Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural or The A-team. Not for profit. All in good fun.

A/N: Obviously, this is a crossover between Supernatural and the TV series of The A-team, not the movie.

Sam had been in bars like this so many times over the years he'd lost count. Un-swept wooden floor, bar across the back wall with shelves of spirit bottles behind it. There was a pool table in the corner, green covering worn down by rolling balls and scratching cues until it was smooth and faded. A row of wobbly stools sat at the bar, and a few tables were scattered around, odd numbers of stools around them. There were windows in the front wall, looking out into the street, but they were so dirty the light barely made it through.

The bar was nearly empty. Sam didn't know why. It had been late evening when he and Dean had slouched back on their beds in the shabby motel in the middle of nowhere. They'd been settling down for a quiet night, recovering from the hunt, and Dean had switched on the TV. Then, boom, here they were, in a small-town bar. It seemed to be daytime outside, though the dirty windows kept the room dim. So maybe it was too early for big business. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the salient point here.

Sam nudged his brother, hissing, "What the hell just happened?"

Dean still had the remote in one hand, the other clutching the gun he kept under his pillow. "How should I know? But I'm pretty sure it's not good."

There was a bartender in a plaid shirt wiping the bar with a rag. His face was forgettable, and he seemed non-threatening but strangely tense. The only other patrons were an old drunk in a baggy raincoat and what looked like someone else's toupee, who was hunched at one end of the bar in a cloud of cigar smoke, and two guys eating at one of the tables. One was in a ball cap and battered leather jacket, and appeared to be putting on some kind of puppet show with his fries for his friend in the fancy suit.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hi there," he said. "Would someone mind telling us where we are?"

The old guy in the raincoat stood up and shucked off his raincoat and toupee, placing them carefully on the bar. He was a white-haired, maybe early sixties. He spoke around his cigar, a wide smile on his face. "Certainly. You're in Cooper's Bar, and that's the way it's going to stay. You can keep up the false pleasantness as long as you want, but there's still a place in this town that's not selling out to you."

"Uh, okay," Sam said doubtfully. It looked like they weren't going to get anymore information here. "If you could just direct us to the nearest library, we'll get out of your hair."

"Um, Sam?" Dean's voice had a warning in it.

Sam looked over at his brother. Dean nodded his head in the direction of the door. The man in the baseball cap, who'd been so innocuously making his fries dance a few moments ago, was standing in front of the door with his hands behind his back, blocking their exit. Sam looked around for another way out and found the door to the backroom blocked by the man in the snazzy suit. He'd removed his jacket and was rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The bartender was nowhere in sight.

"Put down your gun, Mr Little," The white-haired man said, still without removing his cigar.

Dean looked behind him for Mr Little, and then, not finding anyone else in the bar, pointed to himself. "Who, me? How about no?"

"You're making a mistake, Mr Little. Now I suggest you place your weapon on the floor and kick it over to me."

Dean was gripping his gun tighter than ever.

Sam decided someone needed to defuse the situation. "There seems to be some kind of confusion, here," he said. "I don't know who you think we are, but—"

"Oh, there's no confusion. We know what you've been doing in this town, and we've come to correct it," The man puffed out cigar smoke. "Murdock."

Sam looked around at the man by the door just in time to see him pull a machine gun out from behind him. "Dean!" Sam tackled his brother to the ground as a hail of bullets flew over their heads, shattering bottles behind the bar.

"Get off me, Sam," Dean shoved him off, reluctantly setting his gun on the ground and sliding it across the floor.

The man in the suit picked it up and examined it, seeming totally unruffled by the machine gun fire that had missed him by about a foot and a half. "Nice. We've been running low on handguns lately."

"Now," said the guy with the cigar, "We're taking down your operation. Face, tell them our proposition."

The suit guy looked up, tucking Dean's gun into his waistband, and then pulling it out and handing it to Murdock. "Ruins the line. Now, I have that list somewhere. Oh, yes," He picked his suit jacket up from the bar, brushing slivers of glass from it, and reached into the pocket, coming up with a small notebook. He opened it. "Here we go. There's the damage to this bar: that's three hundred dollars for physical damage, plus another thousand for loss of business. Then there's Cooper's motel next door, we'll want that back. And Jerry's Diner, the six other stores on Main Street, and then there's the Walker farm. Oh, and our fee. So all up, you owe us; let's see… why don't we just make it a round two million?"

Sam got to his feet slowly, showing the men his empty hands. Dean stood beside him, still holding the TV remote.

"Uh uh uh," Murdock reached over and removed the remote from Dean's hand, still training the machine gun on him.

"You've got two days," said the leader, "Throw them out."

