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the island of conclusions

Merlin/SPN xover fic: Two Boys from Kansas in King Uther's Court 1/?

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Merlin/SPN xover fic: Two Boys from Kansas in King Uther's Court 1/?

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Title: Two Boys from Kansas in King Uther's Court
Rating: Gen, no pairings, just swearing.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Merlin, Arthur, various canon BBC Merlin characters, and a few OC.
Word Count: ~3K
Warnings/Spoilers: None for Merlin S1; set mid-S1 for SPN, but very vague spoilers for S2 and later in the next few parts; a version of a SPN canon character from S3-4 shows up, with some very vague references to SPN 3.09; and there's a non-spoilery, blink-and-you-miss it shout out to SPN 4.18.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, and I am making no profit from this.

A/N: As you can tell from the title, this is also partly a "remix" of Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. I've shamelessly lifted some scenes, lines, and plot points from the amazing Mr. Clemens. If you know the book, you'll recognize some stuff, especially at the beginning.
A/N 2: I think this only works if you imagine original flavor Winchesters: S1. No deals, no Hell, no angels.
A/N 3: beta'd by the brilliant, generous, and kind-hearted [profile] calamity_crow. All failures of imagination my own, of course.
A/N 4: rest assured that this won't be epic! ~6 parts, I think.
ETA: beautiful banner by ala_tariel

Summary: The title kind of says it all. And this:

“Fair sir,” said the knight, or Jedi warrior, or whatever the fuck he was, “will ye just?”

“Will I which?”

“Will you try passage of arms for land or lady or for—“

“Seriously? Seriously? What, did someone drop acid in the fake mead at the Renaissance Fair? Stop dicking around, man, and fuck off.”

Picture Credit by: ala_tariel

Contrary to popular belief, Dean preferred not to hustle pool. Sure, it was a thrill when everything went right, but given a choice, he’d rather just play on the up and up. He was good enough that he usually won, could make a fair amount of money that way, if not as much as when they were scamming. More importantly, though, there were fewer hard feelings, and therefore fewer punches, when no one felt they’d been duped.
Hustling, there was always a major chance that things could go south—too often before they’d pocketed the cash.

But sometimes, they just needed a lot of money fast, and playing a mark or two seemed like the best option. Seemed was the operative word in this case, Dean thought, as he blocked a nasty right hook from the surprisingly agile trucker who’d just twigged to the fact that he was being played. He’d thought the guy was muscle going to fat, but it turned out he was just muscle going to more muscle—plus, a few of the guys propping up the bar turned out to be his buddies. Five against two weren’t bad odds, but he’d seen better.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpse Sam land a blow to the gut of one of the larger buddies. He also saw another one behind Sam, swinging a pool cue at a perfect angle to crack against Sam’s ear.

“Sam!” he bellowed, turning his head a fraction to see what was going to happen. Mistake. The trucker’s fist connected solidly with his jaw and the last thing he felt was his head smacking against the barroom floor as he went down.


Dean came back to consciousness slowly. He could feel sunlight on his face, and a soft breeze brushing against his body. Must have kicked us out, he thought, conscious or unconscious. But whatever he was lying on was a hell of a lot softer than the blacktop surrounding last night’s dive, and something on it was tickling the back of his neck. He could hear chirping and whirring, but it didn’t sound like cars on a highway, even a distant highway. Kicked us way the fuck out, he thought, dragged us out to the middle of nowhere and dumped us. Shit.

He pried his eyes open, and sure enough he was lying in a field somewhere, blue sky overhead, long grass under him, birds chirping and flies buzzing. He brushed at an insect that had landed on his face. “Sam?” he called, “Hey, Sammy?” But the only reply he got was something that sounded disturbingly like a whinny.

Startled, Dean pushed himself up to his knees, groaning a little as the shift in elevation jarred his head. When he got upright, he was face to face with a horse. At least he thought it was a horse—he couldn’t see much of it behind the metal plate covering its snout and the purple, beribboned headdress it was wearing between its ears and down its mane.

