On the distant highway, a pair of headlights drew closer.
Castiel instinctively shrank deeper into the shadows.
He did not know who it was.
But he knew that from this moment on, any stranger could be a hunter.
And he was the prey.
Chicago ruins, Day Seven.
Once bustling, Michigan Avenue now looked like a toy street trampled by some colossal beast. The cross-sections of collapsed skyscrapers exposed layer upon layer of office cubicles, while documents and loose pages were swept into the air by the wind like pale snow.
Overturned vehicles had burned into blackened shells, their tires melted into asphalt-like sludge. The air was forever thick with the distinctive ozone stench of burning and the sickly sweetness of rotting corpses.
Dean crouched behind a half-collapsed van, chewing on a cold energy bar.
A thin scab had formed over the wound on his left ear. Every time he frowned, it pulled at the split and seeped pale yellow fluid. He ignored it, staring only at the building three hundred meters ahead that had once been an upscale hotel.
Eleven stories.
Holy light flickered in the windows on the third, fifth, and seventh floors, unstable blue-white flashes like malfunctioning neon signs.
A mid-sized Bartholomew Faction stronghold. Intelligence indicated roughly fifty to seventy angels, including at least three high-ranking ones.
"A frontal assault would cost too many lives." Sam lay prone to Dean's left, making one final check through his binoculars.
His voice was low and hoarse from continuous fighting. "The eastern fire escape was blown apart. The west side is all glass curtain wall—they'll definitely have guards posted."
"Then we go underground." Dean swallowed the last bite of his energy bar, unscrewed his canteen, and took half a mouthful of water. "The hotel has an underground parking garage. Seven years