Dean (cutting through net): I think I got it, hang on…

Sam: No!

They drop out of the net

*splat*

Sam: Aaaaargh! It's squishy! It's disgusting!

Dean: Dude, it's strawberry jello.

Sam: Why are we in strawberry jello? What are we supposed to do in a pool of strawberry jello?

Dean: Traditionally, two members of the same sex finding themselves in a pool of jello are supposed to wrestle, for the amusement of an audience made up of members of the opposite sex. You'd know that if you weren't such a great big girl…

They blink at each other

Sam and Dean: Aaaaaaaaaargh!

Epilogue

"So, what are you goin' to do now?" asked Bobby.

"Well," Felicity replied, stirring the soup. "I called St Clare's. I used Sam's suggestion to say I'd like to visit Father Roberto Cantante to ask if he remembers anything that might help me track down my birth family. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here for a few days." She smiled. "I've only just found out that I've got two little brothers," she mused, "And a surrogate dad. I'd like to have a chance to get to know them a little."

"I'd be glad of it," Bobby grinned, "Havin' an extra pair of hands to help me with those idjits would be most welcome. Especially if she can play the big sister card." He paused. "What about after that?"

"I'll go back to St Clare's," she told him. "I'm only a couple of weeks into my placement, and I still have a long way to go to finish my novitiate."

"Are you goin' to be in trouble over the drug-testing thing?" he asked; Sam and Dean had related the tale of Sister Jaws, The Sheep And The Goats, and Bobby had laughed out loud.

"Funny thing about that," Felicity smiled, "A couple of people in the class complained, but the bishop was quite impressed with my combination of prayer, compassion and tough love. Sister Germaine's health isn't so good – she's getting on, and she's going to take some time off to recover – so I've been asked to take over the co-ordination and running of the workshops. They need me back, anyway. The 'flu that's been hitting a lot of places is taking its toll."

"No second thoughts, then?" he asked. "Now you know what's out there, and that you're from a family of Hunters?"

"Oh, I have second thoughts all the time," she told him airily, "But Reverend Mother Emily says that's normal, and healthy. She says it's the ones who are utterly unquestioning that worry her." She set the kettle to boil. "Of course, I can invite family to the occasion when I'm first professed. I hope Sam and Dean can make it. I hope you'll come along, too."

"I'd love to," Bobby said, "If I can make it over the threshold without gettin' hit by a bolt of lightning. Fancy that, though, me getting the Son of God as a practically-son-in-law. It makes me want to go and join a bridge club, so I can boast. There was a time, you know, when it was considered to be something of a status symbol to have a person of religious vocation in the family. A few generations ago, it would've been unthinkable for a Hunting family not to have a monk, nun or priest dangling from a branch of the family tree."

"Any time the boys are passing through, I can top them up with blessed salt, and organise the consecration of any weapons. And give them as much holy water as they need," she offered. "Out of the store, of course. Not out of me."

"Heh heh, a Winchester taking the veil," Bobby chuckled. "I don't use the phrase 'Now I've seen everything', because I know I haven't, but at least I can say, 'Now I've seen a lot'."

"My Father-in-law-to-be does work in mysterious ways," she agreed, pouring hot water. "I wonder how I managed to stay off the radar for so long?"

"Ask your angel, sometime," advised Bobby. "Heaven is a lot more like Congress than you realise. There's factions, and parties, and conspiracies, and horse-trading. They play the long game - I can't help wonder if one of them realised the potential for you to be a piece on the chessboard, and took steps to make sure you weren't noticed. Crowley, of course, has spies and snitches everywhere. If anybody was goin' to winkle out that info, it would be him."

"Well, he's been dealt with," she stated, loading up the tray. "Having dealt with the King Of Hell, these two should be a breeze, surely."

"Nah, I'll leave 'em to you," Bobby smiled beatifically. "You've been doin' such a good job, I'd hate to muscle in on your patch."

"Thanks so much," she rolled her eyes, picked up the tray, and headed for the stairs.

She knocked gently on the door of her brothers' room. "Are you decent?" she asked, then reconsidered, and added, "Well, I know that you're not, Dean, but are you at least covered?"

