Charles: I'm afraid there is the possibility--slim though it be--that I...snore.
Mulcahy: Snore. Oh. Good heavens, Major. What...courage it took to admit that.
Charles: Well, Father, I'm afraid you don't understand. See, all my life I've harbored a secret dread that I may not be worthy of my name, that I may not good enough to be a Winchester. What if all this malarkey is true, that I do...snore like a common factory worker. What if that's just the tip of the iceberg? What if there are even more vulgar traits lurking just underneath the surface? Today...snoring. Tomorrow, sitting in front of a TV with a cold brew watching roller derby. What if--perish the thought--I am actually the same as everybody else? I couldn't live with that.

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