Supernatural--Cold Fire by John Passarella Page A

jarring, thunderous impact immediately followed by explosive white-hot pain throughout his body—

SIX

    Hunched over a table covered with leather-bound tomes and a few vellum scrolls in the library of the Men of Letters bunker—which he had at one time affectionately referred to as the Batcave—Dean searched for any mention of the Mark of Cain. Any information he discovered about the Mark could lead him a step closer to learning how to remove the damn thing. The scar—brand—whatever the hell it was, came with an unknown remove-by date. At some point in the not-too-distant future, the Mark would turn its current bearer into a mindless, murdering rage machine. A mystical ticking time bomb, but without the ticking. Unless you counted the occasional trembling in Dean’s hands. And without a convenient set of red LED numbers counting down the seconds to the final explosion. It could happen in a week or two, maybe in a few months, but Dean doubted he had a year or even six months of control left.
    Cain himself had reached an accommodation of sorts with the Mark, but only after centuries of killing. Not really an option as far as Dean was concerned. He wanted it gone as soon as possible. Hell, he’d have it surgically removed from his flesh if he thought the mystical mumbo-jumbo that attached the Mark to him would part ways that easily. Consenting to a partial flaying of his right forearm would no doubt lead to the Mark reappearing on his body as quickly as it had transferred from Cain to him. Even if he paid the ultimate price and killed himself with the First Blade—because nothing else could kill him while he bore the Mark—he’d be resurrected as a demon and a Knight of Hell. That wasn’t a guess on Dean’s part, Cain had done exactly that—and continued to bear the Mark.
    Dean tapped his fingers impatiently on one of the few areas of the tabletop not covered with musty old books. His gaze flitted from one text to another, flipping pages, skimming entries. Now and then, a profound sense of déjà vu filled him and for fleeting moments he believed he had the answer in sight, but squeezed his eyes shut in disgust when he realized he’d simply read the same passage before, sometimes more than once. Was there such a thing as reading in circles?
    The one book that might have the information they needed was the
Book of the Damned
, which, unfortunately, was not part of the Men of Letters collection, at least not in the Lebanon, Kansas bunker where the Winchesters had taken up residence. Now that she had returned from Oz, Charlie Bradbury had volunteered to track down the
Book of the Damned
but so far they hadn’t heard a peep from her. Dean wondered if they’d sent her on a fool’s errand. Maybe the damn
Book of the Damned
was a myth or, if it had existed at one time, had been destroyed years ago.
    Tugging back the plaid sleeve of his shirt, Dean stared at the symbol representing the First Blade, which Crowley had agreed—not without a bit of self-preservation—to hide from Dean to slow the transformative effects of the Mark. Clenching his fist in frustration, he swept his arm across the table, sending half a dozen books and his empty coffee mug flying across the room.
    Exhaling forcefully, Dean held out both arms, palms down, fingers spread. A quick test. No trembling. “Okay,” he said softly.
Still in control.
    He pushed back his chair and walked away from the table, twisting his head and rolling his shoulders to relieve his tension, determined not to let the fruitless search get under his skin.
    He recalled Sam’s words about the Mark.
“We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
    One part of Dean believed that sentiment. They’d been to hell and back and parts in between. They’d overcome considerable odds on multiple occasions. But that track record led them to take greater risks, and they’d lost plenty of people they cared about along the way. And, really, how long could you keep beating the odds before