A/N: I recently became acquainted with McManus brothers. And damn me, but I'm in love….

I was reading a fic which mentioned it was a three way crossover between Supernatural (a tv show), the Cal Leandros books series, and something called the Boondock Saints – with three sets of brothers. Knowing the author had at least sixty-six percent in good taste in brotherly relationships, I found this little movie I'd never heard of before.

Scouring the fanfiction (after having watched it innumerable ^infinity times), I was a little disappointed with the lack of pure, honest angst/h/c. Not that angst/h/c/ is pure….

So here is my contribution, posted in two parts. It is already complete, so do not fear that I will leave you hanging.

Warning, it may seem a little out of character at first, but there is a reason… Stay with it…

Mary Sue Free Zone.

And, one last thing. Slash is not to my taste…

Thanks for giving this a try, if you have anything to say, please review!!!

Alone

By castiel's drycleaner

Rated T for violence, graphic descriptions of violence and injuries, and swearing. If any of this offends you, you obviously are not a Saint's fan… Or at least can put up with it… lol….

And a shepherd I shall be

For thee my lord, for thee

Power hath descended forth from thy hand

That my feet may swiftly carry out thy command

So I shall flow a river forth to Thee

And teeming with souls shall it ever be

In nomine Patris, et Filii Spiritus Sancti

-Boondock Saints, 1999 (revised)

"Well, fuck you then!" Murphy shot back hotly to his brother. He tensed and placed his back to the redwood door of their latest apartment. On the second floor. Murphy and Connor had agreed on that without any discussion. It was a bit nicer than their standard fair, but only held one bedroom.

A new hole appeared in the cream colored wall beside the door frame of the bedroom where Connor leaned. He slowly pulled his fist out, tiny rivulets of blood dripping down from his knuckles. "Fucking come off it Murph. What's the big fuckin' deal if I go?" Connor's eyes changed then from what they were to a steely impassive gray. He took a small breath. Murphy stepped backwards, edging himself closer to the door, keeping his brother in view the whole time. He stood ready, feet apart, weight on the balls of his feet, and took a calming breath. He forced himself to undergo a cooling metamorphous, removing his mind from his hotheaded temper and eased in to the role that Connor normally filled.

"You know I called Agent Smecker. Told him we weren't going to fuckin' do it tonight." His voice was as light and dispassionate as he could will it.

"You mean I wasn't." Connor retorted flatly, and took a few quick steps to his twin's face. Murphy ran a hand through his dark hair. "What gives you the fuckin' right ta tell me what ta do?" Connor continued. Murphy dropped his hands to his side.

"I am the older brother, remember?" He grinned cockily at the slimmer man's expression.

"Oh, fuck that! I had ice on mine." Connor said indignantly missing the joke.

"And you're –" Murphy started with an earnest concern on his face. Connor tried to side step his brother. Murphy's hand shot out and pulled the lone gun from Connor's shoulder holster.

"Give that the fuck back!"

"Take it from me and I'll let you go." Came Murphy's deceptively calm voice. Murphy rolled back his body as Connor's fist flew for his jaw. Murphy grabbed his wrist, and yanked his brother's arm up, which off-balanced the man. He swept a foot around Connor's back ankle, sending the lighter haired man to the floor. Murphy quickly dropped, sat down the gun, and pinned Connor to the floor with his body. He pushed one forearm across Connor's upper chest, forcing him hard to the linoleum after Connor's somewhat comical attempt to head butt him.

Murphy pressed down hard, keeping one of Connor's arms pinned below his knee, each of which straddled his twin. Murphy still held Connor's other arm above Connor's own head. Murphy's free arm increased the pressure on Connor's chest. Connor's breath came in quick short gasps as his body bucked.

"Get the fuck off me."

"I am fucking sorry, okay?" Emotion began to creep back into Murphy's voice. "I didn't mean to get ID'd. We both didn't know he was there."

"You can't even get outta' shitty hold like this, and you want to go out by yerself?" Murphy asked pointedly, keeping an even pressure on the top of his twin's chest, just under his neck.

"You don't get a second chance… for something like this," Connor wheezed out. Murphy relented a small bit, frowning because he knew it wasn't the force on Connor's chest that kept him out of breath.

"We have before," Murphy bit back, thinking of the bastard who killed Rocco.

