smiling to them as she left. As soon as she was gone, Sister Felicity dashed to the other door, and pulled it open.

Sam was slumped inside, his face white. He had never liked small, confined spaces, and Dean recognized his expression; it was a mixture of fear, and relief that his big brother had come to save him.

"It's okay, bro, I gotcha," he soothed, getting an arm around Sam and hauling him out of the small space. "I gotcha."

"Dean," Sam breathed with relief, "It was… horrible…"

"It's okay now, I gotcha," Dean reiterated as Sister Felicity rummaged around behind the seat in the confessional.

"Get him back to your room," she instructed, "I'll be right behind you… Aha!" She triumphantly brandished a bottle of whiskey.

"That won't help," Dean snapped, as Sam slumped against him. "Right now, we need holy water, as much as you can get your hands on, and salt, and anything made of iron that's consecrated. If that asshole demon is back with reinforcements…"

"It wasn't demons," she told him grimly, draping Sam's other arm around her shoulder and helping Dean to steer him into a stumbling walk, "At least, not the sort you mean. Come on, I've dealt with this before."

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

"Here you go, Sam, you drink this for me," Sister Felicity handed the glass to Sam. He downed it in a couple of gulps. "Better?"

"Yeah. No. I… " Sam stuttered. The nun poured him another double, and that went down without touching the sides too. "Gaaaah! Oh, that's good stuff." He held the glass out again, and she refilled it.

"I swear, bro," Dean growled, "Whatever did this to you, I will find it, and I will gank it…"

"I'm not going out there again," asserted Sam with a small hiccup. "Not if… they are out there."

"It's okay, Sam," Sister Felicity reassured him, "You can stay here, and you don't have to go anywhere. We'll just say you're feeling a bit unwell – they'll buy it, with the 'flu epidemic – and you can stay here and rest. And Dean and Jimi will stay with you, and nothing will get past them, right?" Sam smiled a little lopsidedly. "Right. Now, drink up… good boy."

When about half the bottle was gone, Dean wrangled his ginormous baby brother under the covers, then Jimi jumped onto the bed, and settled himself watchfully at the end of it.

"You good, bro?" asked Dean.

"I'm awesome," nodded Sam. "And thirsty," he waved his glass uncertainly. Sister Felicity poured him a drink; he looked at her, then took the bottle from her and necked it. "God, it was awful. They wouldn't stop…"

"It's okay now, Sam," Dean promised him, "Whatever it was…"

"Sunflowers!" Sam yelped. "Sunflowers! Parachutes!"

"Sunflowers?" Dean asked, confused. "You were attacked by parachuting sunflowers?"

"And pirates!" Sam added, his voice cracking. "Swinging on ropes! Wheeeeee!"

"Pirates? What, they were dressed as pirates?" His face clouded with bemusement. "I've never heard of a fugly that dresses like a pirate before; surely we're too far inland for an unquiet spirit. I'd better call Bobby…"

"Undressed pirates!" Sam corrected. "With cannons!"

"Sam," Dean began, "Whatever happened…"

"Honeymoon suite!" Sam giggled. "Bubble bath! Mirrored ceilings!" His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Chocolate… sauce…"

"Oh, God, Sam…"

Sam clutched desperately at Dean's arm. "Watch out for the waves!" he begged, "Don't let the waves get you…"

"I think that might be enough now, bro," Dean reached for the bottle.

Sam snatched it away. "Nooooo!" he yowled. "Featheeeeeeeeeers!"

"Maybe just a little bit more, huh?" Sister Felicity suggested. Sam glared at her suspiciously, and took another drink. He grabbed Dean's arm.

"If she shows any sign of corsetry," he whispered urgently, "Tell her I said she had to say forty-three Hail Marys, set fire to her computer, and feed all her Black Lace books to the giraffe." With that, he carefully handed the bottle to Dean, smiled reassuringly, and toppled slowly but inevitably backwards, like a magnificently shaggy if somewhat inebriated sequoia being felled.

"Okaaaay," Dean handed the bottle to the nun, and pulled the blanket over Sam.

"You're safe," Sister Felicity said, taking a swig herself then handing the bottle back, "I don't do corset. Foundation garment is bad enough. What is it with fitters, that they're always little old ladies with glasses on a lanyard, and you just know that they are somebody's Great-Aunt Eunice, or something…"

"What the hell happened to him?" Dean demanded, indicating his gently snoring brother.

"The matinee session," sighed Sister Felicity. "Damn it, I should've realized…"

"The matinee session?" Dean queried. "Are you telling me that some daytime movie did this to him?"

"No," she clarified, "The matinee session of confession. Sometimes it's referred to as the bored housewives session. I think some of them are just lonely, and they watch too many 'Desperate Housewives' and 'Sex and the City' reruns. I've seen this happen a couple of times – poor Father Tran was just out of the seminary; he ended up practically catatonic after a group of them got together and watched the Brazilian waxing episode…"

"Are you saying he's been traumatised by confessing housewives?" Dean sounded incredulous.

"He's not the first," she shrugged, and smiled at Sam sympathetically. "It was an older, no-nonsense Sister who took a couple of us aside, and told us that administration of copious amounts of alcohol was usually the best way to deal with it."

"Oh, fuck it," sighed Dean, falling heavily into a chair. "He's a lightweight at the best of times." He took a long drink from the bottle. "Oh, that is good stuff… if he ends up too hung over to drive tomorrow, he'll have to take over as blind guy…"

"Oh, it's okay, I'll drive," she said airily with a wave of her hand. "I promise not to hurt your beautiful car. Seriously. It's been a long time since I flipped that cruiser during a pursuit… joke! Joke!" She added hurriedly as Dean gave her an expression that went alarmingly close to infringing on the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ trademark.

"I have no problem whatsoever with the idea of hitting a nun," he grumbled, "If she does anything that might hurt my Baby."

"And I have no problem at all with the idea of knotting your arms behind your head if you try," she replied sweetly. "Age and treachery will defeat youth and skill, every time." She held out her hand. "Don't hog it."

"You sound like Bobby," he snarked, handing over the bottle, which she drained. "You drink like him, too."

"He sounds like an okay sort of guy," Sister Felicity opined, "If he's put up with you two for all this time, he's probably on the way to sainthood."

"Cow."

"Dick."

"So, nothing helpful in Sister Helen's indices," Dean said, and Sister Felicity nodded.

"Unfortunately, no," she concurred. "But I did get a name. There's a nun there who's retired now, in her eighties, and her health isn't that good, but Sister Helen says that her mind is still as sharp as a tack. She was working at St Claire's in Topeka when it was still operating as a home for unmarried mothers. She assisted with the transfer of some of the documentation we ploughed through already. It's a thin lead, but she's probably our best shot at this point. So, tomorrow, we take Sleeping Beauty here, and go introduce ourselves to Sister Agnes."

"Fine," grunted Dean. "Just don't ask me to wake him up. I'll get Jimi to kiss him."

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