Oh, good heavens. <3 I read a lot of fic; trust me when I say I don't know anyone in all of it who writes this kind of fic with the sheer, palpable excellence that you do. Nobody.
Every tiny faceted moment of this is absolutely mesmerizing. The casual cumulation of minor detail, unassuming and unobtrusive--never sloppily symbolic or overdetermined--all of which mean everything because they mean almost nothing at all. The way Dean's eyes trace the laptop screensaver like pool angles--perfection. Mushy jalapeno guac sandwiches--perfection. Dean bristling at the waitress handing Sam the bill (the waitress handing Sam the bill in the first place)--perfection. Sam and the NAPKINS, the napkins in the puddle and thinking, for instant to get them back--PERFECTION. Buzzed, forgotten conversations and jangling unbridled almonst-flights through wind, leaves in the windshield wipers, low-key lullaby Metallica (<333), and the Impala shaking, dancing in the wind just like them--perfection in seven different sounds and colors.
I completely adore what you've done with that wind motif--the sense of feeling like one might be picked up by it--of wanting to try, even if physically or literally, it's unlikely. I love that Dean relates it to being thrown by celestial forces--or, more specifically, to the sense that that has never happened. There's something about this moment, in this bar and then this parking lot and also this wind, that makes it feel like none of that bears--if only for a night. There's such yearning to this--not in this depressive, unachievable sense, but in the way it feels to dance on the head of a pin in a windstorm, so to speak. To ride a very particular sensation right at the edges of its perceptibility, where it tingles and electrifies. (Emotional rimming?!?!)
And this: And he's kissing Sam long and sweet, heart pounding up to his throat, as if they've never done it before, as if they've never stopped doing it.
I love the circularity of that sentiment, something again hanging on this impossible edge. The way Sam and Dean feel to me in this, they're (as people, and as people connected) like glass, fragile--not in the sense of tenuousness or something subject to subversion, but the kind of potent fragility you can't help but have complete and utter trust in. There is, between them, this fragile thing that compels complete and utter trust in one another.
I love you I love you I love you. <33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333
no subject
Every tiny faceted moment of this is absolutely mesmerizing. The casual cumulation of minor detail, unassuming and unobtrusive--never sloppily symbolic or overdetermined--all of which mean everything because they mean almost nothing at all. The way Dean's eyes trace the laptop screensaver like pool angles--perfection. Mushy jalapeno guac sandwiches--perfection. Dean bristling at the waitress handing Sam the bill (the waitress handing Sam the bill in the first place)--perfection. Sam and the NAPKINS, the napkins in the puddle and thinking, for instant to get them back--PERFECTION. Buzzed, forgotten conversations and jangling unbridled almonst-flights through wind, leaves in the windshield wipers, low-key lullaby Metallica (<333), and the Impala shaking, dancing in the wind just like them--perfection in seven different sounds and colors.
I completely adore what you've done with that wind motif--the sense of feeling like one might be picked up by it--of wanting to try, even if physically or literally, it's unlikely. I love that Dean relates it to being thrown by celestial forces--or, more specifically, to the sense that that has never happened. There's something about this moment, in this bar and then this parking lot and also this wind, that makes it feel like none of that bears--if only for a night. There's such yearning to this--not in this depressive, unachievable sense, but in the way it feels to dance on the head of a pin in a windstorm, so to speak. To ride a very particular sensation right at the edges of its perceptibility, where it tingles and electrifies. (Emotional rimming?!?!)
And this: And he's kissing Sam long and sweet, heart pounding up to his throat, as if they've never done it before, as if they've never stopped doing it.
I love the circularity of that sentiment, something again hanging on this impossible edge. The way Sam and Dean feel to me in this, they're (as people, and as people connected) like glass, fragile--not in the sense of tenuousness or something subject to subversion, but the kind of potent fragility you can't help but have complete and utter trust in. There is, between them, this fragile thing that compels complete and utter trust in one another.
I love you I love you I love you. <33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333