"Yer fucking fault… I have ta go alone." Connor blinked his desperation-hardened eyes, and they shifted back to looking as glassy and dull as before. Connor was choking out his words now. Murphy eased back, sensing temporary submission. But what tore at him was the knowledge that his twin only gave in from exhaustion, not from the realization that his brother Murphy was right. Not from the wealth of calm level-headedness Connor normally possessed, and certainly not from luck or divine providence.

"I know Connor." Murphy said standing up and putting out a hand for his twin. Connor rolled onto his stomach and stayed there for a few minutes, panting softly. He rose up with less grace than his brother, ignoring the offered hand. He blinked his eyes lazily a few time, and wobbled briefly before striding back to the bedroom. Murphy tried not to notice that Connor kept his bloodied hand on the wall for balance.

"Just go have a kip, a beer, and keep your mind off it, till later." Murphy offered, swallowing at the small pang of rejection he felt from his twin's slight.

"Keep my mind off the fact that yer letting a murdering bastard live long enough ta kill again fer no fucking reason." Connor mumbled. Murphy felt a slice cut through him. Yes. He was. There was no way to go on the hit himself. He had fucked that up. And Connor could not go. Murphy was letting a known ruthless drug dealer live a little longer. Probably long enough for more desperate and vulnerable people to get hooked on his meth laced mix or die. Long enough for a random civilian to get in the way of one his deals. But… He had a fucking reason. A fucking good one. And if Connor's own body wasn't frying his brain, he'd be able to see it.

Connor shuddered slightly, a twin's empathy writing itself across his flushed features. "You keep on like this and you'll grow a set of tits." Murphy read the apology in his blue eyes. Connor saw his brother's small smirk and shut the bedroom door behind him.

Murphy eased himself down on the lazy boy pointed towards their new big screen telly in the corner of the living room. He flicked it on, muted the volume on the soccer game that had just started, and kept an ear on his brother. It was too late at night for anything but those tired talk shows or crime dramas, which always put him off. More so now, given the calling he and Connor had taken up. So he watched a replay of a soccer game from that morning, even though he never personally got into the sport.

Connor's slightly hoarse voice came through a widening crack in the bedroom door. "You said to Smecker the hit was off?" Murphy turned in his chair to look back at Connor, again leaning against the door frame, clinging to it with one white knuckled hand. His face was rosy with the fever that had been sapping his strength, and recently his judgment, for well over three days. Three days since their last job. The one Murphy had fucked up.

Murphy shrugged to himself, "Yeh, why?"

"Won't it be pretty suspicious when no one shows up?" Connor's voice held an odd edge to it. "Or did they get a call saying no one was coming ta make the buy?"

"No call. No way to, he said. Mafioso has himself locked back in that concrete room already." Murphy said in reply, slightly relieved that the conversation was not turning into another argument. The fights between him and Connor never really bothered him, but in truth, it was usually him that sent the first volley. Conner may be the first to land a hit, but he rarely started the argument. It was unnerving.

"Aye." Connor slipped back to the room and the apartment went silent. Murphy hoped it meant Connor was going back to his bed.

---

Three quarters of the way through the second half of the match, Murphy began to doze through the game. He heard the door creak open. Connor didn't say anything to him as his brother padded towards the living room. He dismissed his brother's movements until his felt two small metal prongs at the base of his neck.

"Won't give these fuckers another chance." Came Connor's quiets hoarse voice. Murphy thought he heard the depression of the stun gun's trigger as everything flashed white.

Connor swore softly to himself and straightened slowly. Murphy was going to kill him when he came to… Connor took a deep breath to calm himself, but that just made his chest ache worse. He stumbled as he turned around. He shook his head and immediately wished he didn't. Glazed eyes searching, he found the portable phone lying on the kitchen table under empty boxes of cold and flu medication and a carton of cigarettes. He was aching for a smoke, but it irritated his chest too much. Last time he had nearly ripped a muscle from coughing so hard. Murphy had hid the subsequently rest of the smokes from him. Guess Murph got lazy.

Connor walked slowly over to the table, ran a wistful hand over the carton, but grabbed the phone instead. He tried to dial Smecker's number from memory, but after two very interesting misdials, he sorted through the crap on the table looking for Smecker's card.

