Title: Where Angels Tread
Programs: Supernatural, Doctor Who, Sherlock, Merlin
Rating: M
Type: Crossover
Setting: Supernatural, between the season seven episodes "There Will Be Blood" and "Surival of the Fittest"; Doctor Who, after "The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe"; Sherlock, after "The Reichenbach Fall"; Merlin, after "The Sword in the Stone, Part 2."
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or stories. I am just an obsessed fangirl writing a fic.
Summary: When Sam gets trapped by the Weeping Angels in medieval Camelot, Dean employs the help of some strange new friends to get him back. Meanwhile, Sam and Merlin stumble upon a plot that may kill the king.
Reviews would be appreciated.

Chapter One.

Oak Grove, Oregon
May 15th, 2012

They'd been in houses just like it hundreds of times, but Sam couldn't remember a time when they had one to call their own. Dean did, but just barely. It had thick blue curtains on every window, a well-worn sofa, appliances that the previous home's owners never dreamed of, and framed pictures of smiling faces—the normal suburban home of a normal suburban family, or at least it used to be. The happy family of four, not to mention their fluffy Pomeranian, disappeared without a trace three weeks back, along with any neighbor, extended family member, or police official who entered the house in the weeks that followed. At least ten people had gone missing without a trace.

"It's like the place gobbles up anyone who walks through the front door," Dean had said when they read about the case in the newspaper two days prior.

The only one to get out alive so far was a teenager from the local high school, Jordan Michaels. He and two of his friends decided it might be a good idea to sneak into the so-called "haunted" house on a bet. The other two boys had vanished that night, and none of the cops believed Jordan's story. No one did, not until Sam and Dean showed up.

The grandfather clock in the next room chimed, warning them that it was one in the morning, and Sam cocked his rifle out of instinct. The noise made Dean jump, too, and he raised the sledgehammer in his hands to thin air before relaxing and lowering it again. They had both been on edge all night, because they were somewhat unsure of just what they were up against.

If it bleeds, you can kill it, had been a Winchester family motto for years; but Sam wasn't sure stone could bleed.

"Tell me again what these things are?" Dean asked, keeping his eyes peeled as he looked around the darkened room.

"Uh, they're called the Weeping Angels," Sam replied from across the room, trying not to give a droning textbook description—not like any textbook would seriously talk about anything like these creatures. Research on them was a bitch. "Some online forums say they're from a different planet, and if you get touched by one of them, you get sent off to Never-Never Land." Sam scoffed at his own words.

"Uh-huh," answered Dean, nonplussed. "And what do sane people say about 'em?"

"Sane people?" Sam let out a laugh. "Jack-squat. But the earliest mention of them goes back to medieval times, in fable. It's an old Arthurian legend."

"Saying what?" Dean had taken to inspecting an antique vase on the mantelpiece. Unsure if his brother was even listening anymore, Sam went on regardless.

"They were witches, and traitors to the crown, who the old sorcerer Merlin turned into living stone, and trapped them for eternity in Orion's Belt as punishment."

Dean let out a heavy sigh. "Just wish we had more to go on than Gandalf or this X-Files crap," he said.

Sam shrugged. "Well, there isn't much on these things, but any lore I could find on them said the same thing: they look like ordinary statues, but when you look away, they come to life."

"Better not look away, then," Dean muttered. "Alright. How d'we kill 'em?"

Sam was just about to open his mouth to say he had no clue. He scoured the Internet looking for any mention of these things, but he didn't find a single line on how to kill them. Figures, he thought, I doubt anyone on an online forum leaves their mother's basement, let alone knows how to kill anything. Sam assumed guns were useless against stone, and probably their best bet was getting close enough to smash the thing into pieces; hence the sledgehammer. The bullets, of course, were precautionary.

He would have said all this, but a sudden crash from the other room interrupted him. Sam swung his rifle towards the open doorway, listening carefully for any other sounds. When a sound finally came, it was a whisper from behind him.

"Sam," Dean hissed to get his brother's attention. Sam glanced behind himself at Dean, who silently nodded his head towards the doorway, giving Sam the signal to go in. Then Dean tilted his head towards the kitchen. "I'll take the back the way. Let's trap this sucker." Seconds later, he disappeared into the dark kitchen.

Sam hunched his shoulders and stepped slowly into the next room, cringing at each floorboard that creaked under his weight. His eyes searched his new surroundings, which were decorated similarly to the previous room, and he heard a slight murmuring coming from down the hall.

"Dean?" Sam called in a loud whisper, his rifle still ready in his hands as he inched passed a window towards the sounds. He was too preoccupied with the voices to notice the dark figure on the other side of the window, standing motionless with its arm outstretched, crushing the flowerbed.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's alright," he heard Dean's voice echo from down the hall. "Come on in here."

Sam let out a sigh of relief and relaxed his shoulders, but it wasn't until that moment that he felt a strange presence behind him. He spun around quickly, hardly having enough time to register the form of a grayish colored statue just inches away; it's arms were stretched over its head like it was about to pounce, and its face was twisted grotesquely to reveal fang-like stone teeth.

Sam let out a "whoa" and jumped backwards, his entire body cringing in instinctual defense, as his rifle went off.

The kitchen appeared to be empty as Dean entered it, holding the sledgehammer up in one hand and his flashlight in the other. His eyes swept the room, taking in the regular kitchen appliances, the large bay window over the sink, and the sliding glass door that led outside to the backyard. When his eyes fell on the island counter in the middle of the room, he heard a soft hushing noise from behind it.

Raising the hammer higher into the air, he swiftly and silently moved towards the other side of the counter, keeping his composure even when he saw two small masses huddled together on the floor. They yelped and weakly tried to shield themselves with their arms. Dean let out a heavy breath and let his arms drop to his side, relieved to have the weight lifted.

"C'mon, you two. Up," he commanded the two teens, who instantly rose up from their huddle. The first was a tall, lanky-limbed boy with sandy colored hair; the other was a short girl, whose long straggly hair covered her eyes as she looked down at the floor. "What the hell d'you think you're doing here?" Dean demanded, going into parent-mode.

"W-we wanted to see a haunted house," said the boy guiltily, constantly trying and failing to look Dean in the eye. "We're from the next town over. Some of our friends said people disappeared from this house."

"So you thought it'd be a good idea to spend the night in it?" Dean didn't expect an answer.

"Please, mister! Don't call the police!" the girl finally broke her silence. "I have a scholarship!"

Dean heard Sam call his name from the down the hall, and he realized his brother must have been wondering where he was. "Yeah, Sammy, it's alright," he called back. "Come on in here."

He turned his attention back to the teenagers. "Alright, kids, playtime's over," he said, exasperated, as he walked over to the kitchen door and slid it open, gesturing for the kids to walk through it. "Go study or drink in a park or whatever it is you do." He pushed a smile onto his face as the teenagers bowed their heads and exited the house.

"Man, when did it become my job to babysit?" Dean muttered under his breath as he slid the door closed and turned back to the dark room, now empty.

Where the hell is Sam?

Dean was just about to call for his brother again when he heard a loud gunshot ring out from the other room.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, his heart skipping a beat, as he ran down the hall and skidded to a halt in the room. It was empty. There was no sign of Sam, save for his shotgun lying abandoned on the floor.

"Sam?" Dean called again, raising the sledgehammer. No one answered.