Author's Note: I would have included the swearing, but the rating would have shot up to an M (John is very imaginative) and I'm yet to write the f-word, which would no doubt have been included. These multi-drabble Wee!chester E/O challenges seem to be becoming something of a tradition... The word this week is "sport" (shudder).
You're Toast, Mate
"You hungry, son?" John whispered. Dean was laid up in bed with the flu, and Sammy was currently curled up against him, dozing. Dean nodded, throat too sore to speak. "Soup sound good?" Another nod. "Okay."
John turned to make some soup when he heard the croak: "Toast."
He flinched. "Right," he said with a wince. He warmed a tin of soup on the hob. Then he pulled the toaster over and slipped two slices of bread into the slots. He pushed the leaver down. The bread popped up. He tried the lever again, and the bread popped up again.
He mumbled something incoherent. He pushed the lever down, again the bread popped up, and it wasn't at all toasted.
Dean watched sports when he was sick. As if mocking John's plight, he heard a crowd cheering as somebody scored.
Shaking the toaster didn't seem to work. Swearing at it only made John more frustrated. Twisting the dial with all the numbers on the front did nothing. "There must be a fault with the bread," he thought aloud to himself. The next two slices he tried were equally disobedient. More swearing ensued.
Another goal scored.
Toaster: two, John Winchester: nil.
The swearing wakened Sammy, who shuffled over in his thick bed socks. His nose only just cleared the counter, but John watched with a bemused expression as he reached for the wall socket. He was on tippy-toes when he managed to flick the switch.
He gave John a look that belonged on the face of an exhausted single mother with an idiot for a child. While John poured the steaming soup into a bowl, Sammy returned to dozing next to Dean.
The toast popped up, and it was indeed very toasted.
Dean sniffed. "Why do I smell burning?"
"Damn it!"
The End