34 hours to go

Dean Winchester awoke slowly and reluctantly, heavy lids grudgingly opening to reveal hazy and uncomfortably bright surroundings. Propping himself up on one elbow, he rubbed his eyes and waited for both his head and vision to clear before hastily scoping the room for any clues that might jog his memory. A prolonged gaze at the empty-but-clearly-slept-in spot next to him on the bed brought with it a vague recollection of the previous night; of skin and sweat and long-lost inhibitions. In a single lazy movement he tossed the thin duvet out of the way and threw his legs over the side of the mattress, finally able to take in his environment. Bare walls painted an unpleasantly cheery shade of orange -patches of which sunlight had faded to an equally unpleasant yellow-which clashed horribly with worn sky-blue curtains that hung loosely over an aged window. The frantic passion of the night had left them half-open, and a long thin strip of morning light was thrown over the bed. Satisfied that he knew where he was, Dean pulled himself carefully onto his feet- an action he immediately regretted as the room began to spin again. Nonetheless he remained standing until the feeling passed, then cautiously began to make his way to the bathroom.

A hangover is a rare occasion in which the lack of hot water in motels is not only tolerated but graciously welcomed, Dean found himself thinking as he splashed another handful of the blissful cold onto his face. He straightened up, eyes closed, and sighed happily as the groggy feeling finally began to pass, and was replaced with Awake and Alert. After a moment of self-indulgent stillness, he decided that it would be best to make a hasty exit before she showed up: he'd been insanely lucky not to have encountered her thus far, and it was always better to leave things uncomplicated. He precariously approached the door, grabbing clothes and dressing himself in the process, closer and closer, the door handle was less than two feet away-

"Mark?" Shit! Dean's hand curled reflexively into a fist. He straightened up once more, composed himself, and after what felt like an age, forced a smile and turned to face her.

"Good morning, Jen- Jem-" oh fuck, what's her name again? The room may have stopped swirling, but his thoughts had not.

"Gemma," she finished for him, eyebrows raised, her expression a mix of concern and mild irritation. She was a tiny thing, no taller than 5'2; her slim figure clad in a silk dressing gown that looked like it could be worth a considerable amount. Post-sex hair hung in messy ashen-blonde waves around her shoulders; eyes wide and earthy brown and fitting to her slightly-rounded face, mascara smudged down her left cheek. All-in-all, pretty hot. She gripped a mug in her hands, which were somewhat extended out to him. "I made coffee." Dean took a couple of cautious steps toward her, nodding a brief "thanks" as he took the cup from her grasp. To his shock it was searingly hot, and it took all his control not to drop the damn thing; instead adjusting his grip on it so he was now holding the handle.

"The perfect cure," he feigned a chuckle and looked down into the cup for a moment before attempted to down at least half of it, ignoring the raw scalding pain that coated the inside of his mouth. The taste was more bitter than expected.

"The perfect cure for what?" Gemma cocked her head to one side, watching him curiously. Her face fell. "Hang on, were you drunk last night?"

Dean stared at her, utterly bewildered, for an uncomfortable minute, still struggling to articulate his thoughts. She looked genuinely hurt. "I- I- no, I wasn't drunk."

"Oh. Okay," she replied, awash with relief but not looking entirely convinced, "do you want to go get breakfast?"

Right, this is getting pretty strange. Even for me. Time for a hasty escape. "I'd love to, Gemma, but I have to meet someone in ten minutes... Maybe some other time?" No no no no NO. Wrong answer!

"Another time?"

"Sure." No.

"Okay… well, um, here's my number," she grabbed a business card and a pen from the bedside table and scribbled down some digits, "call me later, yeah?"

"Sure, later." No! Get the hell outta there already! Grabbing his boots and jacket, Dean darted out of the door before Gemma could say another word. A sweeping scan of the car park overlooked by the first-floor promenade upon which he now stood told him that this was the same motel that he and Sam had agreed to meet up in, which meant that his brother was not too far away. Room 9, if he remembered correctly.

Sam answered the door almost immediately, and a single glance at his older brother put that stupid bemused half-smirk on his face.

"Shut up" Dean muttered, shoving past.

Sam held up his hands in mock innocence. "I didn't say anything."