“What the fuck?” He staggered to his feet. And then staggered backwards. Sitting on the horse was a figure in full armor. He couldn’t see the person’s face because it was covered by a plumed helmet whose only opening was a metal grate. Kinda like Darth Vader, only more silvery. There was a long spear clipped to the rider’s saddle, and he was pointing a thick, gleaming sword right at Dean.

“Okay. Dude. Whoa.” Dean backed up some more, hands in the air. “What’s up? Am I trespassing on a Renaissance Fair or something? Sorry, okay? I just gotta find my brother, and then we’re out of here, no harm done.”

“Fair sir,” said the knight, or Jedi warrior, or whatever the fuck he was, “will ye just?”

“Will I which?”

“Will you try passage of arms for land or lady or for—“

“Seriously? Seriously? What, did someone drop acid in the fake mead at the Renaissance Fair? Stop dicking around, man, and fuck off.”

Dean wasn’t trying to antagonize him, but it was the morning after the night before, his head hurt, and he probably sounded a little more aggressive than he should have. The knight seemed to think so, anyway, because in the space of about ten seconds he trotted the horse a little way off, turned it, exchanged the sword for the lance, lowered his head, and came charging straight towards Dean.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Dean said. Then he turned and ran. He reached for the gun usually tucked into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, but came up empty. As luck would have it, though, there was a tree directly ahead of him with some convenient branches. He used the lowest one to vault himself up, and then pulled himself into the higher limbs. The weight of that armor alone should prevent Sir Loonytoons from getting him there, he thought, relieved. The knight seemed to agree. When he reached the tree, he just slowly circled round it, thinking out his next move. Just then, Dean heard Sam’s voice.


“Sam! Over here. Well, up here, actually.”

“Dean? What’re you doing in a tree, Dean?” Sam sounded muzzy and slightly disapproving. Then his voice sharpened. “Oh.”


“Buddy,” Sam was addressing the knight now, and from his perch, Dean rolled his eyes at the appearance of Sam’s super-special voice o’reason. Lotta good it was going to do him here. But Sam plunged on: “I know maybe you think my brother’s part of whatever LARPing action you’ve got going on,” (what the hell is larping? Dean wondered), “But he’s not, he’s really not. So maybe you could just back away from the tree, okay, and let us get out of your way.”

Dean had to admit that usually Sam’s special voice worked wonders—it had gotten them out of some tight spots in its day. But there was something off about it right now. Through the leaves below him, he could see that Sam was a little unsteady on his feet. He was waving his arms around a little too enthusiastically, like he was the crazy one, and not the wackjob on the horse. Concussed, probably, from his close encounter with the pool stick. Dean’s worry level went up a notch. Then it shot through the roof when the knight, moving far faster than his heavy armor should have allowed, reached down and grabbed Sam, pulling him tight against the horse, a dagger against his throat. Where did that come from? Dean thought, the small part of him that wasn’t worried or furious admiring the guy’s personal armory.

“I claim this Giant as my captive,” said the knight triumphantly, “descend from the tree, stranger, and I will let you both live.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I will gut him like a fish. And take his head as my trophy.”

Dean came down from the tree.

The knight produced some rope from his crazy, invisible stockpile of stuff, and lashed their wrists together, so that they could walk one on each side of the horse, but couldn’t get away. The knots were complicated, and Dean couldn’t figure out a way to reach the knife that should be stashed in his boot. There was nothing to do but go wherever the nutcase was taking them.

He led them out of the grassy field onto a rough dirt road that had twinned tracks gouged into it a foot or two deep, and plenty of puddles besides. Once they left the open space of the field, trees lined the road on both sides, almost meeting overhead. There were no other travelers, and Dean couldn’t see any sign of human habitation on either side.

“Sam? Hey, Sammy, you okay?” Dean hissed, as soon as they’d gotten into a kind of rhythm of walking.

“Yeah, pretty much. Kind of dizzy, maybe a little concussed. You alright?”

“Peachy. Seriously, though, you’re not going to pass out or anything, right?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Not sure where we are though. Those guys at the bar must have run us right out of town.”

Dean was starting to have a bad feeling that they were much farther away than that. It had been early winter last night in Hartford. The trees and weather this morning seemed to be celebrating summer. He didn’t say anything, though.

