Supernatural fic: 13
Title: 13
Character: um... the Colt
Rating: G
Spoilers: Dead Man's Blood, Salvation and Devil's Trap
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer:I do not own the Colt.. or Supernatural, or the Winchesters, or Daniel Elkins
Summary: A life that is not a life, measured out in shots.
The gun was aimed and it could feel the finger on its trigger, steady, although the weapon knew that this shot, the final shot, meant more than all the other shots combined, more than the third, more than the seventh, infinitely more than the first.
This thirteenth, final bullet was going to change the world for the better. This bullet was going to destroy some great evil.
And that, the Colt thought, might even be worth dying for.
After all, that was why it was created.
**
It remembered that night when it was formed: liquid metal cooling to become something more than a gun. It could feel the raw power that was entrusted to it; it could feel its creator, in the light of the moon, moulding that power for a purpose, a mission.
Although not alive, it was aware of the bullets being formed as well, every one of them numbered. It could feel a connection to them and to the man who stood a little way away, watching its birth silently.
After it was complete, and shut in its case, sleeping, it felt itself be passed onto its owner and it felt his approval.
It could remember every single shot, every time the finger on its trigger had pulled back.
The first bullet had been wasted, squandered on a non-opportunity. The creature they were after was gone before it was even there and it could feel the exasperation of the hunter at his failure, but the acceptance of circumstance as well, after all there were twelve bullets left.
But the weapon itself could not be as blasé. As soon as the shot had been fired it had begun to understand. When the bullet left the barrel it lost the connection. The first bullet was gone. There was nothing left to signify its existence except an empty slot in the case.
The second time, it was prepared. When it felt the hunter aim, it steeled itself for the inevitable. At least this time it meant something.
It knew the moment the bullet hit its target, a creature of death and chaos. It felt its death with a fierce joy as it realised that that was what it was made for.
The third shot had a curious energy to it: a tingle in the air as it was drawn, a shot of electricity as it was cocked.
There was evil all around it, pressing in, and when the moment came to fire neither hunter nor weapon had a moment’s hesitation.
It felt the bullet impact and it felt the evil surrounding it dissolve into nothing.
The fourth bullet felt unimportant, anticlimactic after the third. The weapon could feel the hunter’s carelessness in using up bullets. What was one bullet in thirteen?
It hit its mark, as the weapon knew it would, but the evil was not all that powerful and it knew that it could have been killed by other, lesser, weapons.
It seethed as it lay in place, hoping that the hunter would learn in time what it should be used for.
Then it slept; for many years it slept, in the darkness of its case. When it finally awoke the hunter was old and it knew he understood the importance of each and every bullet.
The fifth shot was only minutes after it awoke and, in the slight trembling of his finger on the trigger, it knew that this was the shot he had intended it for all those years ago.
The trigger was pulled and it knew the bullet was on target, but it felt nothing and the despair it felt radiate from its weilder told it more clearly than eyesight ever could have that, through some awful twist of fate, it had missed.
It fell from his hand and lay waiting on the hard stone floor for him to retrieve it.
However, the next hand to touch it was not that which it remembered, but another, colder hand. It felt evil and malice and, as it was pointed once more and fired for the sixth time, it felt the wrongness of the situation.
The sixth bullet pierced the hunter’s heart and he fell.
The gun was lost for a time, shut in its case for decades, sleeping uneasily.
The seventh shot was fired by the same evil that had taken its previous owner’s life. It hit a child, powerful in her own right, and the gun, feeling the evil overcome the good it had just destroyed, felt what it assumed was akin to the human emotion sorrow.
It did not want to be shut up again, held captive by evil, and it fought as hard as it could against its imprisonment, but what could an inanimate object do?
It did not know what happened over the intervening years: whether the evil had been destroyed, or whether it had simply been stolen from it. Whatever the story, the next time it awoke the evil was no longer there, replaced by an awed good, which held it gently, admiring it.
Another hunter, it knew, and one who understood how vital the bullets were because it was only used once, and then as a last resort.
The eighth bullet went through the head of a vampire, crackling with efficiency as the creature fell. The hunter felt the satisfaction of a job well done but, from another, darker source, it felt rage and hatred.
The next time the hunter drew the gun, beneath the efficiency it knew of him, he felt a slight panic as evil closed in.
It fell again, and it knew from the delight of the evil around it, even before it was picked up again, that the hunter, like his predecessor, had fallen.
From then on it did not sleep. The evil that had taken it displayed it like a trophy, although, at first, it did not know what it was.
Then came one that it recognised, the creature from whom the anger and hate had come, no longer as angry, now calm, calculating, understanding.