Dean dropped his jacket on the end of Sam's unmade bed and threw himself onto it, letting out a long groan.

"Fun night?"

"The night was fine. I think. To be honest, I don't remember that much. It's the morning that sucked. Chick was nuts." Dean grimaced and shrugged.

Sam frowned. "How so?"

"Oh, she wanted to go out and do couple-y things. Said I'd call her later. "

"Are you going to?"

Dean smirked. "That's not how I roll." He pulled the business card out of his pocket, thumbing the indented biro numbers etched into the paper, then tore it in half and cast it aside, "I'd rather not get dragged into that sorta thing. Found anything?"

"Triple homicide about eight miles from here that looks like it could be our kinda gig."

"Great. Let's go." Dean sat up, leaning over to pull on his boots.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "What, right now? I haven't even told you what it is yet-"

"Sammy, I just wanna get out of here. That crazy girl upstairs has freaked me out enough already. Come on."

24 hours to go

Sprawled on an only-too-familiarly bumpy mattress in the second motel of the day, Dean thanked his lucky stars that he'd managed to shake the clingy one night stand before things had gotten out of control. Monsters he could handle; women were an entirely different problem. The hangover had mostly passed by now, and a few more marginally clearer memories of the evening floated round his head. It had definitely been a good night.

Sam, as usual, was hunched over his laptop, amid piles of books and documents and pens, occasionally pulling his eyes away from the screen to scribble down notes on various scraps of paper. A natural academic, Dean smiled as he watched his brother fondly. Though the evening was still fairly young, Dean could feel flickers of fatigue grabbing at his brain; the only thing preventing him from sinking into an idyllic slumber being the orange hue of objects bathed in setting-sunlight stealing its way in through the window. After a long minute, sleep began to creep up on him and his eyes gradually closed as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Three loud, purposeful bangs pulled him sharply back to the real world. Dean bolted upright and stared at the door, then at Sam, who twisted round in his chair to offer a shrug and a perplexed look. Sighing heavily, Dean rolled off the bed and shuffled to open the door, still half-asleep.

And there stood the petite and incredibly well-dressed Gemma, hair now hanging in elegant ringlets around her shoulders, brown eyes blazing with a rage that could easily bring down the entire building. Dean could only stare at her, open-mouthed and entirely taken aback.

"I- I'm sorry, how did you- ?"

"When exactly did you plan on calling?" she fumed, taking a few dangerous steps into the bedroom, locking Dean in a condemning glare as he backed away from her.

"Listen, lady, I have no idea what your problem is but it's only eight fucking thirty-"

"Ha!" Gemma raised an eyebrow and continued to walk at him, "I take it you've already made note of my number then." She raised her hand to reveal the two halves of the ripped business card. Dean's eyes flickered over to Sam, who seemed unable to do anything more than stare in amazement. Gemma had now successfully managed to pin Dean against the wall with nothing more than the will of a scorned woman.

Dean felt the nervous half-grin pull at the corner of his mouth. "I can explain-"

"Is that so, Mark? Or should that be Dean?" A sadistic smile spread across her face, "Dean Winchester: The hunter, the lover, the man a hundred times dead," She spat, "well I assure you, little man, that come the passing of this moon, you will feel that cold once more, for the final time," She spoke these words as poetry, embracing the sweet pleasure of every letter, each syllable rolling off her tongue like honey and dew and summer, "Lest, of course, you feel the same warmth as I did upon your own lips." She held his gaze intensely for a few seconds longer, then turned and left briskly and without another word.

The brothers gawked at the door for several long moments after it clicked shut. Sam was the first to speak.

"Dean, do you realise what just happened?"

Dean turned to face him. "No, Sammy. No I do not."

Sam grimaced, "Dean… I think you just got cursed."

"What? No, that was just-" Dean waved as if attempting to physically brush away the idea, then turned to stare at the door, then back at Sam, then the door, then Sam again, "That was- Holy shit, I just got cursed." He threw himself back onto the bed, "but what the hell did that mean?"

"Well, 'The passing of this moon'…that means tonight, and usually with these things that's 24 hours… and 'cold' unmistakably means death-" Dean groaned "- and as for the whole 'feel the same warmth' thing, I assume that means kissing."

"So?"

"Kiss someone you love in the next 24 hours or you die."

