the price

Nov. 13th, 2007 08:17 pm
ultraviolet9a: (angry sam)
 >> the price
 
TITLE: the price
AUTHOR: [personal profile] ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: Season 2 finale two-parter for spn, for 3.01-3.04
GENRE: Gen.
CHARACTERS: Samuel Colt, OCs, Ruby, (the Winchesters, demons)
SUMMARY: Didn’t you ever wonder how the gate was made? And the Colt? The whole background of it?
RATING: R. Mainly cuz it’s fucked up.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh. 
DISCLAIMER: I don’t need Colt or Ruby, but wouldn’t say no to the Winchesters. Who would?
NOTE: Have you ever woken up at 5.45 in the morning because suddenly the plot donkey you had abandoned in the stable came trotting smugly and started kicking you? Have you? Ugh.
NOTE2: betaed by oh so shiny [personal profile] hiyacynth.
NOTE3: [personal profile] evolia said she didn’t want anything for her birthday but loooove. Here’s loooove from me, honey. Along with a wee fic. Just because.
 
 
Back in 1835, When Haley's Comet was overhead, same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter. A man like us, only on horseback. Story goes, he made thirteen bullets. This hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. They say... they say this gun can kill anything.
 
 
 
There is always a price.
 
.:::.
 
There are holes in the world. Gates, leading elsewhere. Traps, sucking innocents in. Tears, letting things leak through. Not good things.
 
Sometimes people will find out the truth. It will move in stories, through the mouth of Seers, through tales told by parents to child to grandchild. Sometimes they will seal them permanently (as permanently as any gate to elsewhere) finding a way to build a lock on them. Like a circle of stones that no archaeologist can figure out years later. Calendar, they’ll say. It’s alright. As long as the circle stands.
 
The circles change shape, just like the world. But the essence remains.
 
In Wyoming, when the hunter found out about the hole (I saw it, she said. Clear as day it was, though I was dreamin’), all he could think of was to build a gate. Like a family tomb. Like all those he’d buried.

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