The Destiel Noir Bang (DNB) is a mini-bang challenge based on film noirs, hardboiled fiction, and other moody crime stories. The minimum word count for Authors is 5,000 words. Artists will create one original artwork and one banner inspired by the fic they are paired with.
Big thanks to all the authors and artists who helped make this little bang a reality. Here are all the teams' and artists' contributions as well as the official Destiel Noir Bang collection on Ao3.
- Bette Davis Eyes by ValandraWrites and kingdumbass
- "The Postman Always Rings Twice" art by witchy_worm
- Code of Silence by FriendofCarlotta and rezal
- "Between bow legs" art by thestarsmakemedream
- "Suitcase getaway" art by thestarsmakemedream
- Winchester: Nightmare Investigator by bleuzombie and verobatto
- Who Framed Sam Winchester? by queerwerewolf and anyrei
This round of the Reverse Wild West Fest has 16 awesome artworks up for grabs, and author sign-ups are STILL OPEN! Claims Day is this Saturday the 11th at 3pm EST. It's not too late to get in there and write a fic for one of these awesome artworks!
This year's Noir Bang has come to a close so I wanted to take a moment to let you all know about another project I've undertaken, The SPN Reference Desk. The Reference Desk is a collection of guides written specifically with fan-fic authors and fan creators in mind and offers a deeper dive into certain topics than your normal fan wiki provides.
A handful of guides and screenshot photo dumps are available now with loads more to come. Follow for more and feel free to drop an ask or reply with your questions and suggestions!
âCigars? Cigarettes?â
When I turned, it was to come face to face with Dorian Gray. Unsurprisingly, he hadnât aged a day in about a decade or so. Now whether that was because he was a Lit, or that damned portrait⊠His cobalt blue eyes rivaled my own, although, if Iâm honest, his were always prettier. His curly blonde hair was coifed in a pompadour and his scarlet lips were curled in a hungry smile. He was dressed in a form-fitting pair of charcoal pants and an even tighter black t-shirt that left little to the queer imagination, carrying a tray of different smokes.
âDorian, what are you doing here?â
With a wistful, overly dramatic sigh, Dorian pouted his plush lips and said, âWorkâs been slow for those of us with a little more⊠culture.â Which meant with how many contemporary novels were capturing the attention of audiences, any Lits from the 19th century or earlier had to get creative to make a living. This suited Dorian, considering his nature. âBut Iâm still exquisitely tragic.â
With a soft laugh, I nodded, reveling in his beauty for a moment, although I was far too old for him now. âYeah, you are.â
The lights started to dim and a spotlight shined on the closed curtains. I caught Crowley in my peripheral vision, straightening his tie and sitting upright. He even pulled out a small bottle of cologne, spraying it against his neck. It reeked of licorice and cloves, the breath of a child that got into his fatherâs cigarette case.
I turned to Dorian with a bemused expression. âWhatâs with him?â
Dorian smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle on his pants with a shrug. âOh, Mr. Crowley never misses a night when Dean performs.â
âGot a thing for Lits, huh?â
At that, Dorian gave me a pointed look. âIf I recall, you did as well at one point.â
I cleared my throat and grabbed my drink, gulping down half of it at the implication, feeling a warmth at the memories that comment conjured. The crowd grew silent and the band could be heard from the pit, warming up their instruments. Then a familiar intro began, an infamously upbeat Cole Porter song that had been slowed down from a jazzy little jaunt to something sedated, steady, and sentimental. Just as a soft beat began, the curtains jostled and a leg popped out, bent at the knee in skin tight purple pants.
âWeâre all alone⊠No chaperone⊠Can get our number⊠the worldâs in slumber⊠â A sultry, deep voice sang in a pleasant register, masterfully turning jazz to a ballad. The curtains parted and revealed one of the most breathtaking creatures I had ever seen in my life.
âLetâs misbehaveâŠâ
- Who Framed Sam Winchester?
by @queerwolf79, art by @anyreiart
âHello?â A deep voice asks. âIâm looking for Dean Winchester. My name is Castiel Novak.â
The man stepping into my office is almost as tall as me and built like a brick shithouse. His eyes are hypnotically blue and if I was the kinda man who gave into romantic whims I could see myself getting lost in those eyes. His hair is dark and wild, like heâs just come from giving a blow job and someone used his hair to steer. Heâs ungodly hot and wearing the ugliest outfit Iâve ever seen. I almost wish Tinkerbell was here to make fun of it. Who wears a trench coat anymore? He looks like he walked out of a 40âs mob movie. I can tell immediately that the man is trouble.
