AN- Just a heads up, this fic deals with suicide and self harm. If this is not the kind of thing you want to read or feel comfortable reading, hit the back button now.

This fic came to me randomly. It was uncomfortable to write, and to be completely honest, I think I hate this story. It's unlike the characters we all know and love, and it doesn't make any goddamn sense to me... but the story wrote itself, so I'm going to post it, in all it's unbeta'd glory. Tell me what you think.

It was all over. His blood on the floor, on him, on my hands….

It was all over, and it was wrong. Just wrong.

It shouldn't have ended like this.

It should have been a battle to the end. A fight. A hail of bullets, a mountain of other people's dead bodies. It should have been a bad guy. It shouldn't have happened period. But it had happened. And it shouldn't have been by my own hand.

Murphy hadn't been acting normal for some time. His eyes had that glazed over look to them- the same look the sick and dying have when they've lost all hope and all will to live. He never slept. He hardly ate, or drank, or smoked. He was lethargic at best most days. I don't know why I hadn't noticed it until the end, when he was at his worst. Maybe I was too wrapped up in our quest to rid the world of evil. Maybe I was too self absorbed. Maybe I was too focused on NOT getting caught or killed in our missions that I missed all the signs.

When we were kids, Murphy had a weird fixation with death and dying. Not many people know that. And by not many know, I mean just me.

We were at church one Sunday. We were ten, maybe eleven at the time. After Mass, Murphy tugged at my arm. "Come with me. I wanna ask Father Matthews something." Reluctantly, I agreed and followed him to the pulpit. Father Matthews was a soft spoken man who could make anything seem alright. He had a way with words that was comforting, and was wise without being condescending. He beamed at us as we appeared in front of him.

"What trouble have you boys been up to? I heard about your fight in school the other day- your Ma was quite…. Amused by the whole thing." The corners of his mouth turned up in a friendly smile, as if he too were amused by our antics.

Murphy avoided all preamble. "Father Matthews? Can I ask you a question?"

"What is it, Murphy?"

He bit his lip- a habit that stayed with him throughout the rest of his life. "I know that when you die, you face judgment. But how does God decide if you go to heaven or hell?"

"Well, no one knows for sure. Live a good life- try to live the life of a saint, and don't commit any mortal sins. God will look upon you with favor." Murphy looked discontented with that answer, but nodded his head anyway and walked away.

When we were fifteen, I saw the first glimmers of a serious problem. Our Uncle Sibeal gave us knives for Christmas. I woke up in the middle of the night to him turning it over in his hands, staring at it intently. I was silent as I watched him, eyes barely open. He pursed his lips together, hair falling into his face- he had refused to cut his hair, for whatever reason. He put the blade of his knife on the delicate skin of his wrist and slowly pulled it across. I watched in sick fascination. He let out the tiniest hiss of breath before putting the knife under his pillow and continuing to stare at his wrist. A line of blood bubbled up. He wiped it away with his thumb and then laid back down in bed with his back to me. I was horrified. If he was contemplating taking his life….. did he realize what implications that followed with that decision? Suicide was a mortal sin. That was left up to God to decide when and how you departed the earth.

It became clear soon after that he wasn't concerned with what happened after death. He had little interests in the mechanics of heaven and hell, or where his soul went. No, he just wanted to know. He acted recklessly, almost got himself killed several times over. He drank too much. He popped prescription cocktails, made from pills he stole from Ma and Uncle Sibeal's medicine cabinets. He jumped off the roof of our school one time on a dare, and he wound up breaking his leg. It was then, when he was stripped down to a hospital gown and confined to a bed in the ER that I saw the cuts all up and down his arms.

"The fuck is this shit, Murph?" I demanded. He shrugged, eyes unfocused. "I dunno, Conn. I guess I wanted to know what it felt like."

"What what felt like?"

He didn't answer me. His eyes were closing, slowly slipping into sleep. "Promise me you'll stop, Murph. Promise me. I don't care why, but please…. stop doing this shit to yourself."

He gave a sluggish smile, on his way to dreamland. "Only for you." he murmured. His hand found mine and gave a light squeeze. "Only for you."

