BDS/SPN: So Deep a Sound (Murphy, Connor, Claire, Castiel; PG13)
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callowyn, LIGHT OF MY LIFE, who asked, "Which of you will be the first to write this for me?" and the answer is: me. ILU 5EVA CALLYFACE <######
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thegeminisage for betareading! Title from "Assurance" by William Stafford.
So Deep a Sound
Supernatural/Boondock Saints. Murphy MacManus, Connor MacManus, Claire Novak, Castiel. PG13.
The brothers pick up a third (fourth?) passenger. ~1200 words
In many ways, the girl already wears the careworn ache that Murphy recognizes in the eyes of those who cannot afford regret. There is some shape inside her outlining a higher calling. Claire's world, Connor postulated to him one time, is a silent world, muted ever since her angel came along. The aftermath must seem silent in comparison.
"Angel," Murphy scoffs. Claire, lying on the motel bed farthest from the door, stirs in her sleep. He lowers his voice. "Don't encourage her."
Connor raises his eyebrows. "You don't believe in angels?"
"I don't believe in little girls telling stories."
"What about little girls coming back from the dead?"
Which was exactly what happened last week. Murphy clutched Claire to him as Connor provided the cover fire to what was supposed to be her last breaths, and he wasn't crying, no matter what Connor would tell you. He stroked Claire's hair from her face, streaking blood through the gold, and told her that her father was on his way, he'd be here soon, and Claire said, "Don't lie," and Murphy didn't cry some more. And then she died.
For all that Murphy is a believer, for all that he is the hand of God, he has trouble accepting miracles outside of the context of his own salvation and the salvation of his brother. Murphy and Connor are chosen. What is Claire?
She died, and then somewhere between the collision of Murphy's grief and rage, she opened her eyes, and said his name. Not Murphy's name. His name. All the rage and grief suddenly seemed inconsequential in the face of that.
Then Connor said, "Come on," and there was no time to process any of it. Miracles, like lightning, don't strike in the same place twice, and they had to escape while they could.
They don't talk about it much, except now, when Claire is asleep. They have always kept their disagreements private. "What about little girls coming back from the dead?" Murphy grumbles, and Connor rolls his eyes.
It is only a few hours later, when Connor is asleep and Claire is awake, that the real question is put forth.
"Are you afraid of me?" Claire asks.
He's cleaning his guns, and the rain outside the window washes out extraneous sound. He cannot hear his brother breathing. He cannot hear the cars outside. Just her voice.
"No," Murphy says. "Of course not. Why would you ask that?"
"You don't look at me anymore."
He looks at her now.
"You don't need to be afraid," she says with her usual sincerity. "Castiel watches over me. He'll watch over you too."
"Who is this pervert angel watching us at all hours of the day?" Murphy smirks, and wonders if he's just blasphemed, whether he'll be punished for it. "Does he watch us on the toilet too?"
She frowns. "I thought you had faith."
"I do." But he wonders now in what.
+
"Stop," Claire hisses. "Stop, don't waste your bullets! They're not human!"
Which is of course more nonsense, because what else can they be if not human? Murphy is so deep in bloodlust, firing round after round, that he doesn't notice what's happening until Connor cries out.
"Come back!" Connor commands.
Claire ignores them, running into a hail of bullets like she's fucking immortal, and Murphy tries to go after her, but a bullet nicks his shoulder and he dives behind a tower of crates, breathing hard and yelling Claire's name until his throat is hoarse. He tries to stopper his wound with his hands but the blood just leaks out between his fingers, and he's dimly aware of Connor at the corner of his vision trying to get to him, but the bullets, always the bullets, the story of their lives.
The gunfire suddenly stops.
Connor gets to him before he can muster the strength to get to Claire, but he gets a peek around the crates before his brother shoves him back down and tells him to lie still. In that second, Claire whirls around and something terrible shines in her eyes. Her face is almost unrecognizable. Some power emanates from her being, and then he takes note of the fallen men at her feet, the flashing afterimages that curve up from her shoulders.
And then he blinks, and Claire is Claire again, strange little girl that fell into their lives without so much as a 'by your leave'. She runs to him now and kneels beside him, touching his face with utmost tenderness, and Connor's voice is going, "Murph? Murph, are you okay? Murphy--"
+
It happens again in a warehouse just off the East River, where they are cornered, outgunned, and surely about to die.
