Roundtable #3: The Non-Traditional H/C Case!Fic (& microfiction workshop)

[hoodietime.livejournal.com]

Our third themed roundtable discussion! :) As part of our on-going themed challenge this month, which highlights case!works, let's talk shop. It's time to take the plunge and get our hands dirty. Are you ready to workshop? :D

Here we go:

We all know what H/C is. We all know what a case!fic is. But is there more than one way to put the two together? What are the fringes of these categories, and that if your H/C case!fic took up its noble duties there? That is, how ~weird can your case!fic get? XP

I think sometimes we balk (at least, I do!) at the idea of case!fic because it seems to entail this extensive, long, extremely plot-driven story that involves like, planning and research and writing a lot. And often, they do! Often, case!fic tends to be Big Bang long, and does involve a little more writerly rigor than banging out an (also awesome) 300k fic about Dean with a fever. But if the long case!fic odyssey isn't your jam, that totally doesn't preclude you from the fun and games! With the right amount of focus and a dash of heavy implication, you could probably write an H/C fic in a single sentence.

Think about Ernest Hemingway's now famous six-word story: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn." If I were going to tag this story on an H/C comm dedicated to Random Hemingway Babies instead of Dean, just those six words could potentially be tagged with grief, death, ptsd, emotional damage…

Hell, if I add a few more words ("Serious buyers only; won't ship outside quarantine.") then we could probably argue that this little fic is also [genre» other: croatoan ‘verse] or [genre» other: dark/horror], exposure, infection, transformation, and heaven knows what else!

...This poor baby! It didn't even have shoes on! Now it's possibly a zombie and wreaking horror at Camp Chitaqua! But I couldn't help myself; it was so easy. And also evil. Easy evil. :P

Since we're now headed into Case!Works month proper, with 25 days left on the clock, I thought it'd be nice to get those creative juices flowing in earnest. Let's freestyle today and make this post a space for a little bit of everything:

• Can you think of any 'non-traditional' case!works you've read, seen, or created? Something that was very much a case, and very much H/C, but doesn't really follow the usual episodic format we typically associate with case!fics?
  
• Favorite short H/C case!fics? 1500 words? 500 words? 100 words?
  
• Or, alternately, case!art scribbles? 30 second vids? Something else entirely?
  
• Or maybe there aren't examples out there yet. Definitely feel free to discuss the vast world of hypothetical H/C.
  
• Orrrrrr… are you ready to write/draw some right now? :P Wanna write a case!fic in a drabble, or draw one in a doodle?

Both recs and self-recs welcome!

Make this post your playground! Low pressure, rough draft status, 'I wrote/drew this in 30 seconds okay' stuff totally 100% welcomed and adored.

(And for every piece you share, you might even get something short and sweet in return~ :3)

➽ This post was compiled by kalliel and is posted under this account for organizational purposes.

Comments

IT'S HAIKU O'CLOCK

[kalliel]

Sam sees him. He knows
Dean's gone under. Sole reason
Dean kicks, swims back up.

Re: IT'S HAIKU O'CLOCK

[tifaching.livejournal.com]

Drowning. Lake, bottle
what's the difference? Sam
can save him from one.

Dean on a hunt with Tracy Bell. Post 9x11.

[kalliel]

I don't get him. We're working and he's still moonlighting--there's a temp position open: Town Drunk. Whiskey sours. Kind of girly, but they're Darla's special, and I know he's mostly drinking them for her. (It's working. She loves him.)

Still. I could be the shifter for all he knows. It's stupid, to be like that. We're working.

I approach.

He regards me sloppily--oh, great--but he slaps me on the shoulder, like one of the guys. His touch is cold; there are new rings on his fingers.

Silver. And I see; he is armed to the teeth with silver.

"Tracy, do us a solid, take a picture of us?" He lurches closer to Darla, or Darla's rack, and hands me his phone. Garbles something about sending it to his brother, which I know is a lie.

Darla beams at me, pixelated. Her eyes pearl over.

Of course they do.

I snap, hand the phone back. Shift's over; Dean and Darla are "gettin' someplace private" now. Dean pockets the phone. When he draws his hand back out, he has a knife. Darla doesn't see it.