After they’d stumbled along in the wake of the horse’s easy amble for an hour or two, the trees thinned out, and they could see ahead of them a town nestled in a valley by a winding river. On the hill above it was a vast compound of towers and turrets. It looked like--Dean forced himself to admit it--it looked like the biggest fucking castle you ever saw, outside of book, anyway. Had to be some kind of crazy theme park, or some billionaire’s private fantasy.

“Hey, mister! Hey, Sir Fights-a-lot!” Dean called to the knight, “Where are we? Is that Bridgeport?”

“Bridgeport?” the knight said, “I know of no such place. The noble fortress before you is Camelot.”


The knight marched them through the town and up the hill towards the castle. The house-line streets were just as muddy and pot-holed as the road, but with garbage added. They were full of people dressed as oddly as the guy on horseback; dogs, chickens, even pigs, ran underfoot. The men were wearing crude linen tunics and leggings, and the women wore long dresses made of the same fabric, many with their heads covered by turbans or shawls.

Everyone was busy with the various tasks of daily life, carrying baskets of vegetables, loads of kindling, standing by the open doorways gossiping. Like that school trip he’d been dragged on once to Colonial Williamsburg—but the Medieval version. Everyone was taking it pretty seriously, though. As the knight and his captives passed by, they would fall silent, bowing their heads a bit in respect, and then look up quickly to out-and-out stare at the Winchester brothers. And, yeah, Dean knew he was cute, would even admit Sam wasn’t bad looking, but he could do without feeling like he was the circus coming into town.

It was about two in the afternoon—as far as he could judge, since his watch was as AWOL as his gun—and without the shade of trees or houses, the sun was hot. Despite his metal armor, the knight seemed unperturbed. Yeah, thought Dean, ‘cause he’s riding a fucking horse. By the time they’d climbed the steep, bare hill, and come to the wide worked iron gate in the stone wall of the castle, Dean was drenched, and wishing he could ditch the heavy cotton jacket he still had on from last night. He jumped up a bit so he could see Sam over the top of the horse, and saw that he was sweating too, looking a little green along with it.

They passed into the stone courtyard of the castle. It was a wide space, with a bunch of people carrying out the same kind of tasks as the folks in the village, but dressed in richer fabrics and colors. There were with a few other guys in armor or chain mail mixed in with them, some carrying giant, notched spears—pikes, that was it.

“Hey!” Dean called, sensing an opportunity, “Any chance of a water break here? You guys ever hear of the Geneva convention, proper care of prisoners and all that?”

To his surprise, the knight did actually slow his horse a bit. Then Dean felt the rope stretched between his hands and Sam’s tug and heard a kind of surprised grunt. Jumping again, he saw that Sam had sunk to the ground, and was sitting dazedly on the cobbles. At little frantic, Dean tried to get to him around the horse, but the rope wouldn’t reach far enough, cutting into his wrists when he reached its limit. Feeling a little ridiculous, he crouched down and managed to get a better view of his brother under the horse’s belly.

“Sam—you okay? Talk to me, man.”

“Mmmm, m’fine,” Sam said, in a slurry voice that did nothing to relieve Dean’s anxiety.

“Oh, Kay,” he heard another voice say, in a tone of mild disapproval, “mistreating captives again? You know how the king feels about that.” Dean shifted to peer around the horse, and saw an older man in a long blue robe coming towards them. He had shoulder-length white hair, and a kindly expression on his wrinkled face. A much younger man was with him, dark-haired and pale, sporting a pair of truly prize-winning ears. The guy was younger than Sam, Dean thought, and gawkier than Sam had ever been, even that one really bad year in junior high.

“Here, son.” The older man had crouched down next to Sam, Dean saw as he looked under the horse again, and was offering him some water from a leather flask.

“I meant him no harm, Gaius,” the knight was saying, his voice no longer muffled by the Darth Vader headgear.

Their captor was younger than he’d expected, Dean realized, with a round, doughy face and sandy hair standing up in damp clumps. He was looking a little worried.

“He’s taken quite a blow to the head, Kay, by the looks of him. Is that your doing?” Gaius was moving confident and practiced fingers over Sam’s skull now. Sam gave a sharp hiss when he found the spot behind his right ear where the pool stick must have connected. “Nasty lump,” Gaius murmured to him, “but you’ll be fine.”