Connor dropped it. Nothing was working for him today. Leaning down, he picked the small white card up with a frown. His vision started getting colored stars through it. "Fucking sat up too quickly." Punching in the correct number, he listened for Smecker's smooth voice to answer. "Hello?"

"Aye, it's me." He paused as Smecker whispered for him to go ahead. "I'm off to do the job."

"Thought you were ID'd?" Smecker's voice sounded annoyed, and too loud.

"Nah, it's Connor." He said back.

"What are you doing going out? Murphy said you're out for now." Smecker's voice seemed to grate harshly in Connor's ear. "Put your brother on, please?" Connor clicked the end button. He reached for a can of one of those horrid energy drinks Murphy liked. He drank it back, knowing he needed the kick. Shivering, he did up the buttons on his black coat. It was the middle of August. Why was it too fucking cold in their apartment?

Connor stood slowly. He would go and get that mother fucker before that drug dealing bastard could get anyone else killed. Then he would come home, get ripped a new one by Murphy, and go back to bed. He could live with that. And surely someone else would live because of that.

Coughing harshly, Connor picked up his guns, and left alone.

Murphy lay unmoving on the lazy boy, but his unconscious mind drifted away. In hindsight, Murphy reflected, he and Connor should have realized that the mission was going to go FUBAR from the beginning. Maybe, it was because it was a Sunday, a broken commandment or two right there. Maybe, it was because they were both still hung-over from the night before, enough said. But mostly, it was because Connor was sick.

A tip had fallen into their laps, if by the grace of God as their tips often do, about a large shipment of cocaine purportedly being picked up by members of the Russian mafia. One of the bosses was supposed to be there to supervise, which of course sweetened the prospect. But getting rid of a shipment of ice, and taking out some soldiers and underbosses would have been reason enough to go.

Murphy had first noticed it as they were kitting up. Connor was coughing. Not the first thing in the morning cough that invariably came from smoking. Or so that nurse he once dated had said… But a deep wet cough that made Murphy wince.

"You alright, man?" Murphy asked.

"Aye, just a wee bit of a cold. Had a runny nose all day." Connor wiped it with his sleeve, as if to prove his point.

"You're disgusting." Murphy moved away from him.

It was the way Connor had become a bit breathless as they walked to the pier that made Murphy really start to worry. "You need to start hitting the gym, if this little walk's got you huffing." Connor coughed softly, and smacked him in the arm.

"Keep yer germ infested hands away from me!" Murphy danced backwards of his brother's reach.

"Get serious Murph! We're almost there." Connor snapped irritably.

"Fuck you!" But they both quieted as they caught sight of the harbor. The strong, humid wind blowing off the ocean smelled strongly of salt, and made the night seem colder than it was. It also obscured the noise of the night, muted sounds of traffic, and other business. It isolated the brothers in a surreal way neither was truly comfortable with. Murphy hefted his bag higher on to shoulder, taking comfort in the familiar weight.

"Odd night, isn't it?" Connor asked somewhat rhetorically. The MacManus' walked through the hazy moonlight, looking for the pier where this drug deal was allegedly going down.

"Should be that way, shouldn't it." Murphy pointed to his left. Connor nodded. Both immediately stopped appearing to be regular men out for a stroll, and slipped into the shadows of the scenery like they were a part of the dark. Weaving through a maze of box cars, the boys were not disappointed when they caught sight of eight men standing over several crates. One had been cracked open and most definitely did not contain the fruit it claimed.

Both brother's nodded and slipped on their masks. They snuck closer to the area, grateful for the amount of cover they had. It was an open environment, a rather exposed area to make a hit, but lack of better information left them with little choice. In unison the twins stepped from around the boxcar closest to the pier their quarry were standing on, and started firing.

The first two to go down did not even realize what had hit them. The richest dressed men were likely the higher ranked Mafioso's they had been informed of. Murphy had selected his next target: a brutish looking man, not unlike the late Checkov. The mob peon, not the Star Trek actor. The guy was quickly pulling aside his coat to reveal a Russian staple. An Alexander Kalashnikov. Murphy ducked around the crate and leaned out enough to aim. He fired quickly, already looking to see who his brother had left standing.