Dean frowned. "Hold up- Where did you get 'someone I love' from?"

"Well, she said 'feel the same warmth I did'," Sam shrugged casually, "she must have really liked you, Dean."

"What are you, insane? She," Dean pointed at the door, "did not like me. At all."

"Whatever you say, Dean, but you're gonna have to find someone in the next 24 hours if you wanna stay alive."

"What am I supposed to do, fall in love in the space of a day? Dean Winchester does not do romance. Never have done. Never will."

"Hm, well, lemme know when you come up with a plan," Sam turned back to his laptop, "some time today would be good." Dean hid behind his hands and let out another long, exasperated groan, and at that exact moment felt a terrible and desperate idea form in the back of his head. He sat up.

"She said, 'love', right?"

"That was the implication."

"Well…you're family-"

Sam's jaw tensed, fighting back manic laughter. "I don't think that's what she meant."

"Yeah…"

"Go to sleep, Dean. We'll figure it out in the morning."

11 hours to go

"This is not how I pictured my Saturday morning," Dean grumbled as he poured sweetener into his coffee, drumming his fingers on the laminate surface of the diner table.

"Easy on the sugar there," Sam remarked, glancing up from his book.

Dean looked up at his brother, eyebrows raised. "I-am-going-to-die this evening if we can't find some poor woman crazy enough to fall in love with me. Oral hygiene is not exactly top of my priorities at the moment."

"Nowhere did it specify woman…" Sam muttered, returning to the pages. Dean ignored him.

"What are you reading, anyway?"

"I'm trying to find a loophole in this curse. You're right, Dean, this isn't some fairytale; the chances of you finding someone to break this spell are a million to one. But ninety-nine per cent of the time, there's a way around it. You just have to look hard enough."

"So… have you found anything?"

"Well, unless she's crazy-powerful –and we're talking demon-powerful here- there's no way the words alone would have any effect; especially given that it wasn't a proper spell, she just made it up on the spot. And there's no sign of any hex bags on you, so it was most likely a blood spell or something you ate."

Dean thought hard for a minute. "She gave me coffee. It tasted weird."

"Weird how?"

"Like…too bitter. Not coffee-bitter, more like, kind of earthy bitter. Like leaves."

Sam rifled a few pages back. "Well, given the circumstances, I'd say we're looking at Dead Men's Bells. You might know them as Foxgloves."

Dean nodded slowly. "Care to explain?"

"Foxglove generally falls into the category of Venus herbs; Venus being the goddess of love, beauty and- most relevantly- sex. When it comes to witchcraft, they're mostly used in love spells and attracting faeries, y'know, fairly harmless stuff; but a few witches consider it more of a Saturn plant, which are used for binding spells and hexes. In other words, what we're dealing with," Sam finished, looking up. Dean stirred his coffee thoughtfully.

"But how can you be so sure it's Foxgloves? There's gotta be loads of plants like that."

"First off, there's the bitter taste you described. And foxgloves are a favourite among many witches, for aforementioned reasons. They also last for ages if grown properly," Sam shut the book and paused for a second, letting Dean take in the information, then continued, "But the other thing about them is that they have medical uses- it affects heart rate and such, so it's almost like a miracle cure for heart conditions. But the smallest amount too much and they can be lethal."

"So… I'm going to die of a heart attack?" Dean threw his spoon onto the table a little more forcefully than intended, "How the hell am I supposed to avoid that?"

"It's not just heart attacks, though, there are hallucinations, headaches, seizures… it's gonna be a tough one to crack."

"I'm beginning to think the whole kissing-someone-I-love thing is my best bet…" Dean trailed off and stared out of the window, "reckon there's anything Cas could do?"

"I doubt it; at least, not until the curse kicks in. This is black magic we're talking about, Dean. It's not something that can be easily written off, other than with a counteracting ritual."

"Well then," said Dean, standing up, "That's what we doing." He paused. "Could be worth calling him, though. Might have had some past experience with the kinda thing." Sam shrugged and nodded. Dean closed his eyes, "Oh mighty Castiel, we pray that you get your ass down here in our hour of need, um… in sickness and in health, for better or for worse… amen." Dean concluded, then opened his eyes and looked around.