Darla's not long for this world.

I don't follow.

I stay, and drink the rest of Dean's whiskey sour.

I should leave.

I'm shaking.

I should leave.

When Dean sees that picture, he'll know I'm gone for good. Because Darla's eyes, yeah--they're pearls. She's the shifter. Fine.


But Dean's pooled black.

Re: Dean on a hunt with Tracy Bell. Post 9x11.

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

First person POV ♥ My heart rejoices! I love the surreal, after-hours feel of this.

Re: Dean on a hunt with Tracy Bell. Post 9x11.

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is awesome. Creepily plausible. ♥

Re: Dean on a hunt with Tracy Bell. Post 9x11.

[caranfindel.livejournal.com]

Aaasssaahhhhhh!

Short H/C case!fic rec - "And I Won't Sympathise Anymore" by fleshflutter

[kalliel]

This one's pretty classic. At 1500 words, it's short for a case!fic. It's also awesome and awesomely devastating: And I Won't Sympathise Anymore by fleshflutter. Stanford!era. Dean calls Sam while he's in the middle of a hunt.--extenuating circumstances. (Twist ending!)

Excerpt:

"There are three of them," the old woman says, while Dean just stares. "I gave them all the same face – it seemed to be the only genuine thing about you."

She smiles as Dean backs up a step. His shotgun isn't even levelled at the nearest of the men. He's just staring. She nods approvingly.

"Yes. That's right. They're going to kill you, you know. And you're going to let them.

Re: Short H/C case!fic rec - "And I Won't Sympathise Anymore" by fleshflutter

[tifaching.livejournal.com]

Oh, man. I had not read that before and it was really twisty. That's not whose face I thought would be on the monsters. Thanks for the rec.

[kalliel]

I sort of brought this up in one of the other roundtables, but I'm really curious about doing a case!fic, but only writing the connecting scenes, and skipping all of the classic main moments you'd usually write to move a fic forward. Maybe it's from Sam's POV and Ezekiel takes over for these crucial snatches of time or something. (Look! Style and plot playing nice with each other! XD) And to make it Dean H/C instead of Sam/Ezekiel H/C, uhhhhh, well. Hell, anything could happen to Dean. And if Ezekiel was really taking over all of that time, either things are really bad and the case didn't just go south, it started south, or he's there to give Dean guilty trauma. :DD

[philomathical.livejournal.com]

Gosh, I'd love to read that fic. :D

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

I want to know who's gonna write the Croatoan baby-shoe fic. :D

BUT I WANT THIS TOO. Seriously, anything could happen to Dean.

death!fic at 2 am. (or, insomnia, you crazy bitch.)

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

Boiceville: ghost town, jagged-sharp row of buildings and all windows cracked like rotted teeth.

The air disturbs needle-grass yellow and lifeless as corpses. The lake is made bloody by the sun but you can’t see the lake from the ruins of the Trident. You can’t see anything except the gaping windows, concrete peeling off reinforced steel, splintered staircases and blackened walls.

Shreds of curtains flutter in the foyer. The wind brushes fingers over the crooked teeth of a broken piano.

Do re mi fa so la—

***

Sam, you have to wake up.

I’ve lost my gun, Dean. I can’t find my gun.

What do you need a gun for? They’re ghosts. You have the salt? Sam. Sam, you have to wake up, I can hear those bastards, they’re taking the stairs. They’re coming to you. Sam, please—

There’s no one there, Dean, I can’t hear anyone. Don’t worry about me. We’re okay—they can’t get us.

Please, Sam, it’s dark here. You have my lighter? Where did my lighter go? Where are you? I can’t see you. You need to wake up.

I hear them now, Dean. They sound like bells.

***

Boiceville: ghost town, jagged-sharp row of buildings and all windows cracked like rotted teeth.

Something’s been luring kids out here. At the basement of the Trident lie their collected bones. No one came for them and here they are forever, scattered and divining a dead-ended future.