But then.
"Quickly," says the thing that is no longer Claire, though it looks like her and sounds like her, but then it grabs their hands and transports them away at the speed of thought to an empty dusty road. There's nothing but the sound of crickets. Nothing but the stars above. Murphy is surprised to realize he recognizes this road. They pulled up to its shoulder a few weeks ago to spend the night, except he couldn't sleep, and he passed the time learning the constellations from Claire, who never seems to sleep for very long.
"You're him," Murphy blurts out, once he's ascertained that his brother is also here, alive and well, if shaken. "You're the voice she talks about."
"I'm not just a voice," Castiel replies. Then, as if remembering itself, it announces, "You and your brother are saved." As if to remind them.
"What about Claire?" Connor asks.
Castiel stares at him. "What about her?"
"Is she okay, you fuck?" Murphy demands.
Castiel frowns, more confused than angered, surprised that Murphy would question this at all. "Of course."
Connor touches Murphy's arm, a silent admonition to calm down.
"You really an angel, then?" Connor asks.
Castiel looks at the heavens and sighs. Lord, what fools these mortals be. "My work is done here," it says.
There is a bright flash of light, and then Claire's eyes roll back into her head. Murphy catches her before she hits the ground.
+
She gets nightmares sometimes. She wakes up at all hours screaming or sobbing or calling for her father, her mother, an angel that only comes when death is imminent, as if the angel is the harbinger of death instead of the other way around.
Tonight they're sleeping in some shit motel that takes cash and asks no questions, and they can only afford one bed, so it's Claire's. They take the floor, side by side. Claire's sobs cuts through their dreams and Connor wakes up long enough to say, "You get it, I got her last time."
Murphy is already pushing himself to his feet.
"Hey, kid," he mutters, plopping on the bed. Claire immediately curls into him and he awkwardly tries to accommodate. No matter how Murphy tries to adjust, she only clings tighter. "Hey. It's just a dream." Please don't turn into an angel.
"It's never just a dream," Claire says.
She always says that.
Murphy knows no lullabies. If his mother ever sang any to them, years of violence have washed it from his mind. Instead he strokes her hair and is silent, and eventually her shaking subsides. Eventually she goes back to sleep.
Eventually he does too.
callowyn, LIGHT OF MY LIFE, who asked, "Which of you will be the first to write this for me?" and the answer is: me. ILU 5EVA CALLYFACE <######Thank you to
thegeminisage for betareading! Title from "Assurance" by William Stafford.So Deep a Sound
Supernatural/Boondock Saints. Murphy MacManus, Connor MacManus, Claire Novak, Castiel. PG13.
The brothers pick up a third (fourth?) passenger. ~1200 words
In many ways, the girl already wears the careworn ache that Murphy recognizes in the eyes of those who cannot afford regret. There is some shape inside her outlining a higher calling. Claire's world, Connor postulated to him one time, is a silent world, muted ever since her angel came along. The aftermath must seem silent in comparison.
"Angel," Murphy scoffs. Claire, lying on the motel bed farthest from the door, stirs in her sleep. He lowers his voice. "Don't encourage her."
Connor raises his eyebrows. "You don't believe in angels?"
"I don't believe in little girls telling stories."
"What about little girls coming back from the dead?"
Which was exactly what happened last week. Murphy clutched Claire to him as Connor provided the cover fire to what was supposed to be her last breaths, and he wasn't crying, no matter what Connor would tell you. He stroked Claire's hair from her face, streaking blood through the gold, and told her that her father was on his way, he'd be here soon, and Claire said, "Don't lie," and Murphy didn't cry some more. And then she died.
For all that Murphy is a believer, for all that he is the hand of God, he has trouble accepting miracles outside of the context of his own salvation and the salvation of his brother. Murphy and Connor are chosen. What is Claire?
She died, and then somewhere between the collision of Murphy's grief and rage, she opened her eyes, and said his name. Not Murphy's name. His name. All the rage and grief suddenly seemed inconsequential in the face of that.
Then Connor said, "Come on," and there was no time to process any of it. Miracles, like lightning, don't strike in the same place twice, and they had to escape while they could.
They don't talk about it much, except now, when Claire is asleep. They have always kept their disagreements private. "What about little girls coming back from the dead?" Murphy grumbles, and Connor rolls his eyes.