See, Iâve been in this business long enough to know that the more boring someone looks, the more trouble they bring. And Castiel Novak makes beige look exciting. The guy looks like he gets off to spreadsheets.
God, what I wouldnât give to see what he looks like when he comesâŠ
Focus Dean. Focus.
I donât bother to move my boots off the desk as I draw in a lung full of smoke from my cigarette. I ainât trying to impress anyone. I stare as Castiel pushes open the door to my office, oversized trench coat flapping behind him, looking like filthy sex in the most boring wrapping. He looks adorable as he scowls at the chair in front of my desk. He looks like an angry kitten as he begrudgingly sits down.
âCan I help you with something chief?â I draw another drag from my cigarette. âPretty sure you donât have an appointment.â
- Winchester: Nightmare Investigator
by @bleuzombie, art by @verobatto-messy-art
I sadly didn't get to claim a fic in this bang but the lovely authors helped us out with a lot of awesome prompts. I draw two of it. This is the second one:
"Doesnât it bother you at all that youâre married?" / "What I want to know is, does it bother you?" Dean and Cas making a getaway with a suitcase full of money.
I honestly had so many idea for this one, I think I will draw multiple versions in the future.
@destielnoirbang
Check out my first illustration with another prompt. ;)
I sadly didn't get to claim a fic in this bang but the lovely authors helped us out with a lot of awesome prompts. I draw two of it. This is the first one:
"Cas, sitting at his desk, framed through Deanâs bow legs"
I don't know whose idea was this but I loved it in the minute I read it. So here it is. Cas is maybe a private detective or an accountant of a shady businessman or even has connection to the maffia? Who knows?
When he drew level, he chanced a glance over at the other man, who turned when he sensed that heâd become a subject of scrutiny.
Deanâs breath stopped in his throat. The manâs jaw was sharp as a word spoken in anger, his skin pale and clean-shaven. Long, graceful fingers played idly with one of the free Funtime Liquors matchbooks as he waited. His eyes promised mischief and mysteries. Dean wouldnât have been surprised to learn the man had just stepped out of a movie screen.Too late, he realized he was staring, and then only because the manâs plump lips had twitched slightly on one side.
Dean cleared his throat. âMerry Christmas,â he said.
âMerry Christmas to you too, officer,â the man returned.
Dean flinched, feeling caught out. Whoever the man was, he was clearly smart if plainclothes didnât fool him. âThat obvious?â he asked.
When Dean chanced another glance at the man, he was still looking back, humor glinting in his eyes. âItâs practically stamped on your forehead.â
Maybe Dean ought to have taken that for the dismissal it likely was, but the bit of humor in the manâs gaze felt almost akin to a smile. Most men wouldnât smile at someone they wanted gone.
âHavenât I seen you in a movie?â Dean tried.
The man dropped his head with a low, rough chuckle. Dean fought down a surge of embarrassment. A handsome man in a well-cut suit, five blocks from Graumanâs Chinese Theatre, where all the most glamorous Hollywood premieres took place? It wasnât too outrageous a guess.
Dean was about to tell the man ânever mindâ when he caught Deanâs eyes again and said, âItâs unlikely. Unless you happened to pay very close attention to Youth Number 3 in the opening scene of It Came From Saturn's Rings.â
âYou were in that?â Dean asked eagerly. This time, there was no fighting the heat on his face. He had a great weakness for science fiction movies, and he remembered seeing a screening of It Came From Saturn's Rings on opening night some three years back. Even working in Hollywood for as long as he had, heâd never stopped being a little starry-eyed about anybody whoâd graced the silver screen.
His question got him an interesting reaction: the manâs head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowing, the better to study Dean. For the first time, he seemed to put some actual stock in their conversation. âYouâve seen it?â
âYeah,â Dean confirmed, embarrassingly pleased to have found this patch of common ground between them. âIt was good.â
It hadnât been anything special, in truth, but the man was smiling in earnest now, one side of those plush lips curving up, and Dean thought heâd do just about anything to keep that smile going.
