Sam didn't understand why they were in Boston. Yes, all right, Chuck had phoned Dean and told them they needed to be there, but he hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details. Sam had spent the last eight hours sitting in the Impala and scouring the newspapers for demonic omens, suspicious deaths, anything, but his eyes were crossing and he still hadn't found any sign of what to expect.

"Are you sure Chuck didn't say anything about why we're supposed to be here?" he asked for the fifth time as they approached the city's limits. "A hint? Something we're supposed to do that turns out to be important later?"

Dean's impatience was audible in his voice. "Yes, I'm sure. He said to get our asses to Boston, and here we are." Dean cranked up the music, obviously hoping that Metallica would shut Sam up.

"But we don't even know what we're looking for!" Sam said, tossing the newspapers aside. Dean's eyes were pinned on the road ahead of them, knuckles tight on the wheel.

"Sam, the guy's writing our life story. Listening to him is not the worst idea we've ever had." Dean glanced over at him for a second before turning his attention back to the road.

"It's just… Chuck's never really told us to go and do anything before, never warned us about anything. What's so different about this?" Sam looked out at the Boston skyline visible across the bridge. "And why can't he tell us about it?"

"Sam. Drop it." Dean had learned that voice from Dad, Sam was sure of it. It was the voice that meant, if you don't stop asking fool questions, boy, you'll be walking. Sam huffed a sigh and slid down in his seat. Waiting. He hated waiting.

Arthur Pendragon, crown prince and heir to the throne of Camelot, had absolutely no idea where he was.

"Merlin," he said slowly, "what in God's name have you done this time?" Merlin garbled back something about how he didn't know where they were or how they got there, but it most definitely wasn't his fault. He also muttered something mildly insubordinate about Arthur assuming everything was his fault, just because that one time with the rabbit– but Arthur had stopped listening.

He had never, in all his life, seen a place like this. Moving wagons with no horses roared past them, growling and spitting smoke like dragons, but none of the people inside them seemed to notice or care. Instead of the familiar feel of grass and earth beneath his feet, a hard white rock covered the ground in squares where they stood, bordering the darker rock road where the metal wagons rumbled. Tall castle-like structures were everywhere, looming over their heads twice as high as Camelot's tallest tower and shining like polished armor. He could barely see the sky.

There was nothing remotely familiar here, nothing to ground himself with, and Arthur could feel the waves of panic lapping at the edges of his mind. None of his father's training applied here. There was no way to know what was dangerous and what wasn't, no way to track down the evil thing and kill it. He didn't know what to do.

"Arthur? Are you all right?"

Arthur turned. Merlin. Merlin, he knew– the mop of black hair, the ridiculously over-sized ears, the way his forehead scrunched and his head tilted slightly to the side when, as now, he was staring at Arthur in concern. Arthur met Merlin's eyes, which seemed even bluer against the harsh grey background they'd found themselves in, and squared his shoulders.

"I'm fine, Merlin, stop fussing like an old woman," he said, giving Merlin a friendly shove and settling his other hand on his sword. He wouldn't let Merlin down.

Sam was still brooding when they pulled into the parking lot of the Mariott Hotel. Dean rolled his eyes and thwacked his brother's arm. "Here you are, princess," he said. "Home sweet home."

Pushing himself up in his seat, Sam eyed the hotel, looking confused. "Uh, Dean? Are you sure we're at the right place?"

"You wanna sleep in the backseat, be my guest," Dean said as he turned off the Impala and opened the door.

"It's just– this isn't exactly a disco-themed motel in backwater Mississippi, Dean," Sam said. "This place is... nice."

Normal, Dean heard. Not like us. "Yeah, well, maybe I wanted a change in scenery," he said. "Maybe I'm tired of sleeping under sheets that were washed who knows how long ago, or dealing with unidentifiable black goop every time I wanna take a shower." He grabbed his duffel from the trunk and swung it over his shoulder.

Sam raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Alright. Alright. Change of scenery. Fine by me." He pulled out his own bag and closed the trunk with a snap, following Dean into the first respectable hotel they had been to since…well, in a long time.

It just figured, Dean thought. Sam always complained about the motels they stayed in– the suspicious stains on the mattress, the cockroaches in the walls, the bizarre mishmash of decorations. Kid couldn't even appreciate the hilariousness of a mermaid lamp with a cowboy hat for a lampshade. Now here they were, finally staying at someplace that'd live up to Sammy's delicate sensibilities, and he was making a bitchface about it.

Dean hadn't told Sam that this particular hotel was another one of Chuck's instructions. That would just have worried him even more, and Dean had enough trouble dealing with inquisitive-Sam without worried-Sam nattering away in that earnest voice of his. Dean figured he was worrying enough for both of them, anyway.

He pushed open the front door of the hotel. The lobby was dim compared to the bright sun outside, and Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. Damn, he was tired. He was always tired these days. Still, he pulled out a cocky smile for the girl at the front desk, adding a little swagger to his step.

"Hey there–" he glanced at her name tag– "Marcia. Two queens, please."

"Certainly," she smiled, and Dean wondered if it would be worth the effort to sweet-talk her. He wondered what sort of porn they got in these kinds of hotels. Upscale hotels had upscale porn, right? Then again, porn was porn, whichever way you looked at it.

"There you are, sir," said Marcia, and she handed him two key cards. Dean turned to give one to Sam... but Sam wasn't there.

