A/N: This contains elements from the first and second season of SPN and is focused heavily on the plot of OUAT season 1. I own only Morgan and Adrian Jones, and other characters that do not appear in the canons. All else belongs to their respective creators.

Chapter 1 - Welcome to Storybrooke

The black '67 Impala ghosted along the pavement with ease and grace. Night had fallen, cold and overcast, and Dean Winchester rolled up the driver's side window. He adjusted the dial on the radio, but as far as he could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere; the signal here was fickle, but he left the radio on for the sake of having background noise in the cab. Too much silence unnerved him.

"It's too damn cold out here," he muttered as with a flick of his wrist he turned up the heat. "Where the hell are we anyway?"

Dean's brother Sam, who had been lost in thought, started and reached forward. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a map and flashlight. As he unfolded it and clicked the flashlight on, he replied, "Maine. There's not another town for at least sixty miles; according to this, we're about seventy-five miles southeast of Bangor now."

"How the hell did we end up this far out?"

"I think we took a wrong turn somewhere. But these coordinates Dad sent us don't make sense." Sam paused to glance at Dean's cellphone with the aforementioned coordinates, and used them and the map for comparison. His brows furrowed, as was their tendency when he was concentrating.

"What do you mean they don't make sense?" Dean snapped, frustration edging his tone, as he glanced quickly from the meandering road to his brother, then back again.

"He sent us coordinates for some sort of town, apparently; SB 44.230, -68.543. But there's no town on the map. I ran the coordinates through Maine's Department of Marine Resources before we left Salem - absolutely nothing came up. Ran them through a few other databases and still nothing."

"How many times did you check?"

"Twice."

Dean's grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. His annoyance was growing with every mile; they had been traveling this road for hours, and they had not seen a single car since crossing the New Hampshire line. The road meandered, twisted, rose and fell with the terrain, flowing with the rocky landscape rather than through it. On either side of the lonely highway, pines and oaks towered, ominous silhouettes against an even darker sky. They had not heard from John in months, which was altogether not so unusual; however, the fact that he had sent them coordinates for a town that didn't exist puzzled and irked him. John was meticulous, and he would never make such a mistake as giving them the wrong coordinates, especially not when it involved gathering clues to find the creature that had murdered their mother and Sam's girlfriend.

Dean's jaw tensed. This is bullshit.

The radio faded to static again, though this time Dean did not even bother to adjust the dial. Neither brother seemed willing to say much more, and both fell into silence, and thus into their respective reveries.

For another five miles southeast, the Impala continued her course. They had returned to an area with decent signal, and now Metallica's Master of Puppets was blaring through the speakers. Dean's mood had greatly lifted as a result, and he was now happily drumming his hands on the wheel in tempo with the music.

Sam continued staring into the veil of darkness that stretched endlessly before them; the Impala's headlights had caused a rent in the dark, and for a moment, Sam's vision softened with road fatigue. The roaring bass and pulsing drumbeats seemed a world away now, had faded to a drone in the very back of his mind. Jessica's death was still so vivid that he could almost feel the warm stickiness of her blood on his forehead, could feel the heat of the fire that had erupted from her body. His stomach lurched rather painfully as the images had begun to worm their way back into his consciousness.

Suddenly, the radio had been reduced to static again, though this was static was strange; it was higher pitched, with soft tinkling noise behind the crackle. Dean and Sam glanced at one another, when the car came to a sharp stop, causing both boys to lurch forward in their seats. Dean grabbed the wheel, while Sam gripped the dash. The engine had died completely and without warning. From the backseat came the familiar, high-pitched squeal of Dean's EMF detector. He reached into the black bag on the seat to retrieve it, and found that every light was shining steadily and brightly; the squealing was just as intense as the lights, but a moment later, the detector fell into silence. The lights had flickered once, then turned off. The detector was dead as well.

"Goddammit," Dean cursed under his breath as he tossed it angrily back into the bag.

He opened the door and climbed out of the car, his brother following suit. He walked to the front of the Impala and lifted the hood; after a moment's inspection, he concluded that there was no logical reason for the car to die. The battery was relatively new, she had just been topped off, and he had changed the oil himself. She was running perfectly only a few moments ago and had given no indication that something was wrong.

Sam, meanwhile, took a moment to survey their surroundings. The road had not changed, and there was nothing that they could have struck with the car. He turned to the right and found a lonely sign, dimly lit by a single light on the ground a foot in front of it. He could not read it at this angle. He walked to it and came to stand before it. In elegant lettering, the sign declared, Welcome to Storybrooke.

"Hey Sam, where are we?" Dean called to him when he had shut the hood with a dull, metallic thud.

"Storybrooke, according to the sign," Sam replied, motioning at it with his chin.

Dean looked at his brother incredulously. "Wait. Storybrooke?"

Sam shrugged. "It's what the sign says."

"What the hell kind of name is Storybrooke?"

"Maybe Disney owns it?"

