Favorite DnP Tour Song Statistics
Settle round, little ducklings, do I have some statistics to share with you all!!
A grand total of 156 people participated in this survey, so thank you if you took the time to fill it out! 🧡
As a teaser, here’s a pie chart of the votes for your favorite song! We’ll be discussing this in depth in its own section but I know some of you f*ck vibe with pie charts more than the bar charts I use there…
To give you a clear vision of what we’ll be looking at, here are the categories of the upcoming analysis:
Phandometrics (community growth on a viewership & fandom scale)
Favorite Song (general)
Favorite Song vs. Phandometrics (the main hypothesis!)
Honorable Mentions (fun little quirks I noticed along the way)
Ready? Time to read on.
PHANDOMETRICS
Lag between year started watching -> year joined the phandom. This can be seen most obviously in the 2009-2015 portion of the graph, likely when the community was just building up. I went back to check individual points, and many people seem to join a year or two after starting to watch.
Three distinct peaks of phandom growth: 2015 (dnp popularity peak), 2019 (coming out), and 2023 (dnpg comeback, dnp renaissance). Pretty expected, but still cool to see!
The difference between the peaks when you look at viewership vs. phandom is interesting though! Especially 2019 seems to be a huge spike in viewership, but the phandom growth seems a little more gradual (maybe more people lurked at first, then joined the phandom in 2023 once they were more active?).
The 2012 peak is really interesting. Most popular year to start watching from this sample, apparently!
FAVORITE SONG
"The Internet is Here" won 51.3% of the votes... which didn't surprise me all that much. It's iconic, okay?
II is about half as popular, and beyond the song qualities themselves, I wonder if a contributing factor to this pattern could be its lack of availability as an officially released song.
I think Everything's Fine is so low partially bc I closed the poll before WAD released to prevent the recency effect from skewing the data. (Especially because I thought we were getting "Everything's Fine (Acoustic)" smh.)
FAVORITE SONG VS. PHANDOMETRICS
By era...
I had a hypothesis: based on the year you joined, which I now realize in my head wrongly equated with the year you were most active in, you'd be more biased towards the song of that era bc a) you were more likely to go to the tour or b) epic nostalgia hit.
Yeah, I was wrong.
When you group the eras you see that TIIH wins in almost every single group by a similar proportion to the total, which means this attitude is fairly evenly distributed amongst the phannies.
By year...
Separating by year, you begin to see that, hold up, the hypothesis could have some merit! In either 2017 or 2018 on both graphs, the II finale actually does win.
The super high TIIH votes bleeding in from 2015/2016 and from 2019 seemed to mask this pattern.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
I have no idea what happened here but both ways you slice it, Interactive Introverts was fighting for its life amongst the 2012 phannies???
We got three phannies that have been watching since 2009!! The fact that people have been sticking around so long (up to fifteen years!!! and this was only a sample of 156 of us!!!) is really heartwarming for me bc it's a testament to how strong of a community dnp have built their viewership to be.
At the end of the day, what can I say? That was a lot of statistics. I hope you enjoyed or took something away from this little survey. Lmk if you notice any other cool trends or have any theories on what the data means!
Thank you for listening to my yapping; have an orange heart.
🧡
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murder in the city
for @wincestwednesdays - blood
They've started dimming the bunker lights at night. More like a real place, that way, a motel or a house to squat in. The concrete floors are cold on Sam's bare feet. Still doesn't totally know his way around, but that's all right. There are plenty of long nights ahead to figure out the layout. Or maybe not that many. He's been trying not to think about it, but. Lot of long nights.
The infirmary, the gun range, the library. The kitchen, and the coffeepot, and the newspaper left on the island with a couple of obits circled in thick sharpie, and it's probably meant to be a distraction for him but it's probably a real job, too. Sam leans over to check it out but his eyes blur and he sinks to his elbows, and then puts his forehead down to his clenched fists. His mouth tastes like pennies. All the time now, practically. In his throat the urge to cough rises and he breathes very carefully through his nose because he just—doesn't want to. He doesn't want to have to.
A box of black Lipton appeared on the shelves, when he kept coughing and hasn't stopped. He heats water in the old-school steel kettle, leaning against the stovetop, his fingers shoved in to the soft part of his throat next to his windpipe. Like if he strangles himself maybe that horrible tickling urge won't creep in. He keeps his eyes closed and feels his pulse thump against his fingertips, slow and steady. Imagines a day sometime soon when that'll change. Either staggering and erratic or all-too-fast—like years ago, in those worse days, when there was no unexplained tea as a clumsy attempt at care, when the iron-taste riming his teeth was all his own fault.
If all this goes the way he expects, it'll be yet another broken promise. His ears ring. It takes a second to swim past that to realize that, no, it's the kettle, whistling. God, he's tired.
"You gonna make your tea or do I gotta do it for you, Miss Marple?"
He jerks, turns. "I—sorry. Didn't mean to wake you up."
"Unless you made me have to pee I think you're innocent, this time," Dean says, but not really smiling. He's wearing the robe he claimed, hands deep in the pockets. Squinting at Sam across the kitchen like there's something to see.
