Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

"What if he doesn't come?"

“He will come,” Dean said. “Crowley said Leviathan needs the remaining energy to complete the fusion; that’s its lair, its source, its…”

He paused.

"Its gateway."

The impala accelerated, leaving the city and entering the wilderness.

The clock on the dashboard shows: 9:17 AM.

There are 39 hours and 43 minutes left until the final deadline mentioned by the Death Knight.

The sky over South Dakota was iron gray.

The clouds hung low, piled up on the horizon like dirty cotton wool. The wind blew from the depths of the wilderness, carrying the smells of withered grass and frozen earth, as well as the faint, lingering acidic odor of chemicals from an abandoned factory in the distance.

Dean parked the impala a mile from the warehouse, turned off the engine, and switched off the lights.

It was quiet in the car.

The fluorescent lights on the dashboard illuminated their faces.

Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white; Sam stared intently at the desolate landscape outside the window, his pupils wide with tension.

The two got out of the car and walked towards the warehouse.

The ground beneath my feet was frozen solid, each step making a soft cracking sound. The wilderness was quiet, too quiet; there wasn't even a bird's call.

The only sound was a groan-like whimper as the wind passed through the abandoned telephone poles.

The warehouse gradually came into view.

The building was more dilapidated than they had imagined.

The roof had mostly collapsed, the walls were covered in cracks, and the windows were just dark, gaping holes.

Piles of rusted oil drums and broken steel bars lay at the entrance, like the skeletons of a monstrous beast. A strange odor filled the air, a smell reminiscent of deep-sea silt mixed with sulfur.

The two exchanged a glance, then parted to the sides and approached the warehouse from two different directions.

Dean went to the front, while Sam went around to the side and hid behind a half-collapsed wall. They each took out the parchment given to them by Crowley, cut their fingertips with daggers, and dripped blood onto the center of the rune.

The moment the blood seeped into the parchment, the runes on the paper began to glow.

The dark purple light resembled a broken neon light.

The light was faint, but conspicuous enough in the dim wilderness. Dean quickly folded the parchment and stuffed it back into his pocket. The light was blocked by the fabric, with only a faint afterglow leaking out from the edge of the pocket.

Then the waiting time just seemed to drag on forever.

Dean crouched behind a pile of rusty steel beams, his eyes fixed on the warehouse door.

The wind blew even harder, whipping up dust that stung his face like tiny needles. He recalled many things: the first time he met Castio, how clumsily the angel learned human etiquette; the image of Castio fighting alone against an entire squad of angels to save Sam; and the countless nights the three of them squeezed into a motel room, studying ancient texts and debating solutions, like a real family.

Now they're going to kill him.

Or rather, to save him, in a way that could potentially kill him.

Dean's hand reached for the dagger at his waist.

There were two weapons in the scabbard: on the left was a demon hunter's knife forged by Grayson, and on the right was a dagger engraved with runes by Lor. Both knives were cold and sharp, but the hilt of the latter was faintly hot, as if there was a fire burning inside.

Two hours have passed
The sky turned from iron gray to dark gray, dusk was falling, and a few streaks of dark red light peeked through the gaps in the clouds, as if the sky was bleeding.

There was still no movement in the warehouse.

Just as Dean began to suspect that Crowley was playing a trick on them, the air vibrated.

The pressure changed, like the water pressure felt in the ears when diving, and then the air fifty meters in front of the warehouse began to distort, like the visual distortion caused by a summer heat wave.

The distortion lasted for three seconds, then a figure emerged from it. It was Castio.

He was still wearing that beige trench coat.

Dean remembered that it was a Christmas gift from Sam last year, and he had finally found the same one.

At the time, Castio didn't understand the concept of a 'gift'. After receiving it, he studied the wrapping paper for a long time. The trench coat is now covered in dust and dark stains, and there are several tears at the hem.

Castio did not move immediately.

He stood in the middle of the wilderness, head tilted to the side, his right hand constantly massaging his temples, his fingers pressing so hard that his knuckles turned white.

He shook his head violently, as if trying to fling something out of his head, then continued to shake it slowly, once, twice, three times. He was as frantic as a mental patient.

He stopped and looked up after half a minute.

His face was etched with exhaustion.

He had deep dark circles under his eyes, his skin was as pale as paper, and there was dried blood at the corner of his mouth. But what was most unsettling was his gaze—empty and unfocused, as if he were looking at some distant place rather than what was in front of him.

He started walking toward the warehouse.

His steps were slow, each one dragged as if his legs were chained, and the hem of his trench coat swayed behind him like a tattered flag.

Dean held his breath.

Castio walked to the warehouse door, reached out and pushed it open. The hinges groaned, and the door slid open, revealing even deeper darkness inside.

He went inside, his figure swallowed by the darkness.

Dean got up from behind the steel beam and moved silently to the side of the warehouse to meet Sam. The two looked inside through the crack in the wall.

The warehouse looked more spacious inside than from the outside.

The ground was covered with large areas of charred cement, as if an explosion had occurred, and was full of cracks and pits. Remnants of pipes hung on the walls, like the intestines of a giant beast. Dust swirled slowly in the beams of light shining through the holes in the roof.

Castio stood in the middle of the warehouse.

He started pressing his temples again, this time with both hands, pressing very hard, until the veins on his forehead bulged.

He opened his mouth and roared silently, his throat muscles tensing and the veins on his neck bulging like earthworms.

This process lasted for about another minute.

Then he suddenly relaxed, lowered his hands, took a deep breath, and his shoulders heaved.

When he looked up again, the weariness on his face had vanished, replaced by a...cold calm.

That calm was more terrifying than the madness just now, because it looked rational and clear-headed, like a decision made after careful consideration.

"Who goes there?" Castio asked, his voice echoing in the empty warehouse. "Come out."

He didn't look in any direction; he just stood there with his hands hanging at his sides and his eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him.

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.

Sam nodded.

The two emerged from their hiding place and entered the warehouse from two different directions, stopping ten meters away from Castio, forming a triangular standoff.

Castio turned his head, and a fleeting look of surprise crossed his face when he saw them. It was very brief, like a match that had been struck and then extinguished, before he returned to his cold demeanor.

"Dean, Sam," he said calmly, "what are you doing here?"

"I've come to find you." Dean raised his hands slightly, palms facing outwards, indicating that he had no weapons.

"Looking for me?" Castio laughed, a dry laugh. "To continue condemning me, to tell me I did something wrong? To judge me with your narrow-minded human morality?" (End of Chapter)