trans_9 | He is my defense, I shall not be greatly moved.

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He is my defense, I shall not be greatly moved.

Nothing had ever, ever prepared the MacManus brothers for being abducted by aliens. This wasn't covered in school, or in any of the extra lessons Ma made them take. Nobody at the slaughterhouse ever talked about this, though one or two people may have mentioned it in a pub or bar or insert place serving alcohol here. Those people, though, they hadn't taken very seriously. Here, even the unshakable certainty of their Mission was trembling in the midst of so much foreign and bizarre.

So after the 'OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK' factor had died down a little - definitely not completely, but a little - and the big group had been disbanded, the twins went where they felt sure to get some guidance.

During the very brief tour of the city, Connor noticed something in the distance. He'd nudged Murphy about it, but they left checking it out until later. When 'later' came, and they checked, it was, well, "Jesus fuckin' Christ! That's the fuckin'- that's- that's the-! Fuck!" the Vatican.

Ten minutes later, they'd calmed down sufficiently to stop cussing and were walking through the eerily quiet St. Peter's Square. Slipping wordlessly through the doors of the Basilica itself, they made their way to pray. At the moment it didn't matter why these buildings were here. The aliens might be overstepping themselves, in which case they would die soon. On the other hand, it might just be a sign. Before they could decide, Murphy and Connor needed advice.

Nearly an hour later they reemerged, troubled but much calmer. There had been no direct answers - there rarely were - but the two of them were ready to wait it out. Whatever happened here, their Mission remained unchanged.

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"No, I don't," Sam answered, eying them warily. It was a lie. Sam still carried a great deal of guilt for killing that hunter--as well as nearly killing Dean and Jo--when he was possessed by the demon Meg last year.

"I just wish people would stop using God as a reason to kill," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Pushing off Connor's shoulder, Murphy places himself between his brother and their companion. Even for the least volatile MacManus those are pretty damn near fighting words.

Glaring, he gets in Sam's face. "Ye've got to be fuckin' kidding us, man. You think we'd lie about something like doin' God's work? He came to us in a fuckin' dream. It's our family's Work, ordained by the Lord, killing the motherfucking mafiosos and rapists and other fucking scumbags. How the fucking hell can you have a problem with something like that?"

It's a good thing Murphy is between them, because Connor's teeth are bared and he's ready for a fight.

"I am so fuckin' sick of people thinkin' that shit! It's not a fuckin' excuse, it's a fucking Mission, a Purpose! And fuck the motherfuckers who think this fuckin' shit is an excuse t'kill!"

Sam stood his ground and, pushing his shoulders back, edged closer to the nearest brother. His six-foot, four-inch form seemed to grow slightly larger as he moved closer. "How can I have a problem with that?" Sam repeated the question, flexing his jaw threateningly. "Because I've seen it before. I've seen people who've convinced themselves that they're on a 'Mission from God' to punish sinners and every one of them turned out to be worse than the people they thought they were sent to punish. Because, eventually, those people stop 'serving God' and start playing God."

Connor pushes around his twin, though Murphy's arm still separates him from Sam, physically and mentally, unwilling to fight without Murphy's permission. He puffs up his significantly-shorter 5'11" frame, apparently not intimidated by the taller man.
"Jus' cos you've seen some shit doesn't mean it's the rule for the entire fckin' business. God is more'n us, and if we ever stop fuckin' knowin' that, Da'll shoot us himself." He's got an angry look in his eye, and he's seconds away from a barfight-style brawl.

"Really?" Sam said, unconvinced and looked Connor in the eye. "You think it's that easy? You think your dad is just going to kill you the minute you go to far? Could you do it? Huh? Could you kill your own father?" He nodded at Murphy in a slight gesture. "Or your brother?"

Connor glares up at him, and gets as close to being in Sam's face as he can.

"Da? Oh yeah. He would. He'd kill us an not give a it a fucking second thought. But if you ever, ever fucking ask if I could fucking hurt Murph, the answer is fucking no. I could kill Da, Da could kill us, but nobody touches Murphy."

Murphy gives his brother a quick look, just a brief reminder to calm down, that they don't seem to be in danger at the moment. Yet.

He's in an uncomfortable spot, between the two of them. An inch shorter than his twin, Murphy still doesn't seem too worried about it. He straightens a little, backing into Connor a little for support. Angry at the mere concept of hurting Connor, he almost lets his arm fall, almost lets his angry brother loose on this sad bastard.

