The air sparkled and wavered around the Littles, as their figures blurred and stretched. Murdock watched in astonishment as Frank Little grew six inches and his brother's shoulders broadened and became muscular. Both men's faces lost their cragginess, becoming younger and more symmetrical as their bodies became fitter and more athletic. Joe's cheekbones lifted, his nose became more streamlined, his eyes less squinty. Frank lost the frown-lines on his forehead and around his mouth as his face lengthened, his features becoming sharper. Slowly, the glimmer faded, and there stood two entirely different men.
Murdock shut his mouth and glanced around at the other occupants of the barn. Sometimes it paid to check if everyone else was seeing something before mentioning it. Everyone was motionless, staring at the two men. It was totally silent.
The man who had been Frank Little reached one enormous hand into the pile of hay at his feet and came up with a gun – Hannibal's, if Murdock wasn't mistaken, and that sure said something about them, that they'd disarmed him – which he quickly and efficiently checked for jams before using it to cover the room.
"I'm going to take the stunned silence to mean we look like ourselves again." The man who had been Joe Little was still holding the pitchfork. He smiled widely at them, revealing a set of perfect white teeth to rival Face's. "We'll be going now."
The two men started edging away towards the back door.
Murdock couldn't contain himself anymore. "I knew it!" he exclaimed. He looked over at Face, who had one hand fisted in the collar of a henchman's shirt while his other hand pressed his gun into the man's back. Both men were frozen, gaping at the spot where the Little brothers had changed. "Didn't I tell you they weren't really the Little brothers, Faceman?"
Faceman recovered his composure and shot Murdock a look that Murdock just knew meant he was about to be boringly pedantic. "Actually, Murdock, I believe you said they were the Little brothers from an alternate universe."
"Maybe they look different in that universe?" Murdock suggested hopefully.
"What's goin' on?" BA interrupted, reverting to his default shock setting of shouting aggressively at nobody in particular. "You!" He stabbed a thick finger in the direction of the man with the pitchfork. "You goin' to tell me what happened. Right now, sucker!"
The guy with the pitchfork didn't look particularly concerned by BA's threat. "Yeah, about that… We're a bit hazy on the details ourselves, but if you just let us past, we'll set things straight."
They continued to move towards the door. BA glared at them in angry confusion, and then glanced across at Hannibal for instructions. For once, Hannibal seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still gaping at the two men, his mind rejecting the possibility of what they had all seen. There was no trace of his trademark grin or his usually unshakable confidence.
Murdock had decided a long time ago that it was best to just to roll with it when something crazy happened. In the end, it didn't really matter if it was real or not. If something seemed real, it should be dealt with accordingly. It was better to solve a problem and look crazy if it wasn't real, than to not solve a problem just in case it wasn't real. The latter was much more likely to end in unpleasant deaths. He knew it would be down to him to do something. Hannibal was disarmed and gaping like a brain-damaged fish. Face was slightly better, but this didn't really strike Murdock as a situation that they could charm their way out of, and BA – well, BA didn't make the plans at the best of times.
Sausage Fingers recovered before Murdock could do anything. He stepped forward, lowering the muzzle of his gun so it was no longer aimed over the heads of the ex-Little brothers. "Well, well. What have we here? Hunters, I presume."
The barn doors suddenly slammed shut behind Murdock, seemingly on their own. It was like the sharp crack and sudden darkness woke everyone up. There was a rush of movement as people realised that something was very, very wrong. Never mind the people who had just changed before their eyes. There was a more immediate danger here. Barn doors didn't just slam on their own, without a breath of wind or a human hand to help. Especially barn doors as old and rickety as these. Barn doors like these should have to be forced closed, dragging on the ground, rusted hinges protesting loudly.
Someone slammed into Murdock from the side, before his eyes had time to adjust to the darkness. He stumbled, tripping over the unconscious body of the man who had tried to wrestle his weapon away from him, and fell to the floor, bringing his attacker down with him.
"This is your fault," the man hissed at him, "You had to interfere!"
Murdock would have laughed at him, if the guy hadn't had his hands on his throat. How could this possibly be his fault? But then, panicking people often assigned blame in ridiculous places. He broke the grip on his throat, thrashing out blindly in the hopes of displacing the heavier man from on top of him.
Somewhere to his left, he could hear Face trying to open the door, saying: "You know, if someone could help me out, here, that would be great. BA? Oh, great. I have to do everything myself." Murdock could practically hear the sarcastic smile on his friend's face.
There was some sort of huge commotion going on in the corner of the barn where the so-called Little brothers had been. There was crashing and swearing and the sound of heavy objects flying across the room. Someone was shouting in Latin again. The gravelly voice of Sausage Fingers was laughing coldly, saying: "Really boys? An exorcism?"
A third voice came in, saying: "Crap, dude. I think it's bound to the vessel."
