...the dungeon, where Crowley's still Latinating. I've heard there are people who would willingly pay cash money to watch Mark Sheppard read the phone book. I am not one of those people, but I'm pretty sure you can't get much closer to that than this. And that is not a compliment.

Meanwhile, Dean and Bobby have somehow managed to elude both Crowley's henchdemons and Raphael's angelic minions to gain access to the Castle proper, and they now tippy-toe out onto the landing overlooking the dungeon floor, where Crowley's sonorous tones immediately render them unconscious again. Kidding! I'm totally kidding. They actually sneak one of those Angel-Smiting Scimitars from Bobby's trusty duffel, and Dean takes careful aim with the thing at the back of Raphael's head. He hurls it at her, but Raphael's lightning-quick reflexes allow her to snatch the weapon clean out of the air. Raphael tosses a mildly annoyed side-eye over her shoulder, and then Crowley whaps both Bobby and Dean upside the head with a blast of telekinetic energy that sends them alternately tumbling down the stairs and pitching over the side of the landing's railing to crash in battered heaps upon the tiles below. "VIOLENCE!" And as Crowley resumes his by-now-epic bout of Latination, we return to...

...the remains of Metallicar, and what's that? Why, it's Entirely Reconstituted Sam, staggering into view! "You'll pardon me, I'm sure!" Consider yourself pardoned. "Thanks! Are we meant to believe the dear boy miraculously rose from his sickbed and walked to Kansas?!" I think so, Raoul. "I need another flagon!" Atta girl. "[Slurp!]"

From below it Latinates. Eventually, some four hours after he began, Crowley reaches the end of his incantation, and he and Raphael eagerly look to their sigil. Nothing happens. "Maybe I said it wrong," Crowley guesses. Well, if you did, sweetheart, then by all means: Recite the fucking thing again. Fortunately, Castiel flutters in from points unknown to assure Crowley that he did a marvelous job. Raphael and Crowley turn to acknowledge Castiel's presence, and we can all see My Sweet Baboo's holding a mostly empty Jar O' Blood. DUN! "What you needed was this," Castiel informs them, hoisting that mostly empty Jar O' Blood into the air with an adorable little self-satisfied smile on his face. And as Dean and Bobby haul themselves to their feet to witness what follows, Crowley steps over to his carefully spackled sigil and basically licks it. "Dog blood," he realizes. "Naturally." My Devious Baboo, you see, sneakily switched Jars on Crowley and Raphael, and he fluttered away with the blend that would actually work. Crowley, of course, comprehends this instantly, but it takes the demon explaining it to everybody else for Raphael, Bobby, and Dean to finally catch on, because they're all so smart. "So," Crowley spits, thwarted, "how'd your ritual go? Better than ours, I'll bet!" By way of reply, Castiel simply drops his head and powers up the eighty or ninety million souls he just scarfed down until the brilliant white light shooting from his body sears everyone on screen straight into this season's final CHOMP!-less commercial break. Dun-dun-DUN!