Murphy swore as he heard gunfire. Loud gunfire, not the silenced high pitched pops his and Connor's guns made. He looked for the source, seeing the bright white light erupting from the barrel of another AK-47. It was not firing at him. He followed the path of the bullets in time to see Connor dive off the pier to avoid the wide spray of lead. Murphy screamed out some obscenity and put two shots into the man's forehead before mobster could aim for him.

One person was left standing. He put three quick shots into the man's torso before ripping off the mask and running to the edge of the dock. A feeling of acute panic gripped his chest. He was alone up here.

"Connor! Connor!" He skidded to a stop, about to remove his wool pea coat before jumping in. He could swim. Sort of. No formal lessons, but being raised near the ocean had given him some experience in the water. Plus a few girlfriends liked to collect shells, and the best always came from in the water.

He couldn't see anything other than the inky black surface of the sea. Did Connor get hit? Where was he? Murphy was just about to jump in – diving from a height onto God-knows-what is always stupid – when something caught his eye.

A head broke the surface. "Connor, you alright?"

"Jesus it's fuckin' cold!"

And the head went under again.

"Connor!" The head bobbed back up, and Murphy heard a large gasp, followed by choking. "Connor, I'm coming in. Just kick yer feet. Stay up!" Murphy had almost stepped off the dock when he heard a shout from below.

"Wait!" A hoarse cry came from below. The form started moving to the shore. Murphy was starting to sweat.

"Connor, can you get out?"

"Aye." Connor was coughing again. Murphy watched his brother swim for the edge. He remained on the dock. They had a long walk back, and Connor would need something dry to wear.

"Keep talking to me!" Murphy's voice went up an octave. Connor disappeared from view. He was under the pier now. Murphy started to run across the pier, his eyes searching for the easiest way down to the beach level. He ran past one of the drug crates. Something clinked forcefully in his mind. There were only seven bodies. He swore and threw himself behind cover. Murphy started wondering why he didn't have a bullet in his back yet. The merchandise was still there. No peon that expected to live left that much capital unguarded. Murphy's keen eyes searched the darkness. The shape of a crouched body in the shadows stood out. It was shaking slightly. A coward, then. He sighed, and cocked his gun. Fine.

Murphy aimed.

"Please, niet!" Two hands went up. Murphy paused. They were empty. No gun was pointed at him. The figure slowly stood up. "Niet." The voice rang oddly in Murphy's adrenaline filled ears. The person stepped out of the shadows.

A youthful boy stared at him. Big fearful eyes stared into Murphy's soul. It was a shock.

"A fucking kid."

"I wouldn't shoot. Niet!" The kid said again. And Murphy lowered his aim.

"The fuck are you doin' out here?" Murphy asked incredulously. Getting closer to the boy, Murphy guessed his age to be no more than thirteen years old.

"Papa sent me out to watch." The boy answered in Russian. Murphy went cold. The kid certainly saw a lot. What the fuck was he supposed to do?

"Who is your father?" Murphy asked back in the boys tongue.

"Zhukov." The boys answer ranging hollowly in Murphy's ears. He shivered. The fucking head of the Russian mob. What to do? Connor would know.

Connor.

"Connor!" Murphy shouted again.

No reply. "Jesus fucking Christ!" He screamed. The kid jumped back. "Can you get home?" Murphy asked, not knowing what to do with the boy. Thou shall not murder. Not that he could kill a child. The boy nodded dumbly in response. "Do you have a phone?" The boy nodded again. "Give it here, and be on your way!" That would give Murphy enough time to pay respects to the dead and get Connor out of there. Or just get Connor out of there. The boy dropped the small black cell on the ground and took off like a shot.

Murphy's mind flashed back to the first man he'd killed. The Russian in the alley. How he'd carried his unconscious brother to the hospital.

Connor still wasn't answering him. Dread gripping him, he ran for the end of the pier and dropped down ten feet to the beach. He barely noticed the flash of pain as he landed. It was dark down here. Too fucking dark to see worth a damn.

"Connor! You okay?" Murphy ran down the rocky base, under the docks. He tripped in the dark several times. The footing was treacherous. He came to where he guessed their hit was. "Connor, answer me you fucker!"

Worst case scenarios ran unchecked through Murphy's mind. Connor never made it out of the water. Connor drowned. Connor bled out before he made it to shore. Connor's lying on the ground somewhere, breathing his last alone 'cause you can't find him. Then Murphy tripped hard, and went to the ground. He rolled over to kick the offending object, and his jaw dropped.

