In a nearby room, John enters to acknowledge the unseen Ceiling Demon, in the process appearing to acknowledge the audience itself, as if we are complicit in tonight's deal with the devil. We are to blame! We are to blame! Woe! Wailing! Gnashing of teeth! Also: Mr. DeMille? John Winchester is ready for his motherfucking close-up. John places that fucking Colt on the bedside tray table, and then stares The Ceiling Demon down to nod, "Okay, it's just us, the cameras, and all those wonderful people out there in the dark. Bring it!"
Out in the hall, Sam's assy mop of too-long hair wanders through with a cup of coffee until it happens to glance over into one of the rooms to find its father dead on the floor. The Sympathetic Strings Of Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Demon's Sucked You Into Hell And Now I'm Feeling So Sad hit the soundtrack as the camera shifts to a low angle while everything on the screen grinds down into slow motion. Sam lets the coffee cup drop to the floor, where it lands perfectly upright, and there's got to be something supernaturally significant about that. As the cup's contents slop over the sides to splatter across the tiling, Sam takes two giant steps to reach his father's side while soundlessly bellowing, "HELP!"
Cut to Doc Hibbert and his team of nurses working to revive John Winchester, as his sons gape in the doorway. The medical types are unsuccessful. "That's it, everybody," Doc Hibbert announces off-screen. The camera, you see, has chosen to linger on the boys' reactions during this last bit, all in a futile attempt to make me cry. Futile, do you hear me? Futile! "I'll call it," Doc continues, as the screen fills with Dean's stunned face. The scene cuts abruptly to black, and above the heart monitor's droning flatline beep, Doc Hibbert announces, "Time of death: 10:41 AM."
Sniff. DAMN YOU, KRIPKE!
Next week: Clowns. I'm freaking out already.