"Listen," Sam states as gently as he can, given the circumstances, "you think you can have that normal life that you want so bad, but you can't. I'm sorry, but it's all gonna go rotten. You are gonna die, and your children..." Here he pauses for a moment, searching for the right word. "Will be cursed." Yeah, I'd say that's the right word for it, Sammy. Good job, College Boy. "There has to be another way," Mary agonizes. "This is the way," Dean insists. "Leave [our alarmingly attractive father]." "I can't," Mary shoots back at him immediately, a bit of steel returning through the tears. "This is bigger than us," Dean continues, desperate to make her understand. "There are so many more lives at stake, here!" "I can't!" Mary repeats, with considerably more force this time. "It's too late -- I'm pregnant." Oh, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that one, huh? Should I smack these two geniuses in the teeth and remind them that their mother was pregnant for most of 1978 before congratulating them on wasting the last two minutes of our lives because they launched themselves into this pointless argument without first checking to see what the damn date was? Should I smack myself in the teeth for falling for this crap no matter how well-played this scene was because I was supposed to remember that "destiny can't be changed" and "all roads lead to the same destination"? Should I link to this, just for the hell of it? I'm so confused! "Poor Demian! Should I fix you a cocktail?!" Not just yet, Raoul -- I'm pretty sure you don't want to miss the spectacular amounts of violence and gore coming up in the next segment. "Hooray!"
For yes, Doable John races in at this very instant to tell them all that the Angel-B-Gons have been erased from the walls just as Unburnt Mary notices that the highly flammable Jerusalem oil's evaporated from the rotting floorboards, and then? A suddenly appearing, piercing whine rapidly amplifies in volume throughout the ramshackle farmhouse, overwhelming the quartet's senses until they crash to the floor of the place with their hands balled into desperate fists over their ears just as the whine shatters every single sheet of glass in the whole goddamned house to send the resulting slivers shooting through the air directly into the METAL TEETH CHOMP! Dun-dun-DUN!