Here's my art for the @destielnoirbang! I wasn't able to get paired with a writer, but I chose to make art for the prompt, "A Destiel take on The Postman Always Rings Twice". I haven't actually seen the movie, but when googling I came across a concept art poster on Sotherbys (shown behind the cut) and thought it would be fun to do a Destiel version.
Thank you to the lovely @destielnoirbang for running such a fun bang, and for finding a way to include us unpaired artists!
Here's the original that I referenced. I tried to stay pretty true to the original, but wanted to change the crop to show Dean's face. It was so much fun to work in a bit of a different style and experiment with some new brushes!
He glides through the unseemly crowd like mercury in a lamplight, his footfalls barely whispering against the concrete beneath the murky cover of cigarette smoke and lust. The dim lights swaying overhead barely graze his face, shrouded beneath the shadow of a faded fedora. When it does, it reveals eyes of sapphire steel that create their own gravitational pull in this grimy joint.
Every voice hushes, and every whiskey-soaked gaze turns as he strides through the warren of illicit dealings and poker-faced cons. They know him, this enigma wrapped in a trench coat. They respect him â or perhaps they fear him. After all, his reputation precedes him. At the end of the dive bar, he gives a curt nod toward Crowley. A mere mortal by comparison but infamous in his ways, their alliance is an uncomfortable reality that sets my teeth on edge.
The dregs of my whiskey burn in my throat as I admit that Angelâs presence casts a long shadow over Castielâs sudden disappearance like thunderclouds, signaling an incoming downpour. I know one thing with certainty â unraveling Angelâs secrets was the key to finding Castiel, or it might pull me deeper into an ominous plot about to unfold.
- Bette Davis Eyes
by @valandrawrites, art by @kingdumbass
By queerwerewolf | @queerwolf79
Art by anyrei | @anyreiart
Coming to Ao3 on 12/27/2024
Rated Explicit | 29,180 words | No Archive Warnings Apply
Down-on-his-luck private eye Cas Novak gets hired by Angelic Studios president, Nick Vaught, to investigate a scandal involving an infamous literary character (Lit), Dean Winchester, and Vaughtâs primary nemesis, Fergus Crowley. A devilish producer and prop designer who has his hands in every movie studio in Los Angeles. Crowleyâs prop factory shares a wall with Lit Town, and worse yet, he owns the contract for every Lit. Every contract, that is, except for brothers Sam and Dean Winchester from the Supernatural book series.
When Crowley is found murdered, Sam Winchester becomes the primary suspect and goes on the run. The villainous Judge Edlund vows to catch and destroy Sam, having discovered a means of killing Lits with a substance known only as âPulpâ. Desperate to prove his brotherâs innocence, Dean demands Cas help him find his brother before the Judge does.
Despite vowing to never work with another Lit after his twin brother's murder, Cas agrees. With a contentious start to their working relationship, Dean Winchester and Cas Novak begin to uncover an ever growing nefarious plot. Can Cas and Dean put a stop to this evil ploy? And more importantly, will their attraction to each other get in the way of saving the day?
[Keep reading for a sneak preview!]
âCigars? Cigarettes?â
When I turned, it was to come face to face with Dorian Gray. Unsurprisingly, he hadnât aged a day in about a decade or so. Now whether that was because he was a Lit, or that damned portrait⊠His cobalt blue eyes rivaled my own, although, if Iâm honest, his were always prettier. His curly blonde hair was coifed in a pompadour and his scarlet lips were curled in a hungry smile. He was dressed in a form-fitting pair of charcoal pants and an even tighter black t-shirt that left little to the queer imagination, carrying a tray of different smokes.
âDorian, what are you doing here?â
With a wistful, overly dramatic sigh, Dorian pouted his plush lips and said, âWorkâs been slow for those of us with a little more⊠culture.â Which meant with how many contemporary novels were capturing the attention of audiences, any Lits from the 19th century or earlier had to get creative to make a living. This suited Dorian, considering his nature. âBut Iâm still exquisitely tragic.â
With a soft laugh, I nodded, reveling in his beauty for a moment, although I was far too old for him now. âYeah, you are.â
The lights started to dim and a spotlight shined on the closed curtains. I caught Crowley in my peripheral vision, straightening his tie and sitting upright. He even pulled out a small bottle of cologne, spraying it against his neck. It reeked of licorice and cloves, the breath of a child that got into his fatherâs cigarette case.
