Fic: "A Mouthful of Ashes", Supernatural, John, Sam/Dean

Author: darkhavens
Title: A Mouthful of Ashes
Fandom: Char/Pairing: Supernatural: John, Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Words: 300
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or a grammar glitch, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: John finds out.
Warnings/squicks: Incest (off-screen)
Note1: Originally written for merihn's comment_fic prompt SPN, Sam/Dean, John always walked in. Edited to fit slashthedrabble's posting requirements, for challenge #204 "Over".
Note2: This spins off from havenward's earlier response to the same prompt, from where I shamelessly stole the succubus encounter and the idea of John using a 'charm'.


A Mouthful of Ashes

He's been fighting his suspicions since Sam tangled with that succubus, but they nibble away a little more of his denial every day.

Eventually, he gives in and pays a visit to a Voodoo priestess down in Charlestown, one whose work he trusts.

He leaves with a plain leather thong knotted loosely around his wrist and a promise writ in blood and paid for with the same. The closer his suspicions get to coming true, the tighter it will bind around his wrist.

He's always managed to get back to where he's stashed his boys before it's too tight to slip off with just little bit of effort.

#

Everything goes to hell when Jess dies.

He'd kept it as a reminder of his foolishness, his gullibility; a memorial to the rampant uncontrollability of teenage hormones. He's completely unprepared to wake one morning to find it lying snug around his wrist, no play left at all.

He stares for a while, uncomprehending, and then gets up to take a piss. Soon enough, his attention is caught up by the business at hand, and he almost forgets. Almost.

He's hot on the heels of the yellow-eyed son of a bitch when his left hand tingles and starts to go numb. The leather thong is cinching tighter with every breath he takes, cutting off circulation, sensation, and - if he doesn't act soon - his hand.

The skin of his wrist is bloody and raw, dotted with vicious little nicks and clumsy gouges by the time he finally digs the tip of his knife in deep enough to slice the damn thing off. It hits the floor and writhes for several long seconds; shrinking in on itself until it disappears.

Every nerve in his hand is suddenly aflame; he's choking on a mouthful of ashes.