And he did stop. For a long time, there was no sign of trouble. No welts or unexplained bruises. He was fine. He acted more rambunctious then what he used to, but I enjoyed it. It was a huge change from his lackluster, languid behavior. Never the center of attention, but the catalyst, the one who started trouble. Everyone loved him.

Shit hit the fan our last year of school. Murph went over to our friend Anton's house while I went on a date with the girl from English class I was trying to woo- I took her to a play, something Shakespeare. A Midsummer's Night Dream, I think. It didn't go well, from what I remember. I fell asleep in the first act, took a slap to the face in the second act for falling asleep, and by the third act was halfway home, walking in the chilly rain because she slashed my tires on her way out of the theater.

I walked in the front door. Ma looked at me with a wry grin on her face. "Date went that well, I take it? What'd you do, bore the lass to death?"

"Must have, she slashed the tires. Looks like Murph and I will be hitching a ride for a couple weeks until we can get new ones put on the car." I looked around. "Murph isn't back yet?"

On cue, the door opened quietly, and in walked a shaken looking Murphy. There was a rather large bruise on his neck, near his collar, contrasting harshly with his pale skin- easy to spot, hard to hide. Ma raised her eyebrows. "What in the fuck is that?"

"Nothing."

"That is not nothing, let me see." Ma was over to Murph in a flash, examining the mark on his neck. "That's a fucking hickey. Who the hell were you screwing?" Leave it to our mother to be uncomfortably blunt.

"Ma, leave it be. None of our business."

"The fuck it ain't my business. C'mon Murph, I'm not mad at 'cha. I just wanna know."

"No one…"

"Bullshit it's no one. Look at the way you're blushin' and shit. Bring her over for dinner, I'd love to meet her-"

"Him, ma. It's a him."

Stunned silence filled the room. I wasn't shocked, really. He never looked at girls, never really had much interest in chasing skirts so to speak. I didn't care. He was my brother, and as long as he was happy, that's all I cared about. God couldn't begrudge him for feeling a certain way, I was certain of that much.

However, Ma had been clueless. The look on her face was one of shock turned to revulsion. "What did you fucking say to me?"

"Ma, c'mon. Leave him alone." I put a hand on her shoulder. She slapped my hand away.

"No, Connor, I will NOT leave it alone! No son of mine is gay. It's a fuckin' sin!" She raged on, breath coming in huffy gasps. "You're going to Confession on Sunday, and then you will never do this again. Hear me? Do you fucking hear me?"

Murphy's eyes were bright, but he nodded. "Yes, ma…" his voice was tight. We never spoke of that night.

The rest of our time in Ireland was strained. Murphy became volatile in his emotions, bursting at the seams with all the words he wanted to say, things he wanted to do but couldn't. He was reclusive, hiding out in his own head, as they say. We both worked our asses off to save up enough money. It had been Murphy's dream to move and live there. I didn't care where I lived, so long as I had Murphy. So we worked and worked and worked, and finally, we made it there to Boston.

It was hard, trying to find a place to live and a job without visas or the proper papers, but we managed it somehow. Long days, and sometimes longer night. Boston was cold in the wintertime, almost worse than Ireland due to the fact we had heat only half the time in our dilapidated apartment building. It got so bad a few nights that we shared a bed to keep warm. I felt his body pressed to mine- it was hard to avoid seeing as our beds were hardly big enough for ourselves, much less two people. It didn't feel wrong to wake up next to him- it wasn't the same as waking to a beautiful woman by any means- but it didn't feel wrong either. An arm thrown over a waist, a head on a chest…It was comforting.

Then we met Rocco. How we met him, I don't remember. One day he sort of appeared and never left us. He worked for the mafia. I thought he was a headcase for it, and Murph never hesitated to tell him. Murph never had tact- he was about the straightest shooter you could find. Girls I dated always asked him for fashion advice, whether or not their hair and makeup looked bad- and Murph would be honest with them. "Ya look like fucking carrot." He told an overly tan girl I met at McGinty's on Saint Patty's day- the exact same day Russian Mafiosos came in and got their asses handed to them (courtesy of us, and the rest of the patrons of the bar). She threw her drink at him and walked away. He simply grinned at me and sat down at the bar, soaking in the atmosphere. This is the last time I can recall him being genuinely happy.