I turned to Dorian with a bemused expression. âWhatâs with him?â
Dorian smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle on his pants with a shrug. âOh, Mr. Crowley never misses a night when Dean performs.â
âGot a thing for Lits, huh?â
At that, Dorian gave me a pointed look. âIf I recall, you did as well at one point.â
I cleared my throat and grabbed my drink, gulping down half of it at the implication, feeling a warmth at the memories that comment conjured. The crowd grew silent and the band could be heard from the pit, warming up their instruments. Then a familiar intro began, an infamously upbeat Cole Porter song that had been slowed down from a jazzy little jaunt to something sedated, steady, and sentimental. Just as a soft beat began, the curtains jostled and a leg popped out, bent at the knee in skin tight purple pants.
âWeâre all alone⊠No chaperone⊠Can get our number⊠the worldâs in slumber⊠â A sultry, deep voice sang in a pleasant register, masterfully turning jazz to a ballad. The curtains parted and revealed one of the most breathtaking creatures I had ever seen in my life.
Rated Teen | 5,000 words | No Major Archive Warnings Apply
Dean Winchester is looking for a case. Heâs not looking for anything other than a cup of coffee. Until Castiel Novak walks in with eyes bluer than the ocean and a desperate need for his help. How can Dean say no?
[Keep reading for a sneak preview!]
âHello?â A deep voice asks. âIâm looking for Dean Winchester. My name is Castiel Novak.â
The man stepping into my office is almost as tall as me and built like a brick shithouse. His eyes are hypnotically blue and if I was the kinda man who gave into romantic whims I could see myself getting lost in those eyes. His hair is dark and wild, like heâs just come from giving a blow job and someone used his hair to steer. Heâs ungodly hot and wearing the ugliest outfit Iâve ever seen. I almost wish Tinkerbell was here to make fun of it. Who wears a trench coat anymore? He looks like he walked out of a 40âs mob movie. I can tell immediately that the man is trouble.
See, Iâve been in this business long enough to know that the more boring someone looks, the more trouble they bring. And Castiel Novak makes beige look exciting. The guy looks like he gets off to spreadsheets.
God, what I wouldnât give to see what he looks like when he comesâŠ
Focus Dean. Focus.
I donât bother to move my boots off the desk as I draw in a lung full of smoke from my cigarette. I ainât trying to impress anyone. I stare as Castiel pushes open the door to my office, oversized trench coat flapping behind him, looking like filthy sex in the most boring wrapping. He looks adorable as he scowls at the chair in front of my desk. He looks like an angry kitten as he begrudgingly sits down.
âCan I help you with something chief?â I draw another drag from my cigarette. âPretty sure you donât have an appointment.â
By FriendofCarlotta | @friendofcarlotta
Art by Rezal | @rezal-art
Coming to Ao3 on 12/13/2024
Rated E | 57,000 words | Graphic Descriptions of Violence
Hollywood, 1955: LAPD Officer Dean Winchester doesnât mind throwing a punch or fudging the evidence if it means getting wife beaters and cold-blooded criminals behind bars. That approach doesnât sit too well with his younger brother and colleague Sam, whoâs been making enemies at the LAPD with his straight-laced, by-the-book philosophy.
Between trying to keep up with the job and looking out for his brother, Dean doesnât have much time for happiness. Not until he meets Castiel, a handsome escort who is everything Dean never knew he wanted. Unfortunately, Castiel is also caught up in a criminal conspiracy that reaches far into the LAPD itself.
To expose the departmentâs corruption and save Castiel, Dean and Sam will have to put aside their differences â and reckon with a dark secret in their familyâs past.
[Keep reading for a sneak preview!]
When he drew level, he chanced a glance over at the other man, who turned when he sensed that heâd become a subject of scrutiny.
Deanâs breath stopped in his throat. The manâs jaw was sharp as a word spoken in anger, his skin pale and clean-shaven. Long, graceful fingers played idly with one of the free Funtime Liquors matchbooks as he waited. His eyes promised mischief and mysteries. Dean wouldnât have been surprised to learn the man had just stepped out of a movie screen.
