fic in hole

eggs in purgatory (published 2025) is a supernatural (tv) companion story comprised of over 12 meals.

praise for the work:

by @sharedblood: “I really enjoy that even though the narrative in the show is heavily skewed on dean’s experience through plot lines, it feels like you rip open the ribcage of the hidden world of sam’s experience, fully immersing us in the horrors of a destabilized relationship with one’s body, one’s perception of their own experiences and with time, where methods of coping don’t work and there are no answers to questions that grind on the foundation of one’s connection to reality.” / “a work that swallows you and puts you in the stomach to show you how alive hunger is.” / “[this story] moved me greatly because I could see myself and my own fear and was not compelled to immediately look away.”

by @peanutbutterandbananasandwichs: “that [bleakness] really is something you do so well, that deep, unnerving, ever-present undercurrent of tension and melancholy, which is so defining of Season 8 to me.”

eggs in purgatory, sept 2025:

START: Sam stares across the table at Dean’s untouched bowl of chili as he slides his spoon through the congealing remnants of his own, the twin weights of Kevin’s bygone distress through the phone and Dean’s surging anger from the couch sitting so heavy in Sam’s chest that he can’t remember how he’d breathed just a day ago, before Dean had blown a hole in the universe and climbed in through it, as unimpeded by death as he’d ever been. END: These days, he doesn’t always recognize the freak that stares back.

criminal image of you, june 2025:

START: Claire is fucking bored. END: Before she releases him, she takes a shaky breath and whispers, “Good luck.”

malaise-era engineering, jan 2025:

START: Dean is gentler with his baby after the crash. END: Despite himself, he can’t help but beam when he adds, with so much stupid pride it’s coming out of his gills, “My girl’s got a mouth on her.”

cut to the chase, oct 2024:

START: Sam’s frayed voice has been ricocheting around Dean’s head for hours now; his words lost to the heat of the moment but his desperate, clawing fury keeping Dean bleeding in the dark of his absence. END: And suddenly, the decision feels easy.

scapegoat ceremony, may 2024:

music: snippet of “asphyxiate” by genitorturers.

criminal image of you (published 2025) is a supernatural (tv) companion story that challenges the concept of the “found family.”

43) Is there a trope or idea that you’d really like to write but haven’t yet?

unmm. I don’t concern myself too much with tropes anymore but in terms of broader ideas I would like to someday focus on fleshing out the angels; they are such a glaring narrative weakness in the canon overall which is irresistible to me. like everyone else I would want to incorporate true forms but there would have to be a point to them besides Cool Description Of Tremendous Creature which is too tempting to do just for the sake of doing it lol. this would no doubt be wrapped into cas character fix-it if I ever make it there. also GADREEL POV! shamefully underexplored by the fans as are most other things tbf. the idea that is most likely to materialize next if at all is the rowena character study I’ve mentioned here and there, ft backstory exploration and her relationships with crowley, sam, dean, probably also lucifer since I hated the canon’s handling of that during initial rewatch. this would take a Lot of work however - genuinely don’t know if I’m up for it.

51) Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

hi adi!! 🥰 fyi last bit made me go “HEEHEE” out loud like a cartoon chipmunk

16) Do you write by hand, on your phone, or on your laptop?

the vast majority of the time I am writing on my phone! when I first got into fic-writing I used to do notes app but I got paranoid about my writing being backed up places I didn’t want it backed up, so I tried various other writing apps. and then I had a bad data loss experience one year that made me switch to google docs permanently lol. I do periodically get on desktop as I’m writing but that is primarily for making Clinical tweaks to stuff I’ve already written as opposed to first-drafting which flows so much easier when I’m writing on mobile bc I’m so accustomed to doing it like that. I also do all my final edits on desktop. this is the most stressful and time-consuming part of the process so I guess I don’t want to feel as Relaxed as I do on mobile while I’m doing it.

