Supernatural

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Demian: C- | 22 USERS: A-
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It's Better For the Hardy Boys to Burn Out Than Fade Away

Meanwhile, Castiel, Dean, and Bobby stand outside an electronics store, watching a bit of breaking news courtesy of KPIT Detroit, and the general economic situation in southeastern Michigan must be even more depressing than any of us had previously imagined, because KPIT apparently can't even afford to maintain a satellite link to its network, which is why they're recycling disaster footage from some shitty Pierce Brosnan movie to illustrate the destruction caused by several large-magnitude earthquakes that hit Portland, Boston, Hong Kong, Berlin, and Iran within the last fifteen minutes. "So, what do we do now?" Dean demands. Find a better TV station? Just a suggestion. Though I do like Castiel's alternative more: "I suggest we imbibe copious quantities of alcohol and just wait for the inevitable blast wave." Atta girl. "Indeed! [Slurp!]" Dean, however, fails to appreciate My Sweet Baboo's sage and nuanced advice, and in fact goes so far as to call him a "junkless sissy" during a mini-tirade in which Deluded El Deano insists they can still put a stop to the horror unfolding around them. Bobby's certainly no help, as he's got hot girly tears standing in his eyes at the moment, so Dean turns back to Castiel, who calmly insists, "Lucifer will meet Michael on the chosen field, then The Battle Of Armageddon begins." And where, precisely, would this "chosen field" be located? "I don't know." D'OH!

Ornately Decrepit Victorian Interior Of My Despair, which might actually be an abandoned theater, but who cares at this point? "I certainly don't! [Slurp!]" The massacre is over, and Lucifer-In-Sam sits upon a dais above the scattered corpses, ruminating, until he turns to address his reflection like so: "Are we having fun yet?" Hopelessly Ensnared Sammy And His Miserable Hair shudder with self-loathing and revulsion until they get gobbled up by the next METAL TEETH CHOMP!

Ode On A Melancholy Metallicar, Part The Third, and this is just gross. Chuck would have us believe that Our Intrepid Heroes, during their rare moments of downtime, would park the Impala out in the middle of nowhere, "sit on the hood, and watch the stars for hours without saying a word." I feel vile just typing that out. Shut up, Chuck. Fortunately, the phone rings. Unfortunately, Chuck answers expecting a certain "Mistress Magda" to be on the other end, so it's even grosser than that crap about Sam and Dean staring at the stars. In any event, Chuck's caller is, of course, Dean, looking to see if Chuck knows where this whole Armageddon thing's supposed to be going down. Luckily for Dean, even though the angels have been attempting to mask the battle's location, Chuck's already had an appropriate vision and so knows that the chosen field is actually the infamous Stull Cemetery just outside Lawrence, Kansas. "Why Lawrence?" Dean squints. "It all has to end where it started," Chuck guesses, for as we all know, The Prophet's always been a big fan of "literary symmetry." And that, unfortunately, is the extent of Chuck's foreknowledge on the subject (or is it?), so Dean hangs up after thanking the drunken scuzzball for his help.

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Supernatural

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