"Sam?" he called, gripping the handle of his duffel bag and scanning the lobby. He saw Sam's bag lying in the middle of the polished floor, and the tightness in his chest ratcheted up another notch. Before he could go into full-on panic mode, though, he saw a tall figure with a plaid shirt and shaggy brown hair hurrying across the busy street outside. That bitch.

Dean picked up Sam's bag and shoved both duffels and a twenty-dollar bill into the hands of a gangly teenager wearing a red bellhop costume. "Room 508, and don't open them," he ordered as the boy staggered under the weight. He didn't wait for the boy's terrified nod before he hightailed it out the door toward his brother.

Sam had only intended a quick run back to the Impala. He had forgotten the bag of dirty clothes that he and Dean kept separate for washing, a policy he had instituted a few months after he and Dean had started hunting together again. There was only so much blood and sweat on his clean clothes that he was willing to deal with, and now that they each had a set of actual nice clothes, he refused to shove everything into the same duffel. Fortunately, Dean had only shrugged and told him to do whatever the hell he wanted.

Closing the lid to the Impala's trunk, Sam looked up and frowned. Two men across the street caught his attention, one dark-haired and one blond, both standing unusually still in the swirl of businessmen and tourists. Something about them seemed... off. Their clothes, for one thing– oddly dressed people weren't uncommon in a large city like Boston, but these two both looked as if they had gotten lost on their way to a Renaissance Fair. LARPers, Sam thought, but their darted glances at the people going past them were less social awkwardness and more like barely-restrained panic. And– did the blond one have a sword?

Sam made his way across the street, the bag of dirty laundry still clutched in his hand, dodging the midday chaos of Boston traffic. His mind briefly flickered to Dean, busy checking them into the hotel several feet away, but Sam shook his head and kept his eyes on the two strangers. He would phone Dean as soon as he could. Besides, Dean had probably already either collapsed on the bed in exhaustion or was checking out the quality of the hotel porn, and therefore unlikely to notice how long Sam was taking. Sam pushed through the crowd, determined to figure out why these two strangers seemed so drastically out of place.

"Arthur, we need to ask someone for help,"said Merlin. His head hurt from the chaotic noise surrounding them, and something like a humming sound in the back of his mind kept bothering him, drifting in and out of his hearing range.

"We don't know if it's safe," Arthur said tightly, and Merlin pursed his lips. True, neither of them knew where they were, but standing on this strange street corner and glaring wasn't going to help them find out, and Merlin was sure that his magic could take on whatever might threaten them. A metal wagon made a blaring noise next to him and Merlin jumped. Mostly sure.

"You guys lost or something?" a voice asked from behind them.

Merlin and Arthur turned around simultaneously. The man standing there was taller than both of them, his shoulders broader even than Arthur's, but he had warm hazel eyes and a crooked grin on his face. His shirt was rumpled, and had a strange pattern of squares on it. Merlin squinted at him. Was this man a sorcerer?

"We are not lost," Arthur said, stepping slightly in front of Merlin and jutting his chin out, ever the stubborn prince.

"Actually–" Merlin piped up, but Arthur grabbed his elbow.

"We don't know who this man is," Arthur said in a quiet rush against Merlin's ear. "For all we know, he's the one who sent us here."

"He might be able to help," Merlin protested.

Even though Merlin had whispered and they were in a loud, crowded space, the stranger managed to hear what he had said. "Your friend's right," he said to Arthur. "I could help. You look like something weird happened to you, and..." He laughed, shrugging those wide shoulders. "I'm kind of an expert in weird."

Before Merlin could answer, a voice down the street yelled "Sam!" and the stranger turned, a guilty look on his face. A shorter man with spiky hair drew up beside him, looking furious.

"What the hell, Sammy? Jesus, I leave you alone for two seconds and you go wandering off by yourself? How do you know that's not what goes wrong in Boston, huh?"

Merlin watched the exchange. The man with spiky hair was obviously angry, but beneath that he could see something similar to fear. It was almost the way his mother had looked at him when she sent him away from Ealdor: protective but unable to protect.

"You can't even call me before you–" The man broke off, noticing Merlin for the first time. "Who the hell are these freaks?"

Merlin stepped around from behind Arthur. "Look, we are lost," he said. Let Arthur keep his pride; Merlin just wanted to go home. "Could you tell us where we are?"

The taller man smiled kindly. "This is Boston, Massachusetts."

Merlin had known that they weren't anywhere near Camelot anymore, but hearing it said, the words hanging in the air between them, caused his stomach to clench. He'd never heard of Bostonmassachusetts, not even in the old history books in the back of Camelot's libraries, and he had no idea how far they were from home. He looked at Arthur, who stopped glaring at the spiky-haired man long enough to exchange a worried glance.

"I'm Sam, by the way," said the first man. "This is my brother Dean."

Dean snorted. "Dude, you don't have to introduce yourself to every whack job on the Eastern Seaboard."

Merlin saw Arthur's eyes narrow, and he put a warning hand on the prince's elbow. "I'm Merlin," he said. "This is Arthur–"

"Prince Arthur," Arthur corrected imperiously, staring at Dean as though daring him to contradict him. Merlin sighed.

"All right, Prince Arthur."

Sam and Dean gave each other a look that Merlin couldn't interpret. He put that aside, and asked the question he had been burning to know.

"How long will it take us to get back to Camelot?"