33) Is there a specific word count that you hold yourself to/enjoy writing the most?

in general no - I’m prepared for the work to be as long as it needs to be and am happy (despite my usual griping abt wanting to be done lol) when I end up having more to write than I expected to, because I am not typically a longfic writer; I like saying more with fewer words. I did used to subconsciously maintain like 6k-8k as my minimum word count for a “substantial” fic project but I have in recent years changed how I feel about that. I think you can do so much with just 1k words, for example. getting better at writing has made me more flexible about a lot of things that I used to have arbitrary rules about. I do still enjoy writing shorter stories more even though longer stories are more fun for me to read bc as the writer it’s easier for your messaging to get away from you the more you try to do with it. more spaces for weaknesses to show through 😭

62) In [insert fic], is there a deleted scene/idea you wish you could have included? Why did it get cut?

ok so fun fact about “Criminal Image of You” - there was actually quite a lot that got cut lol. not as in stuff I wrote, but as in stuff I had planned to write (and even outlined in detail) that I ended up deciding was extraneous. I do wish I had gotten to incorporate kaia more heavily - not to the extent that I had originally planned bc again, too much for this particular story - but maybe a few more allusions to her. I do still eventually want to work with her and claire and jack because the canon and “wayward sisters” in particular fumbled them so hard.

you don’t have to do all of them if you don’t want to

22) Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

it varies :) I have done all 3, though After and During in that order are most common. my favorites are the titles that came to me early on because I was following some thread during research that led me to an enjoyable phrase that I felt captured the Heart Of The Work effectively. I used to really hate picking titles but I like the challenge now. re: “how do you come up with them” - I just start googling shit 😭 sometimes picking through songs, sometimes picking through quotes. common for me to write out a ridiculous list of title options and bold the ones that feel best until I get the right one. sometimes I don’t even need the list though. e.g. I landed on “Malaise-Era Engineering” very easily because I was looking thru various articles about the US auto industry and I’m pretty sure I saw some car enthusiast (in a forum maybe) make an offhand comment about the design of malaise era cars. so of course I needed to learn exactly what those were lol. excellent name.

24) How do you choose whose POV to write in?

I love this part 🥰 it depends on what I want to accomplish with the piece. do I want to flesh out an individual character’s POV to its fullest extent. do I want to comment on an imbalanced relationship between two characters through them both. do I think portraying an event that harms one character through the limited/biased perspective of a character close to them would be more interesting than portraying its psychological effects on them directly through them. do I want to make one character really big and the other really small. do I want the reader to view familiar characters through an impartial outsider. do I want the reader to challenge themselves by sticking close to a character they might not have previously cared about as much as our protagonist(s). etc!

78) What motivates you during the writing process?

Stay, Dad’s eyes say as he treats Sam to a parting glance before he disappears through the doorway, his smoke and leather reuniting with the shadows beyond Sam’s walls.

Come, Dean’s eyes say, for a brief, stuttering second - before his head swivels in Dad’s direction as ever, and the clouds in his stare are interrupted by the awful light of his conviction.

“You gotta tell him, Dean,” Sam says, anchoring himself to the fraying hem of his brother’s shirt before he can get whisked away in Dad’s wake. “You gotta tell him I’m ready. I’m strong now.” But Dean’s eyes are glass marbles and Dean’s smile is a slippery thing and Dean is bending to press a perfunctory kiss to Sam’s cheek that burns like the end of a cigarette.

“Sure are, Sammy,” he says, unintentionally mean, and then the doorway eats him whole, too.

Sam parts the age-spotted drapes and watches Dean climb into the restless car, watches the streak of the tail lights and the fog of exhaust it coughs up as it trundles out of the empty lot. Then he locks and chains the door, and checks the salt lines and the sigils, and counts off the guns and knives, and adds the twenties Dad had wordlessly handed him to last month’s emergency stash.

Stay, Sam tells himself, because Dad is always right.

Come, the trees whisper to Sam through his walls, because maybe, just maybe, Dad isn’t.

x

“Y’hear what that motherfucker said to me?”

“Dad - ”

“Thinkin’ he can dump his unwanted advice in my lap after - ”

“Come on, Dad.”

