Supernatural--Cold Fire by John Passarella Page B

the house won a round? With the Mark bound to his flesh, a continuous visual reminder of a murderous fate, Dean couldn’t help but wonder if this, finally, was the losing hand.
    Sensing movement, he looked up, saw Sam standing at the entrance to the library, watching him.
    “How long?”
    Sam inadvertently glanced at the books and the shattered mug scattered across the floor. “Long enough.”
    Dean tried to shake off his concern. “What? You never get frustrated with this stuff?”
    “That’s all it is?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “And the Chimera?”
    “We’ve been over that,” Dean said. “That was me. Not the Mark. I was in total control.”
    Looking doubtful, Sam said, “Really?”
    “Yes, that was me. In a zone. Firing on all cylinders. Eye of the tiger. Pick one.” He took a deep breath. “Look, Sam, you saw that thing. Anything less than one hundred percent focus, and I would have ended up in that spare parts flesh pit—or worse.”
    Sam nodded. “You’re right.”
    “Of course I’m right,” Dean said jovially, displaying more confidence than he felt. “I’m in total control.”
    “For now,” Sam said solemnly.
    Dean wanted to argue the point, insist that he could fight the effects of the Mark indefinitely, but they’d both know he was lying.
    They turned at the sound of footfalls on the stairs leading down from the abandoned power plant that loomed over the bunker. Warded against any evil that ever existed, the bunker had become their headquarters and their home base, if not truly a home, though it featured bedrooms and a kitchen in addition to the vast library, war room, laboratory, shooting range, observatory, and even a dungeon of sorts, hidden behind a storage area. The bunker had become the one place they could relax, even if the time spent there was sometimes infuriating.
    “Cass,” Sam informed Dean, a moment before the angel walked through the doorway into the library, wearing the somewhat rumpled trench coat over two-piece suit and loosened necktie that had become his uniform.
    While surviving on a diminished and fading Grace, Castiel lacked the full powers of an angel of the Lord. No longer able to teleport, he traveled by conventional means. More often than not, that meant his old Lincoln or shoe leather. Restoring Castiel’s Grace was a problem for another day. Something else they would, they hoped, figure out. In the meantime, the world-weary angel seemed resigned to a fate that meant gradually fading away.
    “Sam. Dean.” Castiel glanced at each of them in turn, then took in the mess on the floor. “I assume Charlie has not returned with the
Book of the Damned
.”
    Sam gave a slight shake of his head, downplaying the lack of results on their end.
    “No word,” Dean said. “I, on the other hand, found a whole lot of nothing.”
    “I see,” Castiel said, glancing at Sam, an unspoken question passing between them. Sam shook his head.
    “Guys,” Dean said, arms spread. “I’m right here. You got a question, ask. But stop passing notes.”
    Castiel cleared his throat. “So… you’re well? In control?”
    “I’m good,” Dean said, smiling. “Complete control. Living a life of reluctant moderation. No coloring outside the lines.”
    “Good,” Castiel said, either missing the sarcasm or taking Dean’s statement at face value. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Cass.
    “Any word on Cain?” Sam asked the angel.
    Castiel frowned. “Nothing yet, unfortunately,” he said. “But maybe something else. A possible lead on someone who may have information about a cure.”
    Dean took a step forward but caught himself. “That sounds like a whole lot of maybes.”
    “There’s an answer out there somewhere,” Sam said. “In the
Book of the Damned
. Or here, in some book or scroll we haven’t checked—”
    “I’ve checked everything here, Sam,” Dean said. “Five or six times. Hell, I’ve got some of these books damn near memorized.”
    “—or it’s out