***

Sam, it’s dark, I—

Yes, it’s dark, it’s because you’re down there. Come back up here to me. The windows are crowded over with rubble down there, the sun can’t get in. Come back up here, Dean.

Sam, why am I down here? Oh, fuck—the ghosts. Can you hear them now? Do you still have the salt? I don’t have anything with me, and it’s so dark, what am I doing down here?

It’s because you fell, Dean. You’re in the dark because you fell.

I fell—

I told you this building was condemned. Dean, I can hear them, they’re at the door, I don’t have my gun—

You don’t need a gun. Throw a match down here, Sammy. Light it up, and throw it down here. Throw it down to me. I’ll catch.

Dean—

I fell, they can’t get me now. What were we doing? I was standing in the room with you—

They sounded like bells, Dean, the ghosts—

—you said something, Sam, what was it you said, you said something—

—goodbye—

—goodbye.

***

Boiceville: ghost town, jagged-sharp row of buildings and all windows cracked like rotted teeth.

The wind rushes through the Trident, forever silent as a morgue.

-fin

Re: death!fic at 2 am. (or, insomnia, you crazy bitch.)

[tifaching.livejournal.com]

Gah! And that's a good Gah! by the way. Creepy and effective.

Re: death!fic at 2 am. (or, insomnia, you crazy bitch.)

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

Ooh, awesome. *shiver*

Re: death!fic at 2 am. (or, insomnia, you crazy bitch.)

[kalliel]

Re: death!fic at 2 am. (or, insomnia, you crazy bitch.)

[ruby-jelly.livejournal.com]

Whoa! Well, that works! "shudder"

i just really like poisoning okay XP

[kalliel]

Sam creases his shirt until the dark spots crack, and he scrapes at the ridges with his nails, a rusty film collecting at his cuticles. If he beats it hard enough, the splatter might dull to a less conspicuous brown. He resolves then and there to choose a busier pattern next time they swing through a thrift store.

"You good in there?" Sam calls, when the water stops running.

Dean looks overheated when he emerges, a febrile tinge to his cheeks. His movements are careful. But he seems resigned to riding this out, not defeated by it. Not yet. "Did we--" he asks.

"No," says Sam. "No, we have to go back."

They have to go back. Dean shrinks visibly, as though somehow, if he's smaller, he'll be able to economize. Energy's at a premium.

Fuck, Sam thinks, as he reads Dean. Fuck, and fuck.

"Hey." Dean's voice is a little too loud. He's been reading Sam, too. "Sammy, we're good. I mean, you can only get poisoned once, right?"

It's way off; Dean's way off, and Sam's not sure if it's a symptom, or just Dean being an idiot. Because no one should have gotten poisoned at all.

And Sam knows--he knows: If things get bad, they're definitely gonna get worse.

So fuck. Fuck and fuck.

"You He-Manning this case or what? Put a shirt on--time's a wasting, Sammy--"

Which, great, Dean's rocking the mindless chatter; but there's an anxious shudder to it, and there's a whole lot of anxious pent up in all those "Sammys."

Sam grabs a shirt.

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

"Help me?"

The voice comes from somewhere in the vicinity of Dean's knee. He turns the beam of his flashlight downwards, illuminates a little circle of wide eyes and grime-smeared face.

"Please? Before the creepy lady comes back?"

The kid can't be more than seven or eight. She's huddled into the gap under a rotting workbench, one skinny arm curled around her knees, the other held out in front of her. Wrists rubbed raw and fingernails bloodied. God knows where she had to claw herself free from.

Dean sinks to his knees; pulls off his shirt to wrap around the kid's bleeding hands, grits his teeth against the damp cold seeping through his t-shirt.

"Come on," he says, "let's get you out of here," and the kid smiles at him like he's Santa and Batman and the Fairy freaking Godmother rolled into one.

----

Sam sees Dean first, leaving the house with this kid latched onto his hand, saying something to her that Sam's too far away to hear.

They didn't hear anything about a missing kid in town.

Dean doesn't make for the Impala; he's heading in the opposite direction, for the treeline and the pit-black shadows that pool in the woods. At Sam's shout, he turns, frowning, looking around him like he's not exactly sure why he's doing what he's doing.