Too late, he realized he was staring, and then only because the manâs plump lips had twitched slightly on one side.
Dean cleared his throat. âMerry Christmas,â he said.
âMerry Christmas to you too, officer,â the man returned.
Dean flinched, feeling caught out. Whoever the man was, he was clearly smart if plainclothes didnât fool him. âThat obvious?â he asked.
When Dean chanced another glance at the man, he was still looking back, humor glinting in his eyes. âItâs practically stamped on your forehead.â
Maybe Dean ought to have taken that for the dismissal it likely was, but the bit of humor in the manâs gaze felt almost akin to a smile. Most men wouldnât smile at someone they wanted gone.
âHavenât I seen you in a movie?â Dean tried.
The man dropped his head with a low, rough chuckle. Dean fought down a surge of embarrassment. A handsome man in a well-cut suit, five blocks from Graumanâs Chinese Theatre, where all the most glamorous Hollywood premieres took place? It wasnât too outrageous a guess.
Dean was about to tell the man ânever mindâ when he caught Deanâs eyes again and said, âItâs unlikely. Unless you happened to pay very close attention to Youth Number 3 in the opening scene of It Came From Saturn's Rings.â
âYou were in that?â Dean asked eagerly. This time, there was no fighting the heat on his face. He had a great weakness for science fiction movies, and he remembered seeing a screening of It Came From Saturn's Rings on opening night some three years back. Even working in Hollywood for as long as he had, heâd never stopped being a little starry-eyed about anybody whoâd graced the silver screen.
His question got him an interesting reaction: the manâs head tipped to the side, his eyes narrowing, the better to study Dean. For the first time, he seemed to put some actual stock in their conversation. âYouâve seen it?â
âYeah,â Dean confirmed, embarrassingly pleased to have found this patch of common ground between them. âIt was good.â
It hadnât been anything special, in truth, but the man was smiling in earnest now, one side of those plush lips curving up, and Dean thought heâd do just about anything to keep that smile going.
By ValandraWrites | @valandrawrites
Art by kingdumbass | @kingdumbass
Coming to Ao3 on 12/06/2024
Rated Explicit | 23,330 words | No Archive Warnings Apply
When Dean Winchester takes the case of a missing person named Castiel Milton, he doesnât realize he is stepping into a web of secrets, danger, and deceit. The dark alleys and smoke-laden gin joints become his hunting ground, and every lead points to a name whispered with equal parts reverence and dread: Angel.
In an era where love between two men is a dangerous secret best kept silent, Dean finds himself entwined with a blue-eyed beauty by an undeniable bond as dangerous as it is profound. The stakes are high, and with each layer of dirt they peel away comes more secrets. Love and loyalty are tested, and Dean and Castiel have to decide if they will risk defying the odds and carve out a path together amidst a world hell-bent on ripping them apart.
Or
The one where gumshoe Dean Winchester meets criminal Castiel âAngelâ Krushnic, and things do not go as planned.
[Keep reading for a sneak preview!]
He glides through the unseemly crowd like mercury in a lamplight, his footfalls barely whispering against the concrete beneath the murky cover of cigarette smoke and lust. The dim lights swaying overhead barely graze his face, shrouded beneath the shadow of a faded fedora. When it does, it reveals eyes of sapphire steel that create their own gravitational pull in this grimy joint.
Every voice hushes, and every whiskey-soaked gaze turns as he strides through the warren of illicit dealings and poker-faced cons. They know him, this enigma wrapped in a trench coat. They respect him â or perhaps they fear him. After all, his reputation precedes him.
At the end of the dive bar, he gives a curt nod toward Crowley. A mere mortal by comparison but infamous in his ways, their alliance is an uncomfortable reality that sets my teeth on edge.
The dregs of my whiskey burn in my throat as I admit that Angelâs presence casts a long shadow over Castielâs sudden disappearance like thunderclouds, signaling an incoming downpour. I know one thing with certainty â unraveling Angelâs secrets was the key to finding Castiel, or it might pull me deeper into an ominous plot about to unfold.
Promo posts for this year's Destiel Noir Bang begin posting this Friday, November 1st! I'm super excited for all of you to get your first glimpse at the amazing art and fics we have coming in December.
