Oh, man. See, this is the point where -- if I knew who you were – I’d be looking for your email address so I could babble at you in private. Alas, this will have to do. Brace for babbling!
I always felt a little apprehensive not having this on the safe list, even if it really wasn’t fair to make people try and remix drabbles. The title of the fic “Ripping out all our epilogues” is like reading a book, and finding that the characters have torn out the final chapter and said “We’re going off to do our own thing, and you the reader aren’t allowed to watch us. Go away.” I still have no idea what Sam and Dean do after they destroy the Impala, and it feels like none of my business.
So I was nervous that a remixer might take it and try and tell a story I really didn’t want to read. And you’ve written this, and you’ve given the Impala an ending, her own epilogue, and I’m relieved, but much more than that I’m so delighted and happy that you’ve done this, and done it beautifully.
Mary liked curving, meandering old country highways where the road brushed up against houses and lives and a slow drive was like a peek into the backyards of America, an up-close vision of lives they didn't live... Dean likes the roads that curve and twine, like his mother did, and she loves the times when they're in no hurry and he takes them down the ways most people forget ever existed, before overpass highways and toll bridges
I love the fact that for both Mary and Dean, it’s about the joy and love of driving, and for Sam and John it’s about getting from A to B as fast and as uneventfully as possible. The irony of the fact that John takes up the road-trip life, even though he doesn’t have the love of driving. It breaks my heart that after John died, the Impala is the one with the clearest memories of Mary, who knew her best.
The whole fic has these gorgeous ‘this is how their lives were’ moments: The first drink spilled across her upholstery by small hands that were used to stopping somewhere to eat, not John's new life of hunting and motion.
Remembers the roads Dean drove alone, with the music off and his eyes on the road ahead, corn-lined highway to wheat-edged highway, all of his curves and meanders pulled straight and lonely by solitude. *whimpers*
Couldn't turn up the Zeppelin and slow down, take the curving side streets and remind Dean that there was life outside the hunt. But Dean wasn't a lost cause. Eventually, he found Sam again on his own. She remembers how much easier the roads balanced with one on each side. How much more right the distance felt. Gorgeous, gorgeous.
That something was missing, or maybe that what's dead should stay dead, even when it didn't really die. They've been running on fumes for a while now, her and Dean. And the miles are running out. *keens softly*
She wonders what it would feel like, being taken apart, sold for scrap. Wonders if she would feel all the little spaces and the distance between each piece of herself. By the time they've decided, so has she. She'd rather make an end of it. She thinks she never really thought differently - she just wanted a moment to be angry about it. *sniffles* And just... *hands* This is a perfect, realistic moment of grief and acceptance.
She wishes she could tell him she hopes he gets stuck in a damn mini-van. She wishes she could tell him she didn't really mean that. *laughs damply*
She wishes she could tell him to find a nice Mustang, or maybe a Trans Am. Something beautiful but needy that he can fix and keep running and love until it wakes up and lives and loves him back. I totally need a tissue now, damn you.
And...and, after all that, you give her Death to drive her off into her own epilogue, and they’re so fucking perfect together, and your characterisation of Death is so pitch-perfect I can only flail and worship. Seriously. ‘Thank you for your time and effort’ does not even begin to cover it.
no subject
I always felt a little apprehensive not having this on the safe list, even if it really wasn’t fair to make people try and remix drabbles. The title of the fic “Ripping out all our epilogues” is like reading a book, and finding that the characters have torn out the final chapter and said “We’re going off to do our own thing, and you the reader aren’t allowed to watch us. Go away.” I still have no idea what Sam and Dean do after they destroy the Impala, and it feels like none of my business.
So I was nervous that a remixer might take it and try and tell a story I really didn’t want to read. And you’ve written this, and you’ve given the Impala an ending, her own epilogue, and I’m relieved, but much more than that I’m so delighted and happy that you’ve done this, and done it beautifully.
Mary liked curving, meandering old country highways where the road brushed up against houses and lives and a slow drive was like a peek into the backyards of America, an up-close vision of lives they didn't live... Dean likes the roads that curve and twine, like his mother did, and she loves the times when they're in no hurry and he takes them down the ways most people forget ever existed, before overpass highways and toll bridges
I love the fact that for both Mary and Dean, it’s about the joy and love of driving, and for Sam and John it’s about getting from A to B as fast and as uneventfully as possible. The irony of the fact that John takes up the road-trip life, even though he doesn’t have the love of driving. It breaks my heart that after John died, the Impala is the one with the clearest memories of Mary, who knew her best.
The whole fic has these gorgeous ‘this is how their lives were’ moments: The first drink spilled across her upholstery by small hands that were used to stopping somewhere to eat, not John's new life of hunting and motion.
Remembers the roads Dean drove alone, with the music off and his eyes on the road ahead, corn-lined highway to wheat-edged highway, all of his curves and meanders pulled straight and lonely by solitude. *whimpers*
Couldn't turn up the Zeppelin and slow down, take the curving side streets and remind Dean that there was life outside the hunt. But Dean wasn't a lost cause. Eventually, he found Sam again on his own. She remembers how much easier the roads balanced with one on each side. How much more right the distance felt. Gorgeous, gorgeous.
That something was missing, or maybe that what's dead should stay dead, even when it didn't really die. They've been running on fumes for a while now, her and Dean. And the miles are running out. *keens softly*
She wonders what it would feel like, being taken apart, sold for scrap. Wonders if she would feel all the little spaces and the distance between each piece of herself.
By the time they've decided, so has she.
She'd rather make an end of it.
She thinks she never really thought differently - she just wanted a moment to be angry about it. *sniffles* And just... *hands* This is a perfect, realistic moment of grief and acceptance.
She wishes she could tell him she hopes he gets stuck in a damn mini-van.
She wishes she could tell him she didn't really mean that.
*laughs damply*
She wishes she could tell him to find a nice Mustang, or maybe a Trans Am. Something beautiful but needy that he can fix and keep running and love until it wakes up and lives and loves him back.
I totally need a tissue now, damn you.
And...and, after all that, you give her Death to drive her off into her own epilogue, and they’re so fucking perfect together, and your characterisation of Death is so pitch-perfect I can only flail and worship. Seriously. ‘Thank you for your time and effort’ does not even begin to cover it.