It is only a few hours later, when Connor is asleep and Claire is awake, that the real question is put forth.
"Are you afraid of me?" Claire asks.
He's cleaning his guns, and the rain outside the window washes out extraneous sound. He cannot hear his brother breathing. He cannot hear the cars outside. Just her voice.
"No," Murphy says. "Of course not. Why would you ask that?"
"You don't look at me anymore."
He looks at her now.
"You don't need to be afraid," she says with her usual sincerity. "Castiel watches over me. He'll watch over you too."
"Who is this pervert angel watching us at all hours of the day?" Murphy smirks, and wonders if he's just blasphemed, whether he'll be punished for it. "Does he watch us on the toilet too?"
She frowns. "I thought you had faith."
"I do." But he wonders now in what.
+
"Stop," Claire hisses. "Stop, don't waste your bullets! They're not human!"
Which is of course more nonsense, because what else can they be if not human? Murphy is so deep in bloodlust, firing round after round, that he doesn't notice what's happening until Connor cries out.
"Come back!" Connor commands.
Claire ignores them, running into a hail of bullets like she's fucking immortal, and Murphy tries to go after her, but a bullet nicks his shoulder and he dives behind a tower of crates, breathing hard and yelling Claire's name until his throat is hoarse. He tries to stopper his wound with his hands but the blood just leaks out between his fingers, and he's dimly aware of Connor at the corner of his vision trying to get to him, but the bullets, always the bullets, the story of their lives.
The gunfire suddenly stops.
Connor gets to him before he can muster the strength to get to Claire, but he gets a peek around the crates before his brother shoves him back down and tells him to lie still. In that second, Claire whirls around and something terrible shines in her eyes. Her face is almost unrecognizable. Some power emanates from her being, and then he takes note of the fallen men at her feet, the flashing afterimages that curve up from her shoulders.
And then he blinks, and Claire is Claire again, strange little girl that fell into their lives without so much as a 'by your leave'. She runs to him now and kneels beside him, touching his face with utmost tenderness, and Connor's voice is going, "Murph? Murph, are you okay? Murphy--"
+
It happens again in a warehouse just off the East River, where they are cornered, outgunned, and surely about to die.
But then.
"Quickly," says the thing that is no longer Claire, though it looks like her and sounds like her, but then it grabs their hands and transports them away at the speed of thought to an empty dusty road. There's nothing but the sound of crickets. Nothing but the stars above. Murphy is surprised to realize he recognizes this road. They pulled up to its shoulder a few weeks ago to spend the night, except he couldn't sleep, and he passed the time learning the constellations from Claire, who never seems to sleep for very long.
"You're him," Murphy blurts out, once he's ascertained that his brother is also here, alive and well, if shaken. "You're the voice she talks about."
"I'm not just a voice," Castiel replies. Then, as if remembering itself, it announces, "You and your brother are saved." As if to remind them.
"What about Claire?" Connor asks.
Castiel stares at him. "What about her?"
"Is she okay, you fuck?" Murphy demands.
Castiel frowns, more confused than angered, surprised that Murphy would question this at all. "Of course."
Connor touches Murphy's arm, a silent admonition to calm down.
"You really an angel, then?" Connor asks.
Castiel looks at the heavens and sighs. Lord, what fools these mortals be. "My work is done here," it says.
There is a bright flash of light, and then Claire's eyes roll back into her head. Murphy catches her before she hits the ground.
+
She gets nightmares sometimes. She wakes up at all hours screaming or sobbing or calling for her father, her mother, an angel that only comes when death is imminent, as if the angel is the harbinger of death instead of the other way around.
Tonight they're sleeping in some shit motel that takes cash and asks no questions, and they can only afford one bed, so it's Claire's. They take the floor, side by side. Claire's sobs cuts through their dreams and Connor wakes up long enough to say, "You get it, I got her last time."
Murphy is already pushing himself to his feet.
"Hey, kid," he mutters, plopping on the bed. Claire immediately curls into him and he awkwardly tries to accommodate. No matter how Murphy tries to adjust, she only clings tighter. "Hey. It's just a dream." Please don't turn into an angel.
"It's never just a dream," Claire says.
She always says that.
Murphy knows no lullabies. If his mother ever sang any to them, years of violence have washed it from his mind. Instead he strokes her hair and is silent, and eventually her shaking subsides. Eventually she goes back to sleep.
Eventually he does too.