Cecil? Is it a spoiler to say he doesn't have three eyes?

You know canon is weird when...

Canonically, I would say it's not a spoiler, but I can't say for sure regarding the fic.

So that NV/SPN crossover is actually only 10,000 words, so I decided to give it a try.

So. Much. Navel-gazing. Lots of vagueness. I think I skimmed a quarter of the way through before the characters started interacting with other and using actual dialogue instead of just musing on possibilities and feelings and desires.

An older, heavily tattooed, broad shouldered, goateed, blonde man, dressed in typical biker gear sat with a younger, lesser-tattooed man that had a bandana tied over his hair with a number of bottles in front of them.

This particular fic is written almost entirely in this manner. IDEK. It's succinct? Cuz, y'know, that could have been a much larger paragraph . . .

Did "succinct" change meaning on me?

I meant that in the way that if the writer wanted to express all of those details, but in not such a weird way, it would have been wordier, with more sentences, and therefore less "succinct". The air quotes were there in spirit the first time around.

I think the author should consider the value of those details. I'm sleepier already.

Sometimes it's clear that it's not simply a matter of hitting F7.

The room was too small, that’s the first thing Castiel noticed when he pushed the wooden door open. It was to small for him, to small for two people.

With a sigh he doped his bags to the floor, looking at the beds on the right and left walls. One sported a maroon quilt and tan sheets, as well as a couple of pillows. The chest at the end of the bed was overflowing with clothes and other belongings. A poster for a band Castiel didn’t recognize hung on the wall. The bed to his left, his no doughtily was bare. No comforting pillows or blankets, no recognizable posters.

He sat on the edge of his bed, putting his hands over his pale face. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. He counted in his head until he got to 60, a minuet had past and he as okay, wasted he? He was still here, breathing, living. He probably did this to often; it was a way of keeping himself calm, put together.

No doughtily.

No diggity.