The next morning changed us profoundly. The two Russians from McGinty's found our apartment, broke in and took their revenge. The one with bandages on his ass hit me in the face with his gun, made me cuff myself to the back of a toilet. "I came here to kill you. Now, I don't think I kill you. I think I kill your brother." I stared at Murph, who was on his knees while the other guy held a gun to his head. He looked rather calm, considering the circumstances. Uncertain, but calm.

They started walking away, hauling Murph to his feet. "Connor!" He yelled, flailing around. "It was just a barfight, you guys are a bunch of fucking pussies!" He turned his head and looked at me- I don't know what it was a look of- maybe acceptance, or maybe trust. I screamed incoherently at the top of my lungs, pulling at the cuffs. The rest is a blur. I was told later that I dropped a toilet on the Russian guy's head, and jumped five stories onto the back of the other guy. I don't remember that at all. The only thing I remember is waking up in the ER, slumped over on his shoulder, still wearing a bathrobe, boots, and those fucking handcuffs. The relief I felt upon seeing he was alive and well is indescribable. The sore muscles and bones, the deep cuts in my wrists- they were worth it when I saw him.

That night, we got our calling card from God. Our purpose. Our mission. We had to follow it. It was the right thing to do. Of course, we were unnaturally gifted at it, despite the fact we had never fired a gun in our lives. Hell, we were all but bulletproof. And then Rocco got roped into it. I wanted him left out of the whole ordeal, but Murphy had complete faith in him. So there he was, our tactless, loudmouth intell guy who couldn't shoot for shit. We had to save him. So we went after his boss, Yakavetta- broke into his house only to be captured. Rocco was shot in cold blood by his former employer. Murphy's reaction hurt to see- hurt far worse than Rocco's death ever could. His face, buried in his shoulder, covered in his blood, his screaming and pleading and crying was what got to me.

"We have to get the fuck out of here, Murph. C'mon, get your head on straight!" He made no movement to get up. "Murph, Rocco would want us to escape." Murphy got up, face tight, tear tracks visible. "Escape." He said.

And we did just that. Bruised, broken, and scared shitless, but we made it out alive. Our father reappeared in the picture that night, but thankfully he gave us enough privacy to mourn. Maybe it was because he was afraid of setting us off, or maybe because it was he understood. I'm not sure.

We sat on the same bed. Murphy looked just devastated, like he wished he was dead himself. Our teenage years came back to me in a flash- memories of a hickey and scars, and it made sense to me then. "You were in love with him, weren't you?"

Murph looked dazed. "I don't know…maybe."

"Did you ever tell him? You know, that you cared?"

"No… why would I? It's a mortal sin." He choked a little. "I couldn't damn him to hell too." I didn't know what to say to that. I put an arm around him, and he fell into me, crying earnest tears, crying so hard his whole body shook. I don't think we slept that night.

Things had changed. I could feel it.

He was never the same after that. We killed bad guys. We were on the run constantly. Our father disappeared to Ireland to be with our mother shortly after we executed Yakavetta in open court. We were supposed to join them, but it never happened.

Murph's depression was deep. I tried to pull him out, put I couldn't. I saw old habits form again. Taking whatever pills he could get his hands on, drinking far too much. I was on the lookout for unexplained cuts and bruises, but I missed how damn quiet he was, how he slept all the damn time but never energy. I spent too much time talking, filling up the silence. I wanted to believe that he was okay.

Ignorance is bliss. It's amazing what you can live with when you choose to simply ignore it.

I came back to our hotel room- what state we were in, I couldn't recall. Someplace flat, like Nebraska. Murph was in the bathroom, knife in his hand, just staring down at his arms. I dropped everything I was holding. A beer bottle broke and spilled onto the strained green carpet. "Murphy! What in the fuck are you doing?"

He didn't look at me. "I want to feel again. This always helped."

"Murph… Murph, please don't. You don't need to hurt yourself." I licked my lips. "Put the knife down. For me. You promised me all those years ago you wouldn't do this shit anymore." Reluctantly he put it down on the sink. I breathed a sigh of relief until he looked at me. He looked… dead.