To Sam's surprise, the two flunkies abandoned their weapons in favour of unarmed combat, and the white haired man flung his cigar away and leapt into the fray with surprising agility.

Sam was a big guy. He could hold his own in a fist fight. The trouble was that he wasn't used to fighting humans. Especially well-trained humans. And these guys were definitely trained. Some of their moves were a bit unorthodox, but mostly Sam could identify and counter them. He ducked a punch from the old guy and pulled one of the other guys off Dean, shoving him across the room so Dean could deal with his friend.

"Christo?" He tried. None of the men paused. The one in the suit dived on Sam from halfway across the room and Sam went down with a painful thud.

Sam rolled on top of the guy who'd leapt on him and forced him onto his stomach, twisting his arm behind his back. "Who are you?" He growled.

Behind him, he heard someone yell, "BA!" and then suddenly he was flying out the window and landing hard on a sidewalk amid a shower of shattered glass. He put his arms up to protect his face as his brother was flung out the same window, landing almost on top of him.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean asked him as they disentangled themselves. "Those guys have freakin' military training and seem to think I'm some guy called Little."

"I don't know, but I vote we find out soon."

A heavily muscled guy with dark skin, a mohawk, and way too much jewellery poked his head out the broken window and pointed at them. "Two days, suckers!"

XXX

Face peered at the rip in his shirt. He'd lost three buttons in the fight and his white shirt looked like he'd been using it to clean the van. "Oh, would you look at that. My friends will be ashamed to be seen with me."

Murdock threw an arm around him. "Don't worry Faceman! I'll go out in public with you."

Face kept pouting. "I'm adding this suit to their tab."

"Everybody says you let me down… I should be ashamed to take you round… makes no difference what you used to do…Darling, I could never be ashamed of you," Murdock sang, refusing to let Face shake him off.

"Shut up, fool," BA interrupted, "We got work to do."

"That's right, BA." Hannibal pulled out a fresh cigar from the inside pocket of his coat and bit off the end. He picked up the remote that had ended up across the floor in the corner and handed it to BA. "BA, I want you to take this apart and see what it does. It may look like a fancy television remote, but you can never be too careful. Now, they're holed up at the motel next door. We're going to need to know what they've got before we can form a plan. Face, you and Murdock look around. If they go anywhere, follow them. We attack tomorrow." Hannibal lit his cigar and grinned.

Face groaned. "Why are we even bothering to investigate, Hannibal? We all know what then plan is going to be, regardless of what we find."

"Yeah," contributed BA. "Go in the front door."

"With machine guns," Murdock finished.

"Ah," Hannibal replied, "but it's how we go in the front door that matters. "

Fifteen minutes later, Face and Murdock were lurking in the parking lot of Cooper's motel, the current headquarters of the Little brothers' organisation. The motel was a fairly new wooden building, painted white. It had fourteen rooms on two floors, plus a separate building containing the office, which was where Bill Cooper and his wife had lived until the Little brothers had forced them to sell out for a pittance. The Coopers had lost all their money in the deal, and had ended up having to move in with Bill's brother, who owned the bar next door. The same thing had been happening all over town, and in the end, the Coopers had called in the A-team to stop the takeover.

"Wait here," Face instructed his friend, "and don't draw attention to yourself." He held up a hand before Murdock could say anything. "That means no singing, no pretending to be Johnny Cash, and no… you know, maybe you should just not talk to anyone."

Murdock put on a hurt expression. "Faceman, you know I can act sane with the best of them when I have to." He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at the packed dirt of the parking lot. "I'll keep watch."

Face pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes and ripped his already damaged shirt a little more. He pulled out a small flask of whisky and poured some on his shirt, ensuring an authentic drunk smell. "Now try to look like a rebellious rich boy." He patted Murdock on the shoulder, still not entirely comfortable with leaving Murdock to play his part. Murdock tended to get a bit… over-imaginative… with his roles in cons. Actually, he tended to get a bit over-imaginative with most things.

"Good luck, Face," Murdock said seriously, and walked into the flowerbed running along the front of the motel so he could lean casually against the wall.

Face limped over to the office, rustling the wad of bills in his pocket. A bell jingled loudly as he opened the door roughly and stumbled over the threshold into the clean, friendly looking room. There was a receptionist at the desk, a very pretty woman in her mid-twenties, with curly blonde hair and a blue suit that matched her eyes. Face rang the bell on the desk several times anyway.

"Can I help you, sir?" The receptionist asked.

"My pal and I… our car ssmmashed up outta town. We need a room," Face slurred, pulling a handful of money out of his pocket and slapping it on the desk.