He kept it with him, although he only had it a short time before his composure fell and fear and anger tore to the surface once more.
It was with these emotions that he passed it on to its next owner and, as it was picked up, once more it felt the jolt of connection that it had had with its first wielder.
The ninth bullet killed the rage and hatred, finishing a job it had begun decades ago. It felt its own satisfaction increased by that of its owner and also his relief as the monster fell to the ground, its half-life ended.
Its case was gone, and there were only four bullets left. More than two thirds of its life spent already.
The tenth shot was fired by another hand, but one with which it felt the same connecting link as before.
It was held in wait, and the weapon could feel the spark of anticipation. It knew the next shot had been a long time coming. There was an edge of fear as well, but, as it was raised and aimed, it experienced the strong tang of revenge.
The tenth bullet missed. The wepon felt it his through the air where the evil had been, touching only smoke and shadow.
The disappointment and anger that came then were intense, but another presence nearby was relieved. It realised that that bullet was not wasted. It could feel that the evil had passed, sensed that the bullet had done some good.
The eleventh shot came without hesitation.
A third hunter: similar to the other two, yet different. Revenge did not cloud the mind as he took his turn on the trigger but rather a protective urge stronger than almost anything the weapon had previously felt. A tinge of guilt coloured the victory, though, as its target died along with its human host. Guilt at wasting a bullet, but not really, almost as though the hunter thought he should feel guilty. Guilt because he felt no guilt.
But the eleventh bullet was not wasted.
The twelfth bullet hit its target but it did not kill. The weapon waited for the destruction, but it did not come.
Earlier it had been raised and the finger on the trigger had been unable to pull. Then the evil had grown.
It had fallen from another hunter’s hand, and it had fully expected to be picked up by evil again.
But it was not. One of the three held it again. He aimed and shot.
But he did not kill.
The evil was weakened and it could feel pain then: pain fear and anger in equal parts.
It could feel its final bullet quivering in its chamber as it was aimed once more. It willed the finger to tighten. It would destroy the evil that had caused the pain. That was what it exited for. It yearned to kill.
But once again it was lowered, one bullet still left.
The thirteenth and final bullet lay waiting, and the weapon and the bullet and the hunter all felt the rush of power as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Power rushed through it, sparking as the last bullet left the gun and sped to its destination.
Character: um... the Colt
Rating: G
Spoilers: Dead Man's Blood, Salvation and Devil's Trap
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer:I do not own the Colt.. or Supernatural, or the Winchesters, or Daniel Elkins
Summary: A life that is not a life, measured out in shots.
The gun was aimed and it could feel the finger on its trigger, steady, although the weapon knew that this shot, the final shot, meant more than all the other shots combined, more than the third, more than the seventh, infinitely more than the first.
This thirteenth, final bullet was going to change the world for the better. This bullet was going to destroy some great evil.
And that, the Colt thought, might even be worth dying for.
After all, that was why it was created.
**
It remembered that night when it was formed: liquid metal cooling to become something more than a gun. It could feel the raw power that was entrusted to it; it could feel its creator, in the light of the moon, moulding that power for a purpose, a mission.
Although not alive, it was aware of the bullets being formed as well, every one of them numbered. It could feel a connection to them and to the man who stood a little way away, watching its birth silently.
After it was complete, and shut in its case, sleeping, it felt itself be passed onto its owner and it felt his approval.
It could remember every single shot, every time the finger on its trigger had pulled back.
The first bullet had been wasted, squandered on a non-opportunity. The creature they were after was gone before it was even there and it could feel the exasperation of the hunter at his failure, but the acceptance of circumstance as well, after all there were twelve bullets left.
But the weapon itself could not be as blasé. As soon as the shot had been fired it had begun to understand. When the bullet left the barrel it lost the connection. The first bullet was gone. There was nothing left to signify its existence except an empty slot in the case.
The second time, it was prepared. When it felt the hunter aim, it steeled itself for the inevitable. At least this time it meant something.
It knew the moment the bullet hit its target, a creature of death and chaos. It felt its death with a fierce joy as it realised that that was what it was made for.
The third shot had a curious energy to it: a tingle in the air as it was drawn, a shot of electricity as it was cocked.
There was evil all around it, pressing in, and when the moment came to fire neither hunter nor weapon had a moment’s hesitation.
It felt the bullet impact and it felt the evil surrounding it dissolve into nothing.
The fourth bullet felt unimportant, anticlimactic after the third. The weapon could feel the hunter’s carelessness in using up bullets. What was one bullet in thirteen?