"Wedding vows? Really, Dean?" Sam smirked, getting out of his seat.

"Shuddup, I was out of ideas," Dean muttered, turning to face Sam.

"Maybe it's too public?" Sam mused, glancing round.

"Come on, Sammy, subtlety is hardly Cas' speciality," Dean turned to leave the diner.

"Not gonna finish your coffee?"

"God no. No! Call me suspicious, but I've had enough of coffee to last me a while. Once this is over, then I will be up for it."

6 Hours to go

Half past two in the afternoon, and Sam found himself alone in a motel room, attempting to dig his brother out the worst-case-scenario to end all worst-case-scenarios, and one that could have been so easily avoided with one short phone call. Why can't we just have normal problems? He pondered irritably as he pored over pages and pages of ancient writing, why does every predicament we find ourselves in have to be resolved with a freaking satanic ritual?

Dean had disappeared somewhere, supposedly to find true love, but since he'd been gone for over ten minutes Sam could only assume that he had given up by now and was currently breaking the speed limits on some empty road about two-and-a-half miles away, steering wheel in one hand, bottle of cheap whiskey in the other. Sam threw down his pen and leaned back in the chair, hand over eyes, utterly drained. He didn't want to care as much as he did: Dean had got himself into this situation, he should fucking well get himself out of it. What the hell kind of person doesn't call back, anyway?

"Sam?"

Taken by surprise, Sam's eyes flew open and he lurched forward, almost hitting his head on the table. Straightening up, he turned to face the owner of the voice, "Dammit, Cas! Have you never heard of knocking?!"

Castiel frowned. "Dean called; I didn't think it was necessary."

"Damn right Dean called, five hours ago," Sam grumbled, exasperated, "Where were you?"

"I, ah, overheard the conversation. I thought it would be best to report back when I had something to offer."

"And…?"

"There's no way around this. Either Dean fulfils the terms of the spell, or he dies," Castiel grimaced and took a seat opposite Sam. He picked up a few loose sheets of paper and scanned them curiously, running his thumbs over Sam's rushed handwritten notes decorating the empty space around the text.

"Woah, woah, woah, wait… what do you mean, 'there's no way around this'? There's gotta be something, like a counter-spell or a ritual or-"

"There's no way around it, Sam," Castiel reiterated, frustrated. He put down the papers and looked up at the younger brother, his expression softening to one of sympathy, "I'm sorry. This isn't your problem, though… Dean got himself into this. Even if there was something that could be done, he'd have to do it himself."

Sam felt a surge of anger wash over his whole body, wanting nothing more than to flip the table and sock the angel square in the jaw. Instead, he pushed his fist against his on forehead, resting his elbow on the surface, and tried to remind himself that Cas had merely worded exactly what Sam had been thinking himself just minutes earlier. "What if… I don't know… We killed the witch?"

"Dean will definitely die," Cas said matter-of-factly, "Surely you read enough about love spells to know this already. They form a bond between the caster and the cursed. That's why there's no other way out."

3 hours to go

Dean was starting to feel very sleepy. With every movement his limbs felt heavier and heavier, and though he was not the most careful of drivers, he knew when to stop. Dodging death was his own game, but there was no way he'd put his beloved Impala in any danger. Pulling over into a grassy clearing to the side of the dirt road, he fumbled through his pockets in search of his phone. Vision bright and blurry, fingers clumsy, he took a good two minutes to dial Sam's number. His brother answered on the first ring.

"Dean, what's the matter?"

"Need…you… to come… get me…" Dean's voice was detached and breathy; by this point, just speaking was physically draining, "can't…stay…awake."

"Where are you?"

"Don't…know… " Dean squinted out of the windows, looking for some clue regarding his surroundings. It was like looking through a faint yellow film, everything in vision tinted and confusing and muddling together. "Somewhere-" He was cut off by a familiar voice to his right.

"I'm taking you to Sam."

Dean rested his head on the steering wheel, peering through narrowed, malfunctioning eyes at the hazy figure that was Castiel, "You…are not…driving…my car."

"That wasn't what I was planning."

"I'm not… leaving her… here."