"The greedy bastards just weren't happy with Florida and California, were they?" Dean muttered under his breath as he looked at the Impala again, who sat dark and silent on the road. With a sigh he rubbed the back of his neck.

"We don't have much of a choice, Dean," Sam said as he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "At least we broke down within the town limits, which means it's just a short walk. From there we can call a tow truck or a shop or something, get something to eat, and find an inn or motel."

The wisdom in this statement was something Dean could not refute. It was growing later and colder, and they would probably freeze in the Impala. As reluctant as he was, he nodded and followed Sam up the road and past the car (Dean gave it an apologetic glance as he passed).

Storybrooke, as Sam had inferred, was a small, sleepy town, the epitome of a quaint New England town. It had to have been quite late, as there were no residents out and about, but he was puzzled when he glanced up at the clock tower in the center of the square.

"It's only eight fifteen," he noted, glancing at his brother. "I know this is a small town, but isn't this still kind of early for it to be so deserted?"

"Eight fifteen?" Dean looked down at his watch. "My watch says it's almost ten."

"The clock never works," came a child's voice from behind them.

They started and turned to find a boy, no more than nine or ten years old, looking up at them with great interest. He was fair and slender, with short black hair and striking blue-green eyes.

"Who're you?" Dean asked.

The boy opened his mouth to a reply, but a woman called out, "Adrian!"

The Winchesters glanced up to find a woman hurrying towards them. Like the boy, she had black hair, which had been swept back into a low ponytail. Her skin, too, was fair as porcelain, and her eyes were a cold pale green.

"What are you doing here, sweetheart?" the woman asked as she crouched in front of the boy. "You were supposed to have walked straight home from Aunt Gina's."

"I was, but they walked into town," Adrian explained, motioning to the men with his hand. "I've never seen them before."

The woman seemed to have just become aware of their presence, for she stood to her full height and eyed them suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean. Our car broke down just outside of the town limits."

"I see." She was still wary of them, that much the boys could see; she had both of her hands on the boy's shoulders, and stood protectively above him.

"And you are...?" Dean asked.

"Morgan," the woman replied. "Morgan Jones. This is my son, Adrian."

Dean looked her over, and was quite pleased with the female member of the welcoming committee. Upon seeing his appraising look, her eyes narrowed. Sam, noting the tension, cleared his throat.

"Do you know where we can find a tow truck around here?" he asked.

She turned her attention to Sam, though not without a final glare at Dean. "It's just a few blocks over. However, it's closed for the night. There's a diner just right down the street, Granny's. I can escort you there if you'd like."

Dean was not impressed with her coldness, though Sam would rather have cold civility than none at all.

"I suppose you don't get much action here in the way of newcomers," Sam observed as he and Dean began to follow her and Adrian down the street.

"No, we don't," she answered over her shoulder. "No one ever comes to Storybrooke, and no one ever leaves."

The Winchesters looked at one another uneasily, and the unspoken rang heavily between them: Another case?

It was a short walk to the facade of the diner, whereupon Morgan turned to face the two strangers. "The same woman who owns this place also owns the bed and breakfast just down the road. If you explain your situation, I'm certain she'll accommodate you."

Sam nodded in thanks, while Dean was busy perusing the menu on a chalkboard easel in front of the door. "Sam, look!" he cried excitedly. "They have pie!"

"The best pie in town," Morgan said with a hint of pride in her tone.

"Thanks for your help, Miss Jones," Sam went on.

"It's Mrs. Jones, and you're welcome."

Dean straightened; he did nothing to conceal the disappointment that had crept across his handsome features. "You're married?"

She nodded. "My husband owns the shipyard and dock across town."

"So he's a sailor?" Sam inquired.

"All his life," she replied.

"Dad's got seawater in his veins instead of blood," Adrian piped up. "That's what Mom always says."

Morgan glanced down at her son and smiled, but it faded into her customary serious expression when she returned her attention to the brothers before her.

"She reminds me of it every day," a man's accented voice added from the door to the diner. An extremely handsome man, tall and dark, with arresting sea blue eyes, had just exited the establishment and was now walking towards Morgan and Adrian. He eyed the Winchesters, though his expression, unlike hers, was difficult to read. The two could see the gears turning in his head, however.

"Haven't seen you two around here before," he continued. "What're your names?"

"I'm Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sammy-"

"Don't call me that; it's Sam."

Dean ignored him. "Our car broke down just outside of town."

"Has it now?" the man asked, quirking a black brow. "Well, gents, you're out of luck until morning when the shop opens."

"Yeah, we know," Dean grumbled, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"It just occurred to me that I've not introduced myself," the man said smoothly. "And here I'm trying to teach my son to be a gentleman. I'm Killian Jones - you already know my wife and son."

"Pleased to meet you all," Sam nodded.

"I'm sure you know this already, but your arrival is sure to cause quite a stir," Killian said. "After all, it's not often that we get strangers here."

"Morgan acknowledged that, yes."

Killian smirked. "Welcome to Storybrooke, Sam and Dean."