It hit its mark, as the weapon knew it would, but the evil was not all that powerful and it knew that it could have been killed by other, lesser, weapons.
It seethed as it lay in place, hoping that the hunter would learn in time what it should be used for.
Then it slept; for many years it slept, in the darkness of its case. When it finally awoke the hunter was old and it knew he understood the importance of each and every bullet.
The fifth shot was only minutes after it awoke and, in the slight trembling of his finger on the trigger, it knew that this was the shot he had intended it for all those years ago.
The trigger was pulled and it knew the bullet was on target, but it felt nothing and the despair it felt radiate from its weilder told it more clearly than eyesight ever could have that, through some awful twist of fate, it had missed.
It fell from his hand and lay waiting on the hard stone floor for him to retrieve it.
However, the next hand to touch it was not that which it remembered, but another, colder hand. It felt evil and malice and, as it was pointed once more and fired for the sixth time, it felt the wrongness of the situation.
The sixth bullet pierced the hunter’s heart and he fell.
The gun was lost for a time, shut in its case for decades, sleeping uneasily.
The seventh shot was fired by the same evil that had taken its previous owner’s life. It hit a child, powerful in her own right, and the gun, feeling the evil overcome the good it had just destroyed, felt what it assumed was akin to the human emotion sorrow.
It did not want to be shut up again, held captive by evil, and it fought as hard as it could against its imprisonment, but what could an inanimate object do?
It did not know what happened over the intervening years: whether the evil had been destroyed, or whether it had simply been stolen from it. Whatever the story, the next time it awoke the evil was no longer there, replaced by an awed good, which held it gently, admiring it.
Another hunter, it knew, and one who understood how vital the bullets were because it was only used once, and then as a last resort.
The eighth bullet went through the head of a vampire, crackling with efficiency as the creature fell. The hunter felt the satisfaction of a job well done but, from another, darker source, it felt rage and hatred.
The next time the hunter drew the gun, beneath the efficiency it knew of him, he felt a slight panic as evil closed in.
It fell again, and it knew from the delight of the evil around it, even before it was picked up again, that the hunter, like his predecessor, had fallen.
From then on it did not sleep. The evil that had taken it displayed it like a trophy, although, at first, it did not know what it was.
Then came one that it recognised, the creature from whom the anger and hate had come, no longer as angry, now calm, calculating, understanding.
He kept it with him, although he only had it a short time before his composure fell and fear and anger tore to the surface once more.
It was with these emotions that he passed it on to its next owner and, as it was picked up, once more it felt the jolt of connection that it had had with its first wielder.
The ninth bullet killed the rage and hatred, finishing a job it had begun decades ago. It felt its own satisfaction increased by that of its owner and also his relief as the monster fell to the ground, its half-life ended.
Its case was gone, and there were only four bullets left. More than two thirds of its life spent already.
The tenth shot was fired by another hand, but one with which it felt the same connecting link as before.
It was held in wait, and the weapon could feel the spark of anticipation. It knew the next shot had been a long time coming. There was an edge of fear as well, but, as it was raised and aimed, it experienced the strong tang of revenge.
The tenth bullet missed. The wepon felt it his through the air where the evil had been, touching only smoke and shadow.
The disappointment and anger that came then were intense, but another presence nearby was relieved. It realised that that bullet was not wasted. It could feel that the evil had passed, sensed that the bullet had done some good.
The eleventh shot came without hesitation.
A third hunter: similar to the other two, yet different. Revenge did not cloud the mind as he took his turn on the trigger but rather a protective urge stronger than almost anything the weapon had previously felt. A tinge of guilt coloured the victory, though, as its target died along with its human host. Guilt at wasting a bullet, but not really, almost as though the hunter thought he should feel guilty. Guilt because he felt no guilt.
But the eleventh bullet was not wasted.
The twelfth bullet hit its target but it did not kill. The weapon waited for the destruction, but it did not come.
Earlier it had been raised and the finger on the trigger had been unable to pull. Then the evil had grown.
It had fallen from another hunter’s hand, and it had fully expected to be picked up by evil again.
But it was not. One of the three held it again. He aimed and shot.
But he did not kill.
The evil was weakened and it could feel pain then: pain fear and anger in equal parts.
It could feel its final bullet quivering in its chamber as it was aimed once more. It willed the finger to tighten. It would destroy the evil that had caused the pain. That was what it exited for. It yearned to kill.
But once again it was lowered, one bullet still left.
The thirteenth and final bullet lay waiting, and the weapon and the bullet and the hunter all felt the rush of power as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Power rushed through it, sparking as the last bullet left the gun and sped to its destination.