The black form of a man lay face down on the ground, unmoving. Murphy rolled Connor to his back. Connor turned over limply, heavily. There was a dead weight to him. Murphy leaned down and pulled the balaclava off his brother's head. He put an ear to his brother's mouth. Short, quiet gasps filled his hearing. He experimentally slapped his brother's face. Connor mumbled something.

Murphy raised a brow. "What did you jest say?"

"Phone in sick… fer me." Murphy let one corner of his mouth perk up.

"You hurt? You shot?" Connor was soaking wet, so feeling for blood was useless. Murphy stripped his brother's heavy coat off of him.

"Shot… What?" Connor muttered back to him, and then started coughing. Murphy rolled his brother onto his side, and sea water sprayed from Connor's mouth. The spasms left Connor's body, and Murphy took a deep breath mirroring his brother.

"Easy now, anywhere hurt?" Murphy probed a grabbed his brother's arm hard. "Answer me Conn!"

"No, just numb. Cold." Murphy rolled his eyes. He really hoped his brother wasn't bleeding out, because the state Connor was in, he probably couldn't feel if his own leg was missing.

Murphy sat behind his brother and gathered him up so his torso wasn't lying on the beach. He pulled off Connor's turtle neck with some difficulty. The wet material stuck to Connor's skin like shit on your best church shoes. He helped Connor into his own dry pea cot.

"Get up. Need you to walk with me. Just walk with me." He saw a ladder close to where he had left their gear. Perfect.

Murphy stood up slowly, holding Connor to him. His twin's legs buckled expectantly. "No more donuts for you." He lifted his brother over his shoulder. The wind whipped at them, and Connor started to shiver. It was a good sign. Shivering was definitely better than not shivering, given the situation.

Murphy made his way to the ladder. How was he going to get Connor up the fucking ladder? Murphy was about to attempt the somewhat imposable climb when Connor voice sounded from somewhere near his ass cheeks.

"Put me down." It was one of the clearer things that had come from his twin's mouth in a while, so he complied. Connor rest against the ladder, and swiveled his head around to look up. "Might be able to get up that." Murphy winced. Chances were Connor would have to climb it if they were going to get out of there before the kid brought back the mafia. But his twin was barely moving on his own. Murphy ran a hand over his face, considering, then nodded. Pulling Connor to his feet, Murphy guided his uncoordinated brother to grip the ladder rungs. Getting up the ladder involved too many close calls. Too many times that Connor started coughing and forgot to keep his balance, or hold on to the rungs. Murphy was panting as hard as his ailing brother by the time they were both safely on the deck again.

"I'm going to get our stuff." Murphy looked his brother over again for blood. "Then we're leaving."

"The pennies." Connor said. Murphy did not like the way Connor was having trouble forming sentences.

"No time for dat. Gotta' get you outta' here." Murphy said seriously.

"Make time." Murphy acquiesced and went through their ritual of absolution for the dead faster than he ever had before. He was still praying when he slipped down the ladder to retrieve Connor's wet clothes. He made a brief detour to push the crates of cocaine off the pier into the ocean. Just in case the mobsters made it back there before the cops.

Murphy stood at his brother's side and looked down at him. "You'll never guess whose son I just met, face to face." Connor's fluttering eyes met his briefly.

"Murphy? Who?"

---

"Murphy!

"Murphy, wake up!"

Murphy came to with a gasp. He opened his eyes and was face to face with one Agent Smecker. Murphy's head ached. His entire body was twitching. He could feel the burn on his neck.

"Mother fucker." The curse slurred out of his mouth. Smecker shook his head with a small smile. He backed away from Murphy's sudden glare.

"I take it your brother went out alone?"

A/N. Thus concludes part one of two. Please, if you have anything to say, let me know!!!!!

Love to get reviews, chat with other fans, etc. PWEASE!!!!! If you loved it, hated it, found a million and one typso, sorry I mean typos… is typos a word……. Hmmm….

Thanks everyone to my beta OTS (who I hope to recruit to Boondocks fandom). She looked through this, despite having little knowledge of BDS. I went over it again and played with a few things, so any residual mistakes are my bad.

Thanks guys.