At least, I will be participating. The premise is as follows:
New proposition for a monthly challenge: No-Shame November, where we
all post the most self-indulgent fanworks we can muster and then pat
each other on the back for it. (And we realize how many other people
appreciate the same “shameful” tropes we do.) [x]And it doesn’t have to be filthy smut or anything like that–just anything that shamelessly caters to what you like. Maybe it’s really schmoopy found families doodles! Maybe it’s brutal whumpfic. Maybe it’s that time you filled your own kinkmeme prompt and then were too ashamed to post it. Anything goes as long as you’re into it, and share it without judging yourself or others.
Month: November 2016
Destiel, “It said my name.”
prompt #28 (x)
“Uh, Sam?”
Sam glances up from the trunk, elbow-deep in nine mil clips and empty ammo boxes. “Yeah?”
Dean’s crouched in front of the cooler they brought on the job, and now he lifts a bulging brown paper bag, The rolled top is pinched between two fingers like it’s rigged to blow or possibly toxic. He shakes it once.“The hell is this?”
“What?” Sam squints down at what he’s doing, then back up at the bag. “Did you pack us a lunch or something?”
Dean slowly rotates the bag so that the dark block printing on the other side shows. DEAN.
“Someone packed you a lunch,” Sam says, then knows exactly why Dean looks so spooked. “Oh.”
“It can’t have been her,” Dean says quickly. “It wasn’t there yesterday. I would have seen it.”
“Dean—”
“Mom—Mary wouldn’t have.”
“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “Have you, y’know. Opened it?”
Dean stares at him.
“Do you even know it’s food?”
“Fucking—” Dean fumbles open the bag and tips the contents out, trying to balance them all in the crook of his arm. “Yes! Look, it’s an apple, there’s a sandwich—”
And a note on a yellow post-it, one that flutters out of Dean’s grip and to the floor. He’s still trying to juggle all that plus chips and a baggie full of carrots, so Sam sets aside the last few boxes of bullets and steps around the car to grab it.
“‘Dear Dean,’” Sam reads as Dean drops the apple trying to grab the note from him. “‘I hope you have a good day today. P.S. Please buy more honey, you are out now.’”
They both look down at the distinctly gooey sandwich.
“There’s no signature,” Sam says, holding to note up. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say—”
“You don’t need to say fucking anything,” Dean says.
“Honey sandwich,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I wonder if that’s even—”
“Fucking. Anything,” Dean snarls, and stomps away.
Sam’s a nice guy and doesn’t verbally acknowledge Dean’s sticky fingers later in the day, but makes sure Dean notices him noticing. Dean hunches over the steering wheel and glares at the road, but somehow, Sam thinks he looks a little lighter.
kototyph 