"It's never been enough, has it?" His voice was toneless.

"What are you talking about?"

"I can pray and confess, do whatever God wants us to do… but it doesn't change the fact I can't change."

I put my hands on his shoulders. "You can change-"

"No, I fucking can't! I tried! I can't fight these urges. I'm gay - a raging homosexual, an abomination, diseased. I kill people for a living. I'm so… I don't even know anymore." I pulled him tightly to me.

"S'alright brother. You're alright."

He said nothing as he pulled away. His gaze fell on the knife. "I wonder sometimes if I die, if I'll feel something."

I fought the impulse to punch him. "Stop talking crazy. You don't want to die."

"Yeah, I do. I keep waiting for the cops or a bad guy to do it for me, spare me a little trouble… guess I'm too damn good to get myself killed like Rocco." He sneered. "Only the good die young, right?" He reached for the knife and held in front of his eyes, squinting at it.

I stared at him, heart pounding loudly in my ears. "Murphy…" I swallowed, throat dry as a desert. "You can't do this."

"Why not?"

"It's a sin to take your own life."

"As if you're concerned with sin. You bathe in it, just as much as I do." He spat. "What's the real reason?"

"You're my fucking brother! What, I'm supposed to be okay with the idea of you just offing yourself?"

He shrugged. "Maybe you should do it then, since you're so concerned what happens after death. Like God gives two fucks about us anyway. We're his fucking scapegoats." I gawked at him. This isn't really happening.

I was pissed, upset, confused. I grabbed him by the front of his shirt of, pushed him against the wall of the bathroom and got right up in his face. "This shit stops now! No, you are not taking your life. You will not kill yourself. Godddamnit, Murphy, you can't. I need you, alright! I fucking need you, man!"

He shook his head at me. "No, you don't." I dug my nails deep into his shoulders, fighting hard to not beat the shit out of him. "Please, Connor. Do it for me. If you really care that much, you'll do it."

Panic flooded my brain. It was hard to form coherent thoughts, much less communicate them verbally.

"I, no.. no. I can't, Murph. No. Just no."

"Either you do it for me, or I do it myself. You can't keep an eye on me all the time. You can't lock up our guns, or our knives. Or the pills. Or the alcohol. I could hang myself with my bootlaces while you slept." His eyes locked with mine. "I can't do this anymore, Conn. I can't hide, I can't run, and I can't pretend to be something I'm not or believe in a God that finds my very existence revolting. " His eyes were bright. "I don't want to keep going."

My stomach swirled around, each pulse a nervous jolt. "You're sure about this?" my voice sounded strange.

"Absolutely."

My hands found his face. "Give me one more day." I said desperately. "We'll do anything you want-"

"You want to make it harder than it needs to be?" I had no answer to that. He gently pushed me away and handed me the knife that had been in his hands. The blade was wet. He pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. His palm was bleeding, dripping onto the floor. "I'll help you." he said quietly. He held out his arm and took the hand I was holding the knife in limply and held it to his arm. "Press down." I felt his hand on mine, pushing the blade into his skin deeply. His breath was short gasp as his life flowed from his body to the floor. I just stared, horrified. We did the same to his other arm.

He let go of my hand; the knife dropped to the ground with a clatter. "Think we got it right, brother."

He swayed on his feet a little. I guided him to the ground and pulled him to my chest. He was quiet, a look of calm crossing his face. "Thank you, Conn. You saved me."

"You're welcome, Murphy." I lied, guilt crushing me. "C'mon now. Sleep ." His unfocused eyes met mine and he gave me a sincere smile. His eyelids fluttered closed.

I waited until I could feel no movement, no heartbeat, no breath leaving and entering his lungs. It wasn't t until the moment he was gone that I allowed myself to lose it. How long I sat there cradling his body, tears flowing, choking on the guilt and anger, I don't know. It was sunrise when I finally left the bathroom, clothes dry and stiff from Murphy's blood. I stared out the window as the sun rose in the sky.

It was wrong. Just wrong. But in Murphy's eyes, it was right. And I guess in the end, that's all that really mattered to me.

AN-Review? And after you do that, go read something happy. This is downright depressing.