Sam turns and busies himself with the kettle. Splashing over the tea bag, pouring too fast so that it judders out of the spout, spattering the back of his hand. He hisses, and for the hissing he's punished with not being able to keep the cough down, and it stings, god—stings so bad, not that deep down-in-the-lungs coughing that feels like it's actually doing something, like the one time he got the flu and thought he'd turn inside out, but just—scratching, shredding, making his eyes water and his mouth fill with—
"Jeez, you're a safety hazard," Dean says, and he's right there, at Sam's side, taking the kettle away, a clatter of the steel somewhere, and then his hand heavy between Sam's shoulderblades. Warm, patient, while Sam hacks and shudders and tries to remember how to take breaths that feel clean. "Yeah, okay. Get it out."
There's no getting it out. Sam inhales very cautiously through his nose and doesn't say it, because that would be cruel, and it's too late or maybe early to get into that kind of fight. Especially when Dean's warm against him, and soft in that robe. His arm slides down around Sam's back, and Sam doesn't need help walking but he lets Dean take him over to the sink, and he leans down with his elbows on the porcelain rim and washes his mouth clean, spitting. With the lights low he hopes Dean can't see the color.
He sits with his back to the table and watches Dean move around the kitchen. His space, like the library's Sam's. Dean wipes up the spilled water and puts the kettle back in its place and glances at Sam, and then goes to the pantry shelf where he's got a bottle of bourbon stashed and pours a healthy glug into Sam's mug. "Seriously?" Sam says, and Dean shrugs and then pours another mug full of bourbon for himself, and brings both of them over to the table. He holds Sam's out to him handle-first and says, "It's medicine," and Sam smiles at him, too tired to do otherwise. Dean clunks his mug against Sam's, very carefully, and Sam winds the trailing string of the teabag over his knuckles and takes a sip, cautious. Hot, both temperature and alcohol, but sweet too. Might not really help but it feels good, and that's something, at least.
Dean waits for him to swallow, and then drinks his own mug down in a single shot. Grimaces into it, when it's empty. He looks as tired as Sam feels. Maybe more. Sam sits forward and sets his hand on Dean's hip, sorry in this—thin, entirely inadequate way. Knowing he'd make the same choice all the same. Dean licks his lips and sets his mug on the table by Sam's shoulder and then steps between Sam's knees, and Sam puts his forehead to Dean's sternum and holds Dean around the waist. Warm dark. His mouth tastes like bourbon now, at least.
Fingers through Sam's hair, carding it off the back of his neck. "You slept through the night once, this week?"
He takes a deep, careful breath. Raw over his raw throat. He's not supposed to lie, anymore. He promised. Dean's always asking Sam to make promises he'll be forced to break. "Once, I think," he says.
Dean sighs but doesn't call him out. Maybe he doesn't want to fight, either. Ever since they moved in here it's been—good. Better. Dean happy to have a home and Sam just—well, it doesn't matter. He leaves his forehead against Dean's chest and feels his breath rise and fall, his fingers tucked just barely inside the elastic of his boxers, holding on. Dean has a place, here, the safest place either of them has ever seen, and all this knowledge at his fingertips, and if Sam manages not to screw up these trials then it'll be—worth it. The world safer and Dean… he'll be okay, Sam thinks. In this bunker their family gave them. It's worth it, for that.
"Can't believe I got up for this sappy crap," Dean says, very quiet.
"Thought you said you had to pee," Sam says, muffled, and Dean says, "I can multitask," and then tugs on Sam's hair at the back so he's forced to tip his head and look up, and before he can say anything Dean dips down and kisses him, soft with a closed mouth, just—pressing close. When their lips part with barely a sound he holds there, his forehead against Sam's and their noses brushing and his breath coming slow against Sam's mouth. Steady rhythm, like a heartbeat. Sam's anchored his whole life to it more than once. He touches Dean's throat and then drags his fingertips down, hooking the collar of his t-shirt, feeling that empty space where he used to wear—but that doesn't matter, now. Dean's here. Nothing matters more than that.
"You're wearing my shirt," Sam says, fingers caught in the v-neck.
"Finders keepers," Dean says, and then lifts up, and tucks Sam's hair behind both of his ears, and looks at him, eyes low and tender in the dim. "Man," he says, soft, and Sam doesn't know why, but then Dean touches his chin with one thumb and says, in a more normal voice, "Finish your tea, princess, and then come back to bed, huh? Cold down there without the human space heater."
"Not exactly selling it with your icicle feet," Sam says, and Dean shrugs, smiling at him kinda one-sided, but then he leaves the kitchen, and Sam's left there, listening to him scuff along the hall until he can't. He sits with his mug in both hands, looking at nothing across the empty kitchen. Since the first red spot he's been composing a note, mentally. Trying to figure how he could say everything that's worth saying. He never ends up writing anything down. Nothing he can think of comes close.
He drinks his tea. Leaves the mug by the sink knowing it'll make Dean bitch at him in the morning. His mouth still tastes like metal. But then—when he goes to Dean's room, he gets into bed and puts his arm around Dean's waist and puts his nose to the soft buzz of hair at the top of Dean's spine, and Dean sighs and pushes back against him, and he's warm against Sam's whole body except for his toes that tuck in behind Sam's ankle, freezing, like he's done since Sam's earliest memories. His skin like ice and then warming slowly against Sam's. What more could Sam ask for.
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