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman looked concerned, "This motel is currently booked out for a conference. Would you like to use the phone?"

"Doessn't look booked up," Face pulled out a few more bills, "Look, we jusss need a place ta stay 'til we can get my 'vette fixed up. My Daddy will cut me off if he finds out I ssmashed up another one. I can pay." He smiled his best playboy smile at her.

The receptionist sighed. "I'll have to check with the owner."

Face frowned. "Don't ya know who ah am? Ah could stop this est-esstablishment getting any business ever again. I'll spread the word about your lack of hospitality everywhere ah go."

The receptionist looked indecisive for a moment, and then finally said, "You can take room fourteen, but just for one night, and you have to be quiet." She took a key off a hook on the wall behind her. "It's upstairs, at the back."

Face took the key and swayed back out the door.

Murdock was sitting in the flowerbed beside a small castle sculpted out of dirt. He looked up as Face approached. "What took you so long, Face? I got bored."

Face scowled. "Scamming is not as easy as everyone seems to think it is, you know. It takes skill, and nerves of steel." He held up the room key, allowing himself to grin. "Our room's on the top floor at the back. Just right for surveillance of the motel."

Murdock stood up, brushing the dirt off his hands and the seat of his pants. Stepping carefully around his castle and the plants he had relocated to make room for it, he made his way out of the flowerbed. "The Littles are in room four, presumably because it's central. There's muscle in the rooms on either side, and room eleven has the big guns in it, to protect the Littles underneath. I don't know what they've got, though. This is about more than buying up the town. They're preparing for battle."

"What are they doing now?" Face asked, dragging Murdock in the direction of room fourteen. It would do no good to get caught discussing this in the parking lot.

"They seem to just be in their room, talking about something. I couldn't get close enough to hear, but they shut out the rest of the guys. Seems like something's not going according to plan." Murdock smiled widely.

Face smirked along with him. "I wonder why? Do you think it was something we did?"

At that moment, a door slammed, and the Little brothers came hurrying across the parking lot, heavy boots kicking up dust. Face kept his back turned and watched their reflection in the window of room one until they'd gone past, before ambling casually in the same direction. Murdock followed, singing, "Hey, hey good-lookin', what you got cookin'…"

Face jabbed him in the side. "What'd we say about singing?"

XXX

Dean frowned at Sam as he picked himself up of the sparsely gravelled street and brushed the broken glass off his body. He stretched a hand down and helped Sam up. "Why do I feel like I've come in halfway through a TV show?"

Sam examined a small cut on his arm. "Was that last guy even human? I'm pretty sure I've never been thrown that hard by someone who wasn't a demon."

Dean shook his head. "I tested him. I guess he's the muscle in the commando unit of crazy."

"Well, one thing's for sure. We need to figure out what's going on before our two days is up." Sam looked around him. "Where is everybody?"

Dean followed his gaze. Huh. It was the middle of the day and there were no other people in the main street. Not even any cars. That was weird, even in a tiny town like this. All he could see was dust and closed stores. Except the motel. It looked like there were people there. He caught a glimpse of a big guy in a cowboy hat walking across the parking lot. He looked harder at the building. Huh. The paint wasn't peeling, and the curtains were new, but it looked familiar. "Does that look like our motel to you, Sam?"

Sam looked it, reading the sign, which was freshly painted with the words 'Cooper's Motel'. "It's had a name change. Our motel was called Little's."

Someone was singing Johnny Cash inside the shot-up bar. Whoever it was had a great voice. Sounded a lot like the man in black. It gave Dean the creeps. "Guess the motel's a good enough place to start."

It was unnervingly easy to infiltrate the motel. In fact, everyone seemed to think they were meant to be there. As they walked over to room four, where they had been staying before the sudden attack of crazy, the big guy with the cowboy hat came over to them.

He was big, in his late thirties, and wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, buttoned and tucked in. He lifted his hat slightly as he greeted them. "Those guys are lookin' like ruining the deal for us. Want us do deal with them?"

Dean really hoped the guy wasn't offering what he thought he was offering.

Sam answered. "Uh, just hold off a bit, huh. I want to, um, see what their game plan is."

The guy adjusted his hat. "Whatever you say, Mr Little. But the Big Man's due tomorrow to close the deal. If these bozos interrupt it, we're finished."

"Oh, we'll deal with them," said Dean, in his best bad-guy voice, "But me and my brother, here, we want to do it personal-like."

When they managed to get inside their room, they found it much like they had left it. Only newer. The carpet was plushy and clean. Dean didn't think he'd ever been in a motel with new carpet. He almost wanted to take his boots off and curl his toes in it. He didn't, of course. His policy of only taking off his boots when absolutely necessary had definitely proved itself worthwhile today.

