Disclaimer: Nothing "Supernatural" related belongs to me. Eric Kripke is the luckiest guy.
I've Come for Me Gold!
By: Vanessa Sgroi
"I've come for me gold!"
Awakened from a sound sleep by the little voice, Dean Winchester pulled out the large knife he kept under the pillow and rolled over, peering into the darkness encompassing the motel room.
Senses on full alert but seeing no threat, he grunted, "Wha?"
"I've come for me gold!"
"What the hell?"
The voice he heard was tinny and high-pitched. It sounded like it was coming from the foot of his bed.
"Sam, is that you? Stop playing around, it's the middle of the night!"
"Who is this Sam? Tis, not me that's for sure! Now, give me my gold."
With his free hand, Dean groped for the lamp beside the bed and flicked it on—its dim bulb offering a weak, anemic circle of light that barely illuminated anything in the dingy motel room. He blinked and recoiled when he spied the diminutive, wizened red-haired and red-bearded man seated near his feet. He extended his blade in threat.
"And jus' what will ye be doin' with that pig-sticker, me lad? Twill, have no effect on the likes of me."
Dean swore under his breath. The rest of his weapons were either in his bag across the room or in the trunk of the Impala.
"Who are you," the hunter growled, "and what do you want?"
"My, not the smartest clover in the field now are ya, lad? I've made my demands known three times now. Tis a wearisome task." The little man's red beard quivered as he loosed a gusty sigh. "I've come for me gold."
"Gold? What gold? I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Who are you?"
"I am Seamus. A leprechaun, don't ye know. Twould think a man would know from whom he's stealing."
"Wait, what? Stealing? But, I didn't . . . I haven't . . . I mean I hustle pool but . . ."
"Well, now, ye go by the fair name of Dean Winchester, do ye not?"
"Y-y-yeah—sometimes anyway."
"Then 'tis you who stole me gold. The fey fairies told me so."
"Fairies? Man, I hate fairies. Mean and nasty little buggers."
"Bah! Enough of this patter. I want me pot o' gold. If ye don't give it to me now, I'll poke you with me walking stick till ye do."
"I . . . I . . . ow! Sam! Wake up! Ow!"
Seamus's walking stick, small as it may be, hurt when he poked with all his might. "Tell me!"
"I . . . ow! Stop . . . ow!" Dean thrust out his hands to defend himself but the leprechaun was a whirlwind of motion. "Sam! Wake UP, dammit!"
"Where's me GOLD?" huffed the leprechaun, indignant.
"YEOW!" Dean yelped at a particularly sharp poke. "Dammit, I said I don't know what you're talking about!"
A rustling from the other bed announced a return to consciousness for the younger Winchester. "Geez, Dean," Sam groaned, "what the hell are you doing over there?"
Dean got in a lucky shot with the back of his hand and knocked the little creature—and his vexatious walking stick—to the floor. He flicked his gaze to his brother's long, large body, still cocooned comfortably in the sheets and blankets of his bed. "Sam! Grab something—salt, holy water, gun!"
The younger hunter sat straight up in bed, eyes immediately searching the room for the threat. "What! Why?"
"There's a damn leprechaun in the room!"
Sam's gaze quickly scanned the room once more. Seeing nothing, he looked at Dean with a puzzled frown. "Leprechaun? Dean, there's nothing here."
"There is too! He's right . . . there." Dean's voice trailed off as he realized he was pointing to an empty floor. He let his hand drop to his lap and whipped his head around looking for the little being that had just been tormenting him.
Dean took in Sam's skeptical demeanor. "He was here, I swear. A-At the foot of my bed. Said he wanted his gold back. Said that fairies told him I stole it." The older Winchester brother felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment at the ridiculousness of what he'd just said.
"Dean, I told you not to drink too much of that green beer down at Duffy's Tavern tonight."
"Sammy, it wasn't the beer. I swear!"
"An excess of green beer AND corned beef and cabbage. That's all it was, bro."
"But . . . but he poked me with a stick!" Dean rubbed at a still sore spot on his thigh.
Sam couldn't help it. He started to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" growled his brother.
"Dude, you gotta admit—the image of you being poked with a stick by a leprechaun, well . . ."
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny. Actually more than a little." Sam was all out chortling now. His brother's pillow hit him full on in the face.
"It wasn't the beer OR the corned beef and cabbage, dammit."
"Go back to sleep, Dean." Sam tossed the pillow back onto his brother's bed. "You'll feel better in the morning." He switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
Dean stowed his knife and scrunched down beneath the covers, reluctantly closing his eyes. After much tossing and turning and all out pillow pummeling, he muttered, "Can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't go back to sleep."
"Why?"
" 'Cause now I have heartburn." The older man burped and thumped a hand against his chest.
Sam groaned, turned on the lamp, and rolled out of bed. A couple of seconds later, Sam shoved a bottle of Maalox in his brother's hand. "Swig some of this—you'll feel better." He waited for Dean to finish, stowed away the antacid back in his duffel bag, and climbed back into bed. "You okay to go back to sleep?"
"Yeah, I guess." Dean gave a huge yawn.
The younger hunter again snapped off the light. A few minutes of quiet reigned.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. G'night."
" 'night."
As both brothers dropped off to sleep, their steady inhalations and soft snoring exhalations drowned the whispered and terribly grouchy imprecations as Seamus stealthily shuffled out of the room. He had a bone to pick with some fairies.
FINI