She was answered with a small moan, and a sniffle.

She pushed the door open, put the tray down on the table, and moved to open the curtains a little, which drew rumbles of protest.

"Come on, guys," she chided, "It's a lovely day out there, the sun is shining, the trees are rustling, the junkers are rusting..."

"The bacteria are multiplying," croaked Dean, a sniffle turning into a cough.

"It's a virus," corrected Sam listlessly, "Of the Orthomyxoviridae family. Not a bacterium."

"Don't mind him," Dean said hoarsely, "He rambles when he's feverish. Gets cranky and clingy too."

"I do not!" whined Sam. "Nnnnnnng, I feel awfuuuuuuuul, Fic."

"How come we got the priest 'flu?" demanded Dean, sniffling and snorting. "We're not even real priests, but we got the priest 'flu!"

"Just lucky, I guess," said Felicity, as she wrung out and replaced the damp washcloth on Sam's forehead. "Still got the shivers?" Sam nodded miserably. "Here, I made you some camomile tea, see if you can get some paracetamol down."

She moved to Dean's bed, and sat down. "Open," ordered Felicity, wielding a pen flashlight. Dean complied meekly – he didn't want another episode of having his nose grabbed. "Oh, yeah, you're inflamed as hell, but no bacterial interlopers. Here you go," she put a hot lemon drink on the night stand, "And some paracetamol, if you can get them down. Now, it would be good if you could eat something, just a little..."

"Not hungry," humphed Dean, rolling over.

"Me either," grizzled Sam.

"Guys..."

"Everything aches," moaned Dean, pulling the covers over his head.

"Nnnnnnnnnnngggggggg," went Sam, huddling into the bedclothes.

"...So I made you some tomato rice soup," she finished.

Two pairs of eyes popped out of the covers and looked at her.

"I really think it would help if you could force some down," she told them.

"Mom used to make that," Dean recalled fondly, "When I was a kid, when I was sick."

"So did my mom," Felicity recounted, moving to help Sam to sit up, fluffing pillows and settling blankets. "And it always made me feel better. Come on, now you. What's wrong, Dean?" she asked, seeing his face. "You're not still cranky about the nose-grabbing thing, are you?"

"It's... I'm supposed to look after Sammy," Dean said miserably. "I'm not supposed to get sick. I'm supposed to look after my little brother."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow. "And who looks after you?" He fell silent. "Knock it off, He-Man," she chuckled, "In a week, I'll be gone, and you can go back to the silent, stoic, emotionally constipated routine. Oh, yeah, Bobby's told me aaaaall about you." She pulled his pillow out, and propped it behind him as he sat up. "You're just gonna have to get used to the idea that you're somebody's little brother now, too," she reminded him.

"In fact, you're the middle child," Sam noted, taking up his spoon. "You're the overlooked one, the unnoticed one."

"That's true, you know," Felicity acknowledged. "He does display symptoms of what's been called Middle Child Syndrome. Low self-esteem, longing for adult attention, disruptive behaviour, it fits."

"The invisible one," Sam added.

"The neurotic one," Felicity nodded. "Most likely to become a serial killer."

"You're Jan Brady, bro," Sam finished.

"She won't be here," growled Dean, stifling a cough, "And I will still, always, be your big brother, baby bro, so don't forget it." He tasted his soup. "Ohhhh, maybe I won't murder you just yet, Fic, this is good..."

"Wow, thanks, I think," she rolled her eyes as they ate their soup.

When they'd finished and were snuggled back down in their beds, Dean asked, "Can you drag a TV up here for us? I'm bored."

"No," she answered, "A TV will make your headache worse. You should rest, and try to get some sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," Dean complained, his eyes drooping, "I was in bed all day yesterday."

"I'm not tired," echoed Sam with a yawn.

"Well, maybe I could read to you," she suggested. "Or, how about some podcasts? I got some from my favourite theologians."

"You're gonna bore us to sleep?" snarked Dean.

"No, no, some of them are really interesting!" she insisted. "I got His Holiness, Desmond Tutu, Henry Rollins, George Carlin..."

Bobby heard the muffled laughter from upstairs. Eventually it quieted down, and his curiosity got the better of him, so he headed on up.