He sat down at the shiny orange table. "So, any theories?"

Sam hesitated. "Time travel?" He ventured.

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing ever to happen to us," Dean agreed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Maybe Cas knows something."

He pressed the button to speed-dial Cas. Nothing happened. It didn't even ring. "Crap. I guess cell phones haven't been invented." He looked up from the phone, taking in the room, with its orange and brown décor, and new-looking furniture. Something was poking out from under one of the beds. He got up and pulled it out. "What the hell is this?"

It looked like some kind of animal skin, pale and poorly treated, a few bloodstains decorating it. There were markings covering it, unfamiliar symbols carved in with a knife. There was a large hole in the centre, its edges burned brown and ragged.

Sam pulled an identical on from beneath the other bed. "This doesn't look good," he said. "I guess we need to try and find a library." He rolled up the skin and tucked it inside his over-shirt, then stood up and walked over to the door.

Dean did the same, pausing only to look longingly at the bed. Apparently the universe saw no need for him to sleep.

Two of the guys from the bar were in the parking lot, pretending to have a conversation so it didn't look like they were spying. The one who'd had the machine gun seemed to be covered in dirt, while the one who'd read them their supposed charges was still wearing his suit, but was looking considerably more dishevelled than he had during the fight.

They walked down the main street in search of a library. Frankly, Dean didn't have very high hopes of finding one. A town this small probably wouldn't have a very big library even when it was in full swing, but with everything closed, there was almost no chance of finding an open library.

"It's no good," said Dean, when they'd walked the length of Main St and the single built-up side street. They hadn't found a library, or for that matter, anywhere else that might offer answers. The only places that were open in the small town were a hardware store with no customers, a small grocery store, a bar in only slightly better repair than the one they had appeared in, and Cooper's Bar, where the barman they'd seen earlier was replacing the front windows, aided by the white-haired man with the cigar. "We need to figure out who these guys are and where they keep their magic crap before we can figure out what spell they did to get us here."

"And we need to do it by tomorrow," Sam agreed. "I don't like the sound of this Big Man, and I doubt those military guys are really going to give us two days."

Dean glanced behind him. There was no sign of the two guys who had been following them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. If their tracking skills were anything like their fighting skills, they were sure to be able to track someone through an empty street in broad daylight without being seen. "Who are they, anyway?"

"How should I know? Although there was some talk of mercenary soldiers in this area in the mid-eighties. No-one ever knew what happened to them."

"How do you know stuff like that?" Dean shook his head in wonder. "Where else did the smarmy one say these Littles had taken? There was a farm in there, right?"

"The Walker farm. Probably a good, out of the way place to keep spell-books and plans, right? And now all we have to do is find it."

"And hold off crazy soldiers and tough-guy hillbillies while we do it."

A quiet creaking suddenly emitted from the building to their left. Dean looked up at the roof just in time to see a blue baseball cap disappearing from view. "Crap," he said.

XXX

Murdock lowered himself down from the roof, using Face as a stepladder.

"Well?" Face enquired impatiently, hardly waiting until Murdock was on solid ground.

Murdock thought for a moment. How much should he tell Face? They'd said some pretty weird stuff. Face would think he was imagining things again. And maybe he was. Murdock could usually tell if he was confusing reality with fantasy, mostly from the reactions of other people, but no-one else had been there to confirm what he'd heard.

"Spit it out, Murdock, the Colonel will want us back at the van soon," Face pressured him.

The Colonel was usually pretty accepting of the things Murdock imagined and the stories he made up so he didn't have to think about things, as long as they didn't interfere with the mission. But this – this would definitely interfere. Even Face, who was most accepting of the whole team, and almost always played along, unless it involved a cape, would have trouble with this.

"Murdock?" Face was starting to look concerned.

"I think they're imposters from an alternate world," Murdock said in a rush, and then before Face could say anything, "No, really Face. They didn't seem to know anything about who they were, or the big scheme to sell out the land, or anything. And they kept talking about spells."

"Murdock," Face placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Don't you think if a vortex into another world had opened, we would have noticed something?"

Murdock nodded, still unsure. "I dunno, Face. They were saying some pretty weird stuff."

"Let's go back to the van," Face suggested, "They probably knew you were there and made things up to confuse you."

That made sense, Murdock guessed. He followed Face around the building to Main St. "I guess so," he said, disappointed. It would be so much more fun if they were really from an alternate world.

"Oh, and Murdock?" Face said, "Do me a favour and don't mention that theory in front of BA."