And something flashes in the kid's eyes, crackling like TV static. She tugs at Dean's hand. "Don't let him hurt me!"

That's when Sam figures it out. The connection between the other vics.

The Lathams: tens of thousands of bucks on fertility treatment, and still no kids. Dr Chang: an oncologist who watched her husband slowly eaten away by cancer over three excruciating years and endless rounds of painful chemo. Tommy Sims, who'd been talking to his stillborn twin sister since he was old enough to talk. (His mom, turning a framed school photograph over in her hands. He was smiling in it, eyes looking off to the side. I heard him, through the bedroom door. He said he had a place to go, that the mean kids wouldn't pick on them anymore. I worried, of course I did, but I never thought--)

They were looking for a something to connect the victims, but there wasn't anything. That's why they kept coming up blank. It was the absences; the things they wanted but didn't have, or didn't have anymore. Someone to protect.

Sam levels his gun. "Get away from her, Dean."

Dean opens his mouth, but the protest never makes it out, and his expression just goes straight from what the fuck to resigned, like, yeah, he should've figured. It's worse for how quick it is.

Cruel to be kind, Sam tells himself, and then he wonders how many times a week Dean has that thought, and he feels kind of sick.

But he shoots, and he doesn't miss.

----

"You want me to drive?" Sam asks, since that's about all the you okay? Dean will ever accept.

Dean's scowl and the way he throws himself into the driver's seat of the Impala are the extent of his answer.

Sam watches him until Dean snaps at him to stop it, dude, you're getting worse'n Cas and turns the stereo on at eardrum-bursting volume. Sam doesn't complain, and when they get back to the motel, he heads out on a beer run without being asked, leaves Dean to bury how shaken he is deep down, paste his too-jaded-to-care facade back on.

It's about all he can offer, but he offers it anyway. One thing Dean seems to forget about cruel to be kind; it works better when you show a little kindness.

[kalliel]

"Don't know what's worse." It surfaces out of silence, which has gone cold now, and thick. He offers no context; it's just an alienated thought, like so many of Dean's are.

"What," says Sam, and builds a bridge. That much he can do. But Dean goes quiet again.

"Come on, Dean."

No, quiet isn't the word; it is too soft a word, too giving. Dean's not quiet, just stubborn. They're almost strangers to each other now, in a way that Sam refuses to like but already half-accepts.

Five months ago, Dean was dead, and Sam had just found Ruby. Apparently you can cheat death, but you can't erase it, not really.

"Worse than what, Dean?" Sam says, and tries to build a better bridge.

Dean tests the suspension. "Kids," he says. Jobs that involve kids. Dean's not sure whether it's worse trying to save them, and being afraid you're gonna fuck up, or having to kill them, because you already have.

"She wasn't our fault."

Dean looks at Sam. It's a strange look, and Sam knows he's missing something. The whole train of thought is an odd fixation; these are exactly the kinds of things Dean won't think about. But there's traffic, and Sam is distracted, and he's trying to build bridges. He doesn't care what's on either side, so long as they're connected.

Sam's cell phone vibrates in his pocket; and it's not Dean, so it must be Ruby. He'll call back.

"She wasn't."

Dean's still looking at him. Sam sees now why Dean finds the practice to unnerving. "What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks finally, and twitches in the driver's seat.

"Dean, what's that supposed to mean?"

[kalliel]

Dean opens his mouth, but the protest never makes it out, and his expression just goes straight from what the fuck to resigned, like, yeah, he should've figured. It's worse for how quick it is.

Omg. D; Heart-rending, but I absolutely love what you did right there. <3

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

Oh, this is wonderful. ♥

even more random, psycopathy!scruff, some time post 9x12

[kalliel]

"Did you have to shave in Purgatory?" Sam asks. He's forgone more subtle inquiries, having found they are not worth the effort. He hasn't brought up Purgatory in months, but they're hunting a vampire, so he figures why not.

He asks, because he cannot imagine his brother bearded. The man in front of him, his partner on this case, this stranger, is definitely headed down that path. There are other things, too; it's not like Sam has a scruff fixation or anything. Small savage tics. Raw edges.