Dean and Sam were snoring gently, with Fic tucking the blankets around Sam where he'd flung them off.

"Dean says they've got the priest 'flu," she relayed, "But that's all it is. It's been doing the rounds of the convents we visited; I guess it's not completely surprising that they picked it up."

"They sure are quieter like this," he noted. "Well, until they wake up. Still, it will give me a bit of peace; I got a Hunter in Ohio up against somethin' that he can't work out, and I'm tryin' to figure out what it might be."

Felicity picked up the tray. "You need a hand?" she asked.

He looked at her. "How's your Latin?" he asked.

"Sane, paululum linguae Latinae dico," she shrugged.

"So, you speak a little Latin?" he chuckled.

She let out a theatrical little gasp. "Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur." (Oh dear, was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes, it just sort of pops out)

"All right, smartass," Bobby snorted in amusement, "You can give me a hand, and maybe get an education at the same time." He headed for the kitchen to get coffee. "We got some terrible gossips in this part of the world," he told her. "Starting with the Widder Witherspoon who lives next door. Sits at the window with binoculars, I swear. If it gets out that Singer the old drunk has been spendin' time dallying with a nun, people will talk, you know."

"Well, if anybody asks," she grinned. "Tell them that I'm not a nun. I'm only a novice.'

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

Sister Agnes was knitting again when one of the younger Sisters came into the sunny lounge accompanied by a middle-aged man.

"Sister Agnes?" he asked tentatively, shuffling from one foot to the other.

"Yes," the old nun smiled, moved to compassion by the discomfort on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"Sister," he began uncertainly, fidgeting like a schoolboy. "There's… I'm not quite sure how to say this…"

"In my experience, the best way to say something is just to spit it out," she told him. "The band-aid removal approach, as Reverend Mother sometimes calls it."

"Okay," he seemed to be talking to himself as much as to her, "Okay. Just spit it out." He hesitated again, then sat on the sofa beside her, his eyes earnest.

"Sister Agnes, my name is Stephen Phillips, but I'm adopted. I don't know much about my birth family – but I do know that when I was born I was named Daniel…. Sister Agnes, I think I'm your son…"

THE END

*SQUELCH* And so we farewell Petunia the plot bunny, now stomped and gone to join her brother Kenneth in the Great Big Plot Bunny Pen In The Sky, where good plot bunnies go after they have dictated their story and been stomped. The memorial service for Petunia will be held at the Church of St Olav the Thick, with Father Angus and Father Malcolm officiating, and possibly wrestling over who gets the leftover communion wine. Please join us for tea and coffee, cucumber and bloater paste sandwiches and strawberry jello in the church hall afterwards.

That's it for plot bunnies for now, I'm afraid - I wasn't kidding when I said the pen was empty when Petunia reticently began to dictate. But at least that's one more fanfic trope given the ol' Lampito treatment. What others are there? There's a little bunny that I can't catch that is the first Hunt that Lars and Lemmy go on, and I just caught sight of another disappearing under the couch a few days ago - it told me it thought that Dean and Cas should have to pretend to be a couple to follow a Hunt, and Cas would be adorably clueless and Dean would be excruciatingly uncomfortable, and Sam would cringe a lot. But I haven't seen it since.

And to the depraved individual who told me to go and look up 'supernatural pirates' on deviantart - you are enough to make me want to gnaw a hole in the hull of the Jimiverse. (It does seem to have a lot of chocolate components - if Willy Wonka had been a pirate, perhaps). That's actually quite a, um, astonishing place, that deviantart. There are a lot of people who are very talented. Also a lot who seem to enjoy drawing half/nearly/utterly nekkid Winchesters. Samgirls should go look up 'Sammyfer', and decide whether you want one for Christmas. I know it startled the hell out of me.

So, you know the drill. Reviews get you onto the crew - did you know that traditionally, jelly wrestling was how pirates settled arguments? - and are incidentally also the Unexpected Soothing Cup Of Hot Beverage Brought To You When You Are Assailed By The Respiratory Viruses Of Life!*

*Yeah, yeah, you can have it brought to you by the Winchester Of Your Choice, if you must.