"Now you fucking listen carefully, ya stupid fuck. Connor an' I don't work against each other, fucking ever. Fuck that. It ain't ever going to happen, even if we do fall from God's chosen path. 'Cause we'd fucking fall together, and we'd both be certainly dead without God fucking protecting us."

"Yeah, you see, that's the problem," Sam argued, the former law student in him starting to come out. "If you fall..." He pointed at Murphy. "...then he falls." He pointed at Connor. "Which means, according to your plan, your dad's gotta kill ya both. Except, according to him..." He pointed at Connor again. "...*nobody* touches you. But, he's more than willing to kill your dad. So, when you both 'fall' and your dad has to come after you, your brother is gonna kill him first. And your whole plan ain't worth shit if your dad's dead, now is it? And you're callin' me the stupid fuck?"

Murphy could logically and somewhat calmly point out that the grace of God and a lot of luck is pretty much all that's kept them alive up to this point. However, he's finally gotten fucking pissed off.

"We ain't fucking gonna do it, man. We're fine, we follow the fucking rules and we don't fucking fuck our shit up! Murderers, rapists, thieves, no minor fucking criminals, no women, no children, just the real bastards. Easy fucking pie. Where, exactly, d'ye see room for misjudgement in that?"

"An' how d'ya go assuming we'll survive long enough to slip up, going after the fucking mafia?"

"Fine. You say you're not gonna, you're not gonna," Sam said, arching his eyebrows. His tone and the expression on his face both made it obvious that he didn't believe it but was just an attempt to end the head-bashing-against-wall argument. "Now you wanna get outta my way?"

Murphy stares hard at Sam a moment before backing down and, indeed, getting out of Sam's way.

He doesn't look away, though, voicing a thought that had just occurred to him, "Just wonderin', but what has you on the run, then? That ye're still so fucking able to judge us?"

"It's a long story," Sam answered after a momentary pause. The chances of them believing him were slim to none and would likely just make him look like he was crazy.

Connor snorts. If Sam cares to think about it, they had told him their long story and, surprise, he hadn't believed them. So if they don't believe his, it's only fair.

Murphy glances at Connor and rolls his eyes. Use your fucking words, man.

To Sam he says, "Why don't ye fucking try us, an' then see if we believe you, instead of fuckin' judging? By which I mean more than ye already have. I mean, we're in a fucking living space ship that's supposed to cross multiple fucking universes. Fuck, what's not to believe?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath, taking a moment to ponder whether it was worth the attempt before deciding that Murphy was right. They had told him. "My brother and I...we hunt...demons," he said. Even after nineteen years after learning that demons, ghosts, and 'monsters' really existed, it still felt weird to say it aloud, especially to people who didn't already know.

Oh, was that all? Murphy almost feels disappointed. Of course they believe in demons, if only in a vague sort of 'well they probably exist somewhere' way. It's sort of amusing really, all this fuss.

"Exorcisin' or killing? So aren't ye doing the same things we do, only with slightly more terrifyin' targets?"

Well fuck, that's a let down. Connor was hoping for something more unbelievable.

"Aye, it's practically the fuckin' same, except I bet yours have sharp teeth."

"Exorcise when we can," Sam answered with a twinge of regret. "But sometimes that's not possible and we have to kill 'em."

Murphy raises his eyebrows at that.

"Sounds to me, ye're killin' more innocent people 'n we ever will, whether ya want to or not," he muses, not meaning to accuse. It sounds like Sam's a good man, not their business at all.

"Yeah," Sam gave a reluctant nod. It was ironic--or maybe just hypocritical--that he, who had been so quick to judge them for killing people, had probably killed more people, innocent people, than they had.

"Maybe," he added, "But my pool is considerably smaller."

"Oh obviously, thank Jesus fuckin' Christ for that." He grins, and Sam's officially back in Murphy's good books.

"But with your brother as well? Are ye always havin' to keep him from bein' stupid, or is that just my problem? This fucker keeps actin' like we're in a fuckin' movie, swear to God."

"Oh, fuck you, Rambo! Like I'm the only fuckin' one." Connor's won over when Murphy is, and so he turns to his favourite past-time; arguing with his brother.

"Yeah, somethin' like that," Sam said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile as the brothers fell into an all too familiar sibling banter.

"Dean is..." He paused. "...he's pretty much a 'shoot first, ask questions later' guy."

Suddenly, the near brawl-inducing argument slipped from Sam's memory as the mood lightened. "So what's with the rope?" he asked, looking at Connor.

"Oh fuck," Murphy groans, "don't get him fuckin' started."

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