Warning signs, Sam supposes. The suggestion of bad things gone worse. They're still on recon, haven't even started the hunt, really, but Sam can almost taste the bloodlust in Dean. But that kind of shit, Sam's not even sure how to think about it anymore. So he keeps it simple and asks about shaving. Whatever.

Dean catches on anyway. Earth starts acting like Purgatory, he guarantees Sam'll see something new outta him, and this ain't it.

"I'm fine."



"Well, did you?"

Re: even more random, psycopathy!scruff, some time post 9x12

[anactoria.livejournal.com]

Oh, love this, the distance between them here.

(And that always bothered me no end with the purgatory stuff. How come Cas has a beard but Dean doesn't?)

don't try their pie! (kinda Sam/Dean)

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

Sally Moore’s is the place you want to be, if you’re passing through13th Mile. It’s got atmosphere. Hunting trophies nudging each other for comfort, ranging from grizzly to some variety of a big cat; whisky-stained counters; friendly townsfolk who’ll point you to the interstate and also buy you a beer. Sally’s hands are blood-red from the 13th Mile’s World-Famous Beet she puts in her pies, but she’s a good sort. Works hard, grows her own beets, wins medals from the Mayor that she wears on her belt.

“And you gotta try her pies, man. Swore a beet pie’s not gonna win me over, but there you go. World’s full of surprises.”

The stranger is in his mid-twenties: dark hair curling wetly on the nape of his neck. He’s wearing a shirt with the collar turned up, like he pulled it on too quick, and didn’t have time to check himself in a mirror. He’s all right though. Nice hair, nicer ass. Soft worried eyes, like he can’t remember something important. Lips stained a little red, so maybe he’s already had a slice of that pie Dean’s been recommending. He’s got a book open in front of him, something like a journal, but he’s barely skimming it.

“You here on business? My brother and I, we’re just passing through. Going hunting, yeah?”

Small smile. The stranger is fiddling with his car keys, scratching initials into the counter. Dean can make out a D. The kid has long, spidery fingers, the little one a bit crooked from some childhood accident. Poor boy’s expression is woebegone, somehow endearing. Dean pats him on the shoulder.

“Hey, man. Let me buy you a beer, okay? This town, they make their own. It’s phenomenal.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Huh?”

"Your brother, the one you’re hunting with. Where is he?”

“Back at the motel, I guess. A bit of a bookworm, that one, but he’s a good kid. Hey, my name is Dean. You wanna tell me yours?”

The kid’s hand clenches around the keys. “Sam. My name is Sam.”

Re: don't try their pie! (kinda Sam/Dean)

[kalliel]

I love this, and especially the beets. Because while there is nothing so comforting and homespun as a good beet dish, doing literally anything with beets also kind of makes your kitchen look like a murder scene, and you a gory psychopath, ahaha. /O\

And the intriiiiigue~!

Camp Chitaqua Angst!

[stripeypirate.livejournal.com]

(I wrote this right off the top of my head *hides*)

Sadie Miller was the first. She he'd been a librarian from Rochester with a passion for horticulture. Three days after they'd set up camp, she'd taken a quiet stroll down to the lake , where she made a bed of codium fragile deep beneath the surface.

Terry Johnson was next. After a supply run the fire lying dormant in his blood exploded and he tore a hole in his roommate's neck before anyone could stop him.

Dean stopped counting after Lyla. He can still see her pale face sometimes, stretching out bloody hands towards him. Her eyesocket as glaringly empty as her smile. That one, if anything, was on him. In the midst of all the croats and the hunger and the notthinkingaboutsam, he'd let his guard down. Forgotten everything his dad told him, the fundamental rules of hunting that should've come as natural as breathing.

Lyla's brother paid the price.

The next day, the families wailed at the torn earth and absent bones. Dean blamed wild dogs.

Winter was a relief. At least when the ground grew hard and cold, it became easier to convince folks to burn their loved ones.

Re: Camp Chitaqua Angst!

[indiachick.livejournal.com]

OMG, the LAST LINE. ♥ This is wonderful.