Muse: Soncnica
Disclamier: All chances of me owning them went up in smoke.

Burnt

The curtains were grey and lifeless as they fell over ice frosted window panes. They were a perfect decorum match to the action in the room. Everything was still and dark. The candle on the wooden bedside table had flickered low and had been threatening to die out for an hour or so.

The wooden floor was dusty and the cabin hardly looked as new as it was. The room was bare except for the four poster bed and the little bedside table. Tragedy had struck before they could even finish moving in all their furniture.

On the bed, under thick hand made quilts he moved. He was either Dean or Jackson. It was hard to tell, the way his gray eyes flickered changing color from dark brown to sharp green. His eyes wandered around the room, watching unnatural movements as he seemingly saw everything yet nothing. Not a soul seemed to move, but every twitch and creak was an attack on his senses.

Jackson, but it could have been Dean, rested his fevered eyes on the door as it opened slowly brushing his clammy features with a cool burst air. He took a deep gulp of the fresh air and for a moment his fears vanished.

When he turned to face the guest gratefully, his blood froze. Charlotte was back again, just like every night this week. Dean or Jackson, they hardly knew anymore, felt bile creep up in his throat as he saw her face. She was still wearing her wedding dress. Even though the classic white lace was burned at the bottom and the sleeves were singed, it fit her perfectly. Charlotte's blonde hair was ratty and tangled as it fell messily onto her shoulders. She had her hands on her hips, and he noticed the tight rope style bruise encircling her small wrists.

She was beautiful once, petite and gentle.

In fact there was once upon a time that he loved Charlotte. He loved her crystal blue eyes, but they were now blood shot. He'd loved touching her fair skin, but now it was crinkled like paper. He'd even loved that dress, but now it was tattered. The dress was his mother's, a family heirloom. There was a stain of blood over her heart and the sleeves were terribly torn. He didn't love her now; in fact Dean or Jackson was sure that falling in love with her had been in a mistake.

If he could have moved, he would have been running. His limbs were heavy and drugged with valium that the Doctor had prescribed. "I've never forgotten you." He tried to say causally, but his shaky voice betrayed him.

"You never should have." Charlotte hissed venomously. "You should never have left me for another on our wedding night."

That was all wrong. Dean knew because Jackson knew that she was lying. Jackson knew because Dean knew that they were in a shit load of trouble; hell hath no furry like a woman scorned and all that. It was all so terribly wrong, he felt. He was them, and they were together in one mind.

Dean or Jackson, the line was so thin now, tried to rationalize with Charlotte. Pleadingly, he tried to remind her that he was faithful. He moaned in dry voice that he didn't know her sister had taken her place. "I came to your house the next morning when I realized she had tricked me," he said in sadly, "I found only ashes and they said you had burned up…"

Charlotte scowled. "Of course I'd burned up. You and that slut murdered me."

"No, no," His eyes turned a soft dark brown briefly, "I didn't ever want to hurt you, my bride…"

Charlotte threw her hands in the air furiously. "How dare you call me your bride!" She crossed the room in quick hurried steps. "Do you even know why you're lying here-sick?"

Dean didn't know, because Jackson didn't know. Jackson had been lying here for what felt like forever, and Dean couldn't help but echo the sentiment. Charlotte grabbed his wrist, and her fingers dug into his bone. "The Doctor don't know. The Priest don't know." She leaned closer to him. "But I know. Its cause the guilt's burning you up, ain't it?"

He tried to wriggle out of our grasp but it was impossible. Her fingers were like tongues of flame, searing into his skin, impossible to escape the damnation she had cursed him with. Dean's wrist or Jackson's wrist, it didn't matter it was the same wrist, began to burn as he screamed.

"You know!" Charlotte cried over his panicked voice. "I been visitin' you for a week and here you lie sick like a dog but you know!"

The skirt of her dress began to sputter embers as her eyes glowed with furry. Dean or Jackson, it hardly mattered they were both going to perish, looked at her in horror as her dress caught flame. Charlotte became a tower of orange and yellow, laughing as the thick quilts his neighbors had made caught fire, too. He twisted fruitlessly in her grasp as she said smugly, "You're going to burn just like me."

The cabin was supposed to be their new home, when he'd married her a week ago (centuries ago Dean corrected Jackson) but it'd been empty of any happiness since the murder (the accident Jackson corrected Dean). It was better to burn the memories, he decided. He deserved to go down with her. The flames were all around them, consuming the cabin. He remembered a song that he'd heard (He'd never heard it all, Jackson corrected) and agreed- Love is a burning thing and it makes a fiery ring bound by fiery desire I fell into a ring of fire…

His wrist was hurting, and the stench of burnt skin was overwhelming. Black smoke filled the room making it nearly impossible to breath. Jackson or Dean, they couldn't see the difference, began to lose consciousness as his lungs burned for fresh air.

It was sweet relief when he lost consciousness, even though he could still feel his wrist burning. Jackson didn't care, even though Dean did, if he ever woke up again. He didn't care at all.

It was all going up in flames…

Somewhere between death and dreams, Dean sat bolt upright with a whisper on his lips. "Charlotte…" he simply said. "I know."

Dean touched the side of his face and felt along his hair line. Blood had dried into a trickle on his forehead. He groaned as he looked around his surroundings and relaxed against the oak tree. He hadn't realized it, but he was sitting on the ground leaning against the bark. Dean, only Dean he noticed, cradled his burned wrist in his other hand.

The orange flames in front of him made him panic briefly, until he realized they were submerged in a pit. A six foot deep, coffin shaped hole.

Sam looked up from the burning grave and was at his side instantly. "Dean?" his brother said worriedly. "Charlotte's bones are burned. She's gone…"

Dean's eyes flashed brown briefly as he felt Jackson's relief. The spirit at the back of his mind vanished away as thin as smoke. The memory was gone as well as Charlotte. "Good." Dean said firmly.

"Are you okay?" Sam's worried eyes scanned over Dean. "She wouldn't let go of your wrist and you kept screaming. It was like she was in your head…"

"I'm fine." Dean coughed as he felt the sting of smoke at the back of his throat. "I just need some water."

Sam helped him to his feet. As he reached out for Dean's left hand, Dean pulled away instantly. "Let me see." Sam commanded.

"It's just a burn, Sam." Dean hissed as Sam touched his wrist.

"And a pretty bad one at that." Sam said wide eyed. "We're gonna have to stop at the store for some more burn crème."

Dean scowled but didn't fuss. He still felt like he was stuck in the cabin, fevered and tired. He looked over at the empty grave and said his goodbye.

"Sam?" Dean picked up one of their shovels.

"Yes?" Sam replied shouldering their duffle bag.

"Next time," Dean huffed, "you can be the ghost's distraction."

Sam laughed lightly and slapped Dean's shoulder. "What's a matter Dean? I thought you liked being the ladies man."

Dean grumbled something back half heartedly. With Sam's help, they walked out of the cemetery just as the sunrise began. The burning light touched the last remains of an empty grave as the brothers drove off.

...the end...