Deep within the Rocky Mountains, beside the blood pool, Crowley let go.
Samuel Winchester—or rather, the version of him controlled by the curse mark—collapsed to the ground. The dark red rune on his neck glowed faintly with heat.
He panted, and the brief flicker of humanity in his eyes had vanished, replaced once more by madness and obsession.
"You lost," Crowley said, his calm voice tinged with disdain. "But that's all right. You're still useful. I need more bloodlines from primordial monsters—the more, the better. Only those old relics know where the exact coordinates of Purgatory are hidden."
He turned and left the blood pool chamber, walking down a long stone corridor.
The torches on the walls cast swaying shadows, revealing the impatience on his face. Lucifer's pressure had always been there. As someone with a stain on his record, he would never be fully trusted by his leader.
And he had ambitions of his own. He had had enough of living like this. Time was running out.
In front of another iron door stood two low-ranking demons on guard.
The moment they saw Crowley, they immediately stepped aside.
Beyond the door was an even larger cell.
The iron bars were as thick as arms and covered in suppressive runes. Inside was a thing—or rather, a humanoid monster.
It resembled a wolf standing upright, nearly three meters tall. Gray-black fur covered its entire body, its hands and feet ended in claws, and its protruding upper jaw exposed stark white fangs.
It was bound by specially made silver chains that pierced through its shoulder blades. Every movement produced a sizzling sound of burning flesh.
A Werewolf progenitor, at least a thousand years old.
Crowley stood outside the cage and watched it for a while. "I ask. You answer."
"Where are the