Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by Eric Kripke and The WB/CW. I don't own jack shit; except for, ya know... about three cough drops and a sandwich. :D
A/N: I really love writing John, but I hardly ever seem to be in the head-space to do so. Finally, this hit me like a slap to the face and a bucket of ice water. It was rather refreshing. I find this hilarious, but that could just be because I'm out of my mind tired, and nearly everything is hilarious to me right now.
Summary: A tale of a man, his two sons, and their much-lamented breakfast accoutrement.
Toasted
There was no easy way to get around what was happening here: John Winchester, hunter and destroyer of vile creatures of the night, was staring down a toaster, willing it to work. And he was losing.
It had started with what should've been a simple family breakfast. Should've been simple, but wasn't, because they didn't always get the luxury of sitting around a table together to eat. At least, not without TV dinners, various knives, and cleaning equipment. So really, it was special. Rather, it was supposed to be, but the toaster ruined it.
It was a six-year-old Sammy that had alerted him to the fact that something smelled funny. And, sure enough, when he turned around there was dark smoke billowing from the evil device. A surge of panic welled inside him, instantly quelled by the reassurance that demons generally didn't possess inanimate objects. Black smoke could definitely be considered a hazard in his line of work, though, and one couldn't necessarily blame him for being a little jumpy around it.
Then, just as he reached to unplug the toaster, the plunger clicked and sprang up violently. Suddenly, two pieces of burning bread were arcing through the air. Those few seconds had stretched out seemingly forever, in which John recognized this as one of the most surreal moments of his life. A moment in which he briefly reconsidered his position on the possibility of possessed toasters, before said flaming toast had landed dangerously close to Dean's crotch as he sat at a worn chair near the chipped kitchen table.
John had the squeeze bottle of holy water in his hand before he could think, and both pieces were doused within seconds. Sammy had laughed as Dean scrambled out of the chair a bit too late, still careful to avoid the piece on the floor. In the end, it looked like Dean had pissed holy water ("What the hell, Dad?!"), Sam laughed himself into a coughing fit, and John was left alone in the kitchen staring at the God-damned toaster from Hell.
"Work, damn it!" His fist pounded the table, and a spark flew from the unplugged kitchen utensil, red and angry when it hit his skin. "Ah, fuck!"
A faint giggle and, "daddy said a bad word, Dean!" could be heard from the living room of their small apartment, quickly followed by a softly growled "shut up, goober!"
John stared at the toaster, slowly reaching over for the container of sea salt next to the wall. He very quietly sprinkled some inside the toaster. Maybe he'd also put it out in the dumpster at the end of the parking lot. Just to be safe.
"C'mon, boys," he said, cradling the demented object in one arm as he pulled his coat on with the other, "we're going out for breakfast."