“ - watchin’ Sammy one time for fifteen bucks and a camshaft replacement. Smug, entitled, overreaching piece of… ”

Sam presses his cheek to the car’s warm window and shuts his eyes, trying in vain to push his family’s voices out of his body. There’s still chlorine in his nose and water sticking Dean’s flannel to his skin because Dad had stormed onto the scene and practically yanked Sam out of the pool, fingers rough and voice the kind of authoritarian bark that made strangers gape at them like they were diseased.

“You don’t ever do that again,” Dad says, his voice craning around to strike Sam in the back seat. “You don’t go anywhere with anyone unless I say you can. Got it?”

Sam keeps his eyes stubbornly shut, tears stinging against his lashes, anger burning in his throat.

“Yessir,” he mutters.

“Speak up, Sam,” Dean says, doing Dad’s bidding so effortlessly, so instinctively.

“Yes,” Sam grits out, “Sir.”

That night, Sam says to Dean, “I really fucking hate the car. Sometimes I want to scratch it up. Or stab the air out of the tires.”

On a lifeless night deep in October, Dean crashes through the door of the bungalow they’ve been squatting in and sets the foyer abuzz with his grating breaths, his boots heavy on the stained vinyl, one of the weapons fitted against his back or his thighs emitting a metallic chirp as he trips and accidentally assaults the entryway table that Dad’s stubbed his toe on at least twice. Dean’s kicking it, then, over and over, vicious, cussing so hard he’s panting with it.

Sam is still adjusting to the shock of Dean’s red-hot presence, filling the whole house in a split second, so it takes him a moment too long to slide off the kitchen counter; to lose his spot in his book and put his hands up cautiously and say, Dean, Dean, Dean, what happened? What’re you doing?

The trinket bowl had thudded to the floor as Dean whaled on the poor table, and he’s picking it up now, flinging it with all his might in the direction of the door. It shatters on the edge of the jamb, and Sam winces and ducks instinctively, hands trembling over his head as the shards scatter over the floor.

Fuck! The word punches through Dean’s throat, his voice raw like he’d been screaming all night - Sam’s only just noticed - and he stretches it into an awful multisyllabic howl, his voice finally guttering out as he drops to his knees and buries his fingers in his hair, his entire body juddering with stifled sobs.

Dean, Sam tries to say, but he’s too scared now, tears spilling down his cheeks, heart twisted into a painful knot, pulsing erratically around the usual question. Where’s Dad? Where’s Dad? Where’s Dad?

Right on cue for once, Dad enters the scene, the smells of the damp night creeping in with him as he leaves the door hanging open, the straggler crickets in the dying bushes outside keening mournfully. Sammy, Dad says, pulling out his emptiest smile, setting his gun on the abused table with a meaningful thunk. Go to your room.

Dad - Sam starts, swaying to him, stopping when he notices that he’s standing funny, tilted to one side like a house with a bad foundation. Something’s wrong with his right leg, a bulbous knot of fabric encasing his knee, the denim around it drenched black for at least three inches in every direction. Dad sighs, drags himself over to Sam with a patience that rarely makes itself known, Dean still crying in Sam’s periphery. He puts a hand in Sam’s hair, his skin rank and gritty, then thumbs at the wetness on Sam’s cheeks, leaving traces of the woods behind, prickling in concert with his remaining tears.

S’okay, Dad says, leaving his palm on Sam’s shoulder for a beat. Had a couple close calls, is all.

Sam swallows, staring up into his shadowed face in case the truth decides to peek out. Is Dean…?

He’ll be fine. Dad nods his head in the direction of Sam’s room, retracting his fingers and starting towards Dean instead. Go, Sammy.

But Sam stays hidden just around the corner, sinking into the jaundiced wallpaper, listening hard to try to make out the words that Dad murmurs at Dean as he crouches before him with a hand on his back.

Mistake.

But.

Human.

And then, more emphatically, Not human.

Not human.

The front door creaks in the breeze leaking into the foyer, and Sam wishes he could slam it shut and put the chain back on; the deep shadows beyond the scope of the single functioning porch light taking on new life.

By Sam’s bare foot is a jagged fragment of the bowl Dean had destroyed, the sight of its blue glaze and its tiny white butterflies putting a fresh lump in his throat.