This sounds like fun!

[dira]

Meme from zvi:

Pick a paragraph (or any passage less than 700 words) from any fanfic I've written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what's going on in the character's heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic (fic series, fic universe), lots of awful puns, and anything else that you'd expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

...I do not actually promise any puns, though.


This entry is crossposted at http://dsudis.livejournal.com/534013.html.

Comments

[alexseanchai]

There was only one word, and the word was Sam.

He cried out Sam unceasingly, and it encompassed the whole of his existence: an agony comprised of fear (never allayed, never fulfilled) and pain (never eased, never mercifully overwhelming) and beneath it all the tiny, stubborn thread of knowledge of time before and time after (it had not always been so; it might not always be so).

Sam.

"Sam," a voice repeated back to him. The inflection of the voice emphasized the smallest of things, the belief in time. The voice made time exist--time before the voice, time after. And with the voice came a sensation that was not pain but presence--a presence other than his own, another who spoke his whole world back to him. "Sam."

Sam.

Pressure, all around him, and then change--pain both lessened and sharpened, while fear fell away in wonder. Time before was now that place of unceasing agony, and time after was as unimaginable as time present, which was this incomprehensible place of straight edges and clear lights.

"Dean," said the voice, in company with a small, painless pressure against the top of his head.

Dean. Dean was not-Sam; Dean was himself. He was separate from the one behind him who was still holding on to him, the one who spoke to him. He looked down and saw himself--his body, Dean, a familiar view of chest and belly and dick and knees and feet--and saw the other, too, in the form of other arms wrapped around him. He could feel what he saw: pressure where the other's arms touched him, and not where they didn't. Pain clung to his body like cinders and blood. The other's arms contrasted starkly against the hurt and darkness of Dean's body, and the regular whiteness below his red-black feet was almost blinding.

"Motel bathroom," the voice informed him. Motel bathroom--this was a place he knew. He recognized it, shapes taking on meaning in his eyes: toilet, shower, sink, water, soap, tile floor under his feet, fluorescent light above his head. This was a place to become clean, a place to heal, a place to make ready or to recover--beginning and ending, night and morning. Dean remembered this, these shapes and edges and boundaries and the ways that they belonged to him, and he to them. A whole world could be unraveled from here--motels, gas stations, the highways that connected them, and all the other places along the way.

"Time to get clean," the voice said, and Dean saw that the shower was running, already hot, just how he liked it. There was a stack of towels waiting for later, with a bar of soap on top. "Go on."

[…]

"That was all symbols, so I could understand," Dean said, waving his hand back toward the motel, at the top of a hill that wasn't there anymore.

Castiel nodded.

"So what did you really say to me, when you came to get me? Because what I heard--that wasn't what you said, was it. That was just what I could understand."

Castiel watched him, giving him nothing.

"Say it to me again," Dean said. "I bet I can hear you this time."

He wasn't going to beg and plead, but he wanted to hear it again. That voice that had been the first glimmer of something changing. If he could just hear it again, he'd be ready to go, he knew it.

Castiel maybe smiled, or maybe that was just the way the light was passing through him. He reached for Dean, settling his right hand over the scar and his left hand on the back of Dean's neck. He leaned in close, and whispered into Dean's ear, and his voice thundered all around them. It blew back the grass and knocked down the trees and shook loose the earth they stood in, but under that, Dean could still hear Castiel's voice like he'd always heard it. This time it fell into the words--the symbols--that tradition required.

The angel said to him, "Be not afraid."

The whole fic, really, but there's the seven hundred words. (I can't remember if I've mentioned that I adore this fic?)