“No, no, I swear it wasn’t.” Kay swung himself down from his horse, and came over to stare at Sam. “Can you get him to stand up? I want to present them to Uther, and the assembly will be almost over by now.”

“He’ll make a better show tomorrow. Why don’t you wait?”

Kay was shaking his head, looking more like an eager teenager than a brave and terrifying knight.

“I want to do it today,” he said petulantly, “Look at them—they’re the most outlandish looking captives anyone’s brought in for ages. Everyone will have to start giving me a little respect when they see I’ve landed these two.”

“Where’d you find them, Kay?” That was the guy with the ears.

He sounded amused by the situation—not giving Kay that respect just yet, Dean thought.

“Ah—as you can see by their rich and exotic attire, they come from a far land of ice and mists, one I had to travel many leagues, and surpass many obstacles to discover…”

“But you’ve only been gone since yesterday afternoon, Kay.”

“Ah—um,” Kay seemed easily flustered, derailed from his tall tale too easily, in Dean’s opinion. “Alright then, I found them in that fallow field about five miles west. But they must come from really far away. Just look at them.” He insisted, his whole face lighting up with glee.

“Where do you come from, boys?” Gaius asked kindly.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look under the horse’s belly.

“Impala.” Dean finally said, straightening up and giving the Knight of the Crappy Lies a defiant stare. Two could play at this game, and he should think twice going up against the Winchesters. “We come from the far land of Impala.”


In the face of Kay’s enthusiasm, Gaius relented, and helped Sam stagger to his feet. The water seemed to have done him some good. Kay parked the horse somewhere, rebound the ropes so that their hands were behind them, and led them up the steps at the far end of the courtyard, Gaius and his friend following along behind.

They came into an enormous, high-ceilinged room, with rows of slit windows along one wall, and huge tapestries with brightly stitched scenes of hunting and courtship hanging across the other. The floors were bare stone, and their footsteps and the faint creaks and clanks of Kay’s armor threw back echoes that set Dean’s teeth on edge. The stone walls of the castle had kept out the day’s heat, and the air was noticeably cooler inside, if damp smelling, and weirdly still, as if it was too thick and old to be stirred by the bustle of people. Thin bars of afternoon light cut through the windows and carved out patches of brightness towards the center of the room, but the space along the walls was in shadow. Nonetheless, Dean could make out a pretty solid contingent of armed men standing back there, their pikes glinting a bit as they shifted. There was indeed some kind of audience in progress; knots of men and women stood in the better lit portions of the hall; they were all lavishly dressed, but Dean could see why Kay was calling Sam a giant—even Dean towered over most of them.

Kay maneuvered them through the crowd of people at the back of the room, and as they came out into the open Dean could see the folks in charge up at the front.

Sure enough, in the center, seated on an impressive wooden throne, was a guy wearing a crown. It was a relatively simple gold circlet, sure, but still unmistakably a crown. The man wearing it looked to be in early middle age. He had close-cropped hair, and a hard, commanding face: even sitting, Dean could see that he was powerfully built under his red cape.

Standing to his right, and a little behind him, his arms crossed, was a blond man about Sam’s age, wearing a short, ornate red jacket—the thing had studs, for chrissake, Dean thought—and a sword in a beautifully worked leather scabbard. The guy was handsome enough, and carried himself like he knew his way around a fight, but he had an arrogant sneer on his face worse than ones the rich, prep school kids used to bestow on raggedy public school kids like him and Sam when they were growing up—on the few occasions when they’d ended up in a town big enough to support a private school, that is. Gaius’s dark-haired buddy had gone to stand behind the prep school dude, ducking his head a little.

To the left of the guy with the crown, the view got better. A girl in a low-cut blue dress was sitting there—blue eyes, full red lips, and pale skin that almost glowed against her long black hair—a real knockout. Dean managed to catch her eye, and gave her his best, most appreciative smile. But all he got back was a haughtier look, if possible, than the blond guy’s. What an ice princess, he thought. And then bit back a hysterical giggle, as he realized she probably was a princess. Or thought she was. Or whatever.

