"What if he doesn't come?"
"He'll come," Dean said. "Crowley said the Leviathan needs the remaining energy to complete the fusion. That's its nest, its source, its..."
He paused.
"Its gateway."
The Impala accelerated, leaving the city and heading into the wilderness.
The clock on the dashboard read 9:17 a.m.
There were still thirty-nine hours and forty-three minutes until Death's final deadline.
The sky over South Dakota was iron-gray.
The clouds hung low, piled along the horizon like dirty cotton wads. Wind swept in from the depths of the wilderness, carrying the scent of dead grass and frozen earth, along with the faint acidic tang of chemical residue drifting from a distant abandoned factory.
Dean parked the Impala a mile from the warehouse, killed the engine, and turned off the lights.
The car was quiet.
The dashboard's glow reflected off their faces.
Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white; Sam stared at the desolate expanse outside the window, his pupils tense.
The two got out and headed toward the warehouse on foot.
The ground beneath their feet was frozen hard, every step producing a faint cracking sound. The wilderness was quiet—too quiet. There wasn't even a birdcall.
Only the mournful wail of wind passing through abandoned utility poles.
The warehouse gradually came into view.
The building was more dilapidated than they had imagined.
Most of the roof had collapsed, the walls were riddled with cracks, and the windows were nothing but black holes.
Rusting oil drums and broken steel rebar were piled by the entrance, like the bones left behind after some enormous beast had died. There was a strange smell in the air, like deep-sea sludge mixed with sulfur.
They exchanged a look and split up, approaching the warehouse from opposite sides.
Dean took the front while