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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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."

"Look, in every fuckin' good action movie that ever was, what d'ya always need an' never have? Rope." Bow to Connor's logic!

"Riiight," Sam said, looking at Connor like he were crazy. He shook his head at the random logic Connor seemed to be using to justify carrying around a large length of rope. Glancing around at the city around them, something caught his eye. Off to the side, wedged between to massive buildings that Sam didn't recognize, stood a shack. There was no other way to describe it.

To say that it was out of place amongst the rest of the massive structures would be an understatement. Everything else in the city was not only big, but also impressive in its design while this tiny building looked like it'd been practically thrown together at the last minute.

"Ok, that's strange," he muttered aloud to himself.

He glances at where Sam's looking.

"Strange? 'S just some old shack. Maybe they keep the tools there." After all, whoever 'they' are, they obviously need to build all these things somehow. A tool shed makes perfect sense.

"Doesn't look like anythin' t'me." Connor shrugs. "Looks borin'." Come on, there are pretty shiny big buildings, who cares about a shack?

"Yeah, that's what I mean," Sam replied, his gaze still transfixed on the seemingly uninteresting shack in front of him. "Every other building here is practically an architectural masterpiece. Why throw a 'tool shed' right smack dab out in the open amongst all this?"

All right, so it's a weird tool shed, Connor will give him that. But really, sometimes a cigar is a cigar and a shed is a shed.

"Feng shui?"

"Funny," Sam replied, the corner of his mouth curling up in a half-smile. Dean would get along great with these two, scarily, in fact.

He stared at the out-of-place building for a few more seconds before finally shrugging. "Only one way to find out, I guess," he said, nodding in the direction of the shack.

"Personally I'm bettin' it's a toilet. Ain't them 'homey,' country feels back in style for that sort o' shit?"

As he talked, Murphy headed for the oh-so-out-of-place shack, hand on his gun only contradicting his words and confident steps slightly.

"Yeah, for some reason they fucking think people fucking like to shit in a nasty wood box."

Connor appears similarly at ease, but also keeps a hand on his gun- after all, this was a pretty freaky place.

Sam grinned as he accompanied his two companions into the tiny, rust-colored shack. As they neared, Sam heard a low--barely audible--but still distinct ticking sound coming from inside the building. His brow furrowed in perplexed curiosity as he stepped up to the door and pushed it open.

Moving inside, Sam's eyes widened as he looked at the small room around him. All around him, covering all four walls from top to bottom, were clocks. Or, at least, the ones he recognized to be clocks. There were others that looked completely alien to him. "What the..." Sam said, looking around, bewildered.

The first thing Connor thinks when he hears the ticking is "Oh fuck, a bomb."

This was not what he was expecting.

"...Someone likes to stay pretty fuckin' regular."

"Apparently," Sam said with a slight nod. He moved further (as much 'further' as he could considering the shack's size) to give Connor and Murphy more room to enter. His eyes drifted across the room, the expression on his face still perplexed.

"So much for the tool shed idea," he added, though--personally--Sam was beginning to wish it had been just a tool shed.

Connor follows him cautiously, looking around.

"Why the fuck d'ye need this many fucking clocks? I mean, what the fuck?" Connor preffered the toolshed idea, too.

Murphy trailed closely after Sam and his brother, turning to look all the way around.

"Fuck, who keeps around so many fuckin' broken clocks?"

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