Behind the princess stood two girls: one dark-skinned and pretty, with black curly hair; the other blond, with a long, pale, horsey face. The dark-haired girl smirked knowingly at Dean’s embarrassment; the blond girl just gawked, her mouth literally hanging open a bit, as if the Winchesters had strolled in from the surface of the moon.

Meanwhile, Kay had managed to get himself to the front of the crowd, and was tugging at the rope to bring Sam and Dean along with him.

“Sire,” Kay knelt, and jerked the rope until the Winchester brothers knelt with him. “I bring you two captives from the far land of Impala. A giant,” he gestured expansively at Sam, “and his keeper,” he flung a hand in Dean’s direction.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Dean spluttered. “I’m not his keeper. Not that he doesn’t need one sometimes. But I’m his brother. Not his keeper. Not my brother’s keeper….” He trailed off. Jeez—he was starting to lose it.

“And I’m not a giant,” Sam chimed in, “Just kind of on the tall side. Where we come from, anyway…” Sam looked around the room, apparently only now realizing that he was looking down on just about everyone in it.

“Oh for goodness sake, Kay,” said the blond guy contemptuously, “Where did you find the starving mountebanks this time?” Dean was beginning to sense the lack of respect Kay was talking about.

“Silence,” said the king. “That’s enough, Arthur. Thank you, Kay. They are very—unusual. Have them brought to the dungeons until I can decide what to do with them. Have you any friends who can ransom you, Giant?” This last was addressed to Sam.

Shit, thought Dean. Dungeons. Ransoms. This was getting way too serious. He tried to think of an exit strategy. Then Sam solved the problem for them by passing out cold on the stone floor.

part one

  • (no subject) -
    • eeepppp, indeed! I'm committed to seeing it through to the end now...*hides under pillow*

      thanks for reading, and everything else!
  • (no subject) -
    “We come from the far land of Impala.”
  • Oh yes. I love this! Crossover = WIN. Please post more soon <3
    • I'm so glad you're enjoying it! crossovers are their own kind of fun, aren't they? posting more tomorrow--
  • Supernatural + Merlin = possibly the best thing ever.

    I love it! Can't wait for the next chapter. :)
  • I love this! I hope you continue it. You did a nice job with crossing over the two very different worlds.

    I look forward to seeing how you take this further. :)
    • I'm so glad you're enjoying it! a lot of the mechanism for the crossing comes from Twain--but I'm not ashamed to steal borrow. Posting more tomorrow--
  • (no subject) -
  • I've been wanting a SPN and Merlin crossover for ages!

    This is brilliant!
  • OMG!!! My friend gave me the link and I literally flailed a bit - I want more plz! And Dean's voice? Spot on - love it!
  • Aaaaah!!!! how awesome is that??? Finally a Supernatural crossover!! *__* And it starts so promising! I can't wait until the next chapter. Keep up the good work :3

    I think you captuered all the charaters just perfectly! And I laughed at the idea of thinking Sam is a giant XD

    Me wants moar :3
  • (no subject) -
    • Thanks!

      I want to draw the Yankee trying to sell a bike to Arthur and his knights (with a very displeased King Uther in the background summoning the executioner).
      You should really draw that--it would be hilarious!

      the Winchester boys would rather construct a car, provided they'll make it out of the dungeon.
      I love this aspect of the Twain story too, where the Yankee starts making stuff--starting with gunpowder!--but I'm probably not going to do justice to it in my fic...apologies in advance!

      Thanks for reading--posting more tomorrow--
  • Interesting idea :DD
  • Ok, so my first reaction when I saw this in the community was O_o, then I got too curious to pass it up and read it and OMG LOL it's brilliant! keep going!!!
    • I suck at emoticons, but I think O_o means "huh?" or even "WTF?" And yeah, I know what you mean about the wackiness of the idea!

      But glad you took a peak, and glad you enjoyed it!

      posting more tomorrow--
  • This was great. I have never seen Supernatural but I liked the Mark Twain book. Very cool!
    • Thanks! I'm so glad it worked for someone who doesn't know Supernatural. I'm never going to be able to do justice to Twain's book, but it was very inspiring--
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