"You don't exactly have a choice in the matter." Cas gripped Dean's arm and in a momentary flurry of wings and darkness, delivered him to the motel room; something Dean would normally complain about, but right now was already too disorientated for any angel-flavoured RentaGhost to have any further effect on him. Castiel carried the fading man to the bed in a display of extraordinary strength that one would not normally expect of a man of his build.

"His heart rate has dropped significantly. I doubt he'll even make it to 24 hours," Cas stated sadly, gazing down at Dean, who was now shivering violently. Sam kneeled next to bed, gasping his brother's hand, eyes brimming with tears.

"There must be something you can do," he choked, diverting his gaze to Castiel.

"I told you, Sam, it's a love spell-"

"And you're an ANGEL! For God's sake, Cas, what the hell kind of angel is defeated by freaking witchcraft?!"

There was a moment of silent stillness as Sam's words sunk in. Just long enough for Castiel to realise the implication. Just long enough for Sam to realise his mistake.

Castiel grabbed Sam by the throat with both hands, dragging the man to his feet and pinning him against the wall, knocking over the bedside table in the process.

"Don't you ever DARE question my validity in the house of the Lord!" He thundered, face inches away from Sam's, eyes blazing with an unfathomable rage, "I came here to help you; I do not have to answer to you and I most definitely do not serve you!" –he threw Sam against the wall again- "Anything I can do for your brother would rip his soul to shreds, and after what happened to you is that really your most desired outcome?!" The two men held each other's gaze for a while longer, before Castiel finally loosened his grip on Sam's throat and looked away, deliberating. He took a few steady breaths, and without looking back, asked, voice still quivering with the remnants of fury, "What exactly did the curse state?"

"That, um," Sam pulled at Castiel's wrists with shaking hands; Cas responded by letting go of him, "that Dean would have to- to feel the same warmth as she did." He finally gave up and sank against the wall, letting the tears fall, covering his face with his hands.

Castiel looked down at the younger brother, fighting back his own stifled sadness. Then down at Dean, who was all-but-comatose and on the cusp of demise, heart beating less than 20 times a minute and still dropping.

In a moment of grief-induced madness, Castiel did the only thing he could think to do.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled the man's shaking, near-lifeless form upright and pressed his own lips hard against Dean's. A few seconds after they touched, Dean jolted back into life, inhaling sharply through his nose. Castiel waited nervously.

Dean's eyes snapped open and the situation sunk in. He shoved the angel a little more forcefully than intended away from himself and stared at the man, mouth rapidly forming around a string of unspoken words. Finally, the silence was broken.

"I- wh- h-did that just happen-?" Dean stammered, eyeing his saviour up and down in awe, "What made you think that would work?!" Castiel looked down at his hands, avoiding Dean's quizzical stare.

"Nothing. But things were getting earnest, and it was the only thing I could do." He looked up at the wall, then turned to Dean, offering a small smile and a shrug. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and turned to face Sam, who was still sitting on the floor, obviously having heard the entire ordeal. He was resting his head against the wall, watching Dean and Cas bemusedly, the ghosts of tears still sparkling on his cheeks and an wide grin spreading across his face.

Dean raised his eyebrows and blinked at his brother. "Care to tell me what's so funny?"

"Nothing," Sam pulled himself to his feet, pressing his lips together, clearly very amused. "She really liked you," he muttered, half-smiling, under his breath as he turned to make his way out of the room.

"Hey, hey, hey…where do you think you're going?" Dean called over as Sam's hand closed around the door handle.

"To, ah…" Sam turned to face him, "get coffee."

"No, we are going to rescue my car, then weare going to get coffee," Dean stated, getting up, pacing across the floor and pushing past Sam. He threw the door open, "you coming, Cas?"

"Yeah…" The angel's voice sounded a little absent, as if he were deep in thought. The brothers exchanged bewildered looks. "Where are we going?" The voice was much closer and to the right rather than the left, and Dean's heart all but lurched out of his chest as Castiel once again caught him by surprise.

"Man, I am never going to get used to that," Dean grasped Cas' shoulder and lead him forward, "You tell us! You're the only one who knows where Baby is."

"It's just off route-"

"Show, Cas. Show us where she is."

"Oh."

Sam hung back a few paces, listening to his brother attempt to explain figures of speech to the easily-confused angel, voice laden with unquestionable fondness and affection.

Hm.

She must have really liked him.