That made sense in my head. Oh, screw it.
In any event, Frankendoc awakens some time later to find himself lashed to one of his own operating slabs, and long story short, he pleads to be set free, offering to interpret the immortality formula for Our Intrepid Heroes if they'll just let him go. Sam, still convinced his plan could work, draws Dean aside for a consult, but Dean's adamant: He'd rather face Hell than survive as a monster, so Frankendoc's got to go. And with that, he pinches a chloroformed cloth over Frankendoc's nose and mouth, and Frankendoc passes out one last time.
Even later, Frankendoc comes to and manages to light a couple of matches, thereby illuminating the interior of his tomb, which happens to be an abandoned refrigerator Our Intrepid Heroes found somewhere out there in the woods. They've wrapped the fridge in chains, and the thing now rests at the bottom of a very deep hole they've dug, with Frankendoc's personal journal rather pointedly sitting on top of it. As Doc Benton screams and hammers his fists against the lid and screams and hammers his fists against the lid and screams and hammers his fists against the lid some more, a determined Dean and a still-reluctant Sam start shoveling dirt on top of him, and I'm sure I'd be more impressed with this development had I not seen this plot device used at least three other times this season. But let's not be churlish, for it means the end of Billy Drago's reign of terror and overacting on Supernatural, does it not? "It does!" Excellent. "Hooray!"
The Dreary Motel. Posh Bela's heels click-click-click down the hall until she reaches Our Intrepid Heroes' room. She picks the lock, draws a silenced automatic from inside her jacket, opens the door, and...blasts holes through the lumps on each bed! "DEATH! DEATH TO HER WHO WOULD...oh, wait a minute! I am such a silly sometimes! They're not actually in the beds, are they?!" Indeed they are not, my impressively perspicacious companion. "Oh, those darling boys! So tricky sometimes! Hee!" Yep, Posh Bela just blew holes through a pair of blow-up sex dolls Our Intrepid Trickies left in their places on the beds, and the room's phone now rings as the clock on the bedside table hits 11:56 PM. Of course, it's Dean, dialing to gloat, and gloat he does. Pity I don't give a rat's ass about Posh Bela, or I'd care that he felt her hand swiping the motel receipt from his jacket pocket back in Vermont. And pity I don't give a rat's ass about Posh Bela, or I'd care that he correctly identified the hoodoo above her door as "devil's shoestring," which is an excellent herb to use if one wishes to ward off hellhounds. And pity I don't give a rat's ass about Posh Bela, or I'd care that he then rechecked her parents' obituary to discover they died "ten years ago today." And pity I don't give a rat's ass about Posh Bela, or I'd of course care that he put it all together to realize she made her very own deal with a Crossroads Demonette back in Merrie Olde England, and that said deal is coming due in about three minutes.