Murdock didn't have time to think about it, because the man he was scuffling with was suddenly pulled off him. "Go help Face with the door," Hannibal's voice ordered him. "I'll take care of this guy."
The doors wouldn't budge. It was like some kind of force was holding them shut. Murdock and Face heaved at them for several minutes, first throwing their combined weight at them in an effort to force the doors outwards, and then tugging at the handles, trying to pull them in. All they achieved was accidentally breaking off one of the handles.
"It's no good," Face said eventually, "We'll have to try the back way."
They edged around the wall, pausing only long enough to throw off a dark figure who tried to stop them getting away.
BA was shouting on the other side of the barn, calling someone a crazy fool. There was a loud crash right after that; Murdock took it as a good sign. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, shadowy forms became visible, all of them moving fast, hitting and dodging and tackling each other. The unmistakable shape of a gun was still in Sausage Fingers' hand, but he wasn't firing. It was too dark, or maybe he had never really intended to shoot anyone. Murdock was hoping it was the second case. That the guy only had the gun to threaten people with, and had shut the doors himself. If there was someone or something else out there that had shut the doors, they were all in big trouble.
Sausage Fingers was still talking, low and silky and threatening, the sounds weaving under the chaotic noise around them. Murdock couldn't hear what he was saying, and found he didn't want to.
They reached the back door. It was smaller than the front door, and newer. A thin line of daylight showed beneath it. It was jammed just as fast as the other door.
"Tractor?" Face suggested.
"Did you get a good look at it? Will it work?"
"Looks okay," Face replied. "Not perfect, and we'll need to make sure we've got everyone before we make our move. We'll only get one run at the door."
Murdock grinned. This was a plan worthy of Hannibal. They parted ways, Face to let Hannibal and BA in on the plan, while Murdock got the tractor ready as best he could in the dark. That was usually BA's job, but BA didn't do his best thinking after a shock, and anyway, judging by the sounds coming from the corner of the barn BA was needed over there.
Murdock flicked on Face's lighter, doing his best to contain the light in the tractor cab. It wasn't ideal, but he'd had to weigh up the consequences of the light being seen with the consequences of attempting to hotwire a tractor in the dark. He quickly located the correct wires and prepared them, before climbing down to search out the sacks of fertiliser and cans of fuel he knew were in the barn.
It was amazing the things you could find in a barn if you looked properly, Murdock thought, tearing off a piece of sacking and twisting it into a wick, which he stuffed into the top a small jar he'd found. He'd had to tip something unidentified out of the jar before he could make the bomb. He hadn't liked that, but you had to work with the available resources. He lined it up with the others and slid back into the driver's seat as he heard his team approaching.
BA unceremoniously shoved the unmoving form of one of the men formerly known as the Little brothers into the cab and climbed in after, saying: "Just unconscious."
He was followed by the enormously tall figure of the second not-Little-brother. Hannibal and Face each jumped on a running board.
"Let's go," ordered Hannibal. He pulled out a cigar and lit it quickly. "BA, you got something for me?"
Murdock touched the wires together. The engine coughed and rumbled into life. He hit the gas. The vehicle rolled forward slowly. The acceleration on the thing was a bit disappointing, but it was built like a tank and would take out a wall easily, let alone a little door.
A spray of badly aimed bullets hit the tractor's hood, fortunately missing anything vital. Maybe it was lucky the tractor was so slow. If the bullets had hit a couple of feet further back on the tractor, Faceman would have been toast.
He kept his foot to the floor and drove at the doors. Hannibal touched the glowing tip of his cigar to the wick poking out of the jar BA handed him. Face followed his example. The bumper of the tractor hit the double doors with an almighty crash, just as Face and Hannibal threw their explosives.
The tractor plunged into bright daylight as twin blasts of heat and pressure came from the barn, rocking the tractor on its wheels. Clouds of flame flared behind them, accompanied by two deafening bangs in quick succession.
Murdock didn't look back. He swung the tractor as hard and fast as he could, lurching around the side of the burning barn to where the helicopter sat and let out a whoop as he saw it still sitting there, just waiting for him.
Sam adjusted his headset and looked down at his stirring brother as the blades of the helicopter began to spin. The head wound didn't look too bad, but Sam would feel better about it once they were out of there and back on solid ground so he could check it out properly. He put Dean's headset on for him, carefully avoiding the bleeding lump on his brother's forehead. God, Dean was going to be so pissed when he woke up and discovered he was in a helicopter.
Maybe not as bad as BA though. He'd kicked up a hell of a fuss and flatly refused to climb in or leave his van behind. They'd wasted a precious moment while he'd threatened to beat up anyone who tried to get him into the chopper. In the end, he and Hannibal had stayed on the ground, and were going to take the van and meet them somewhere. Sam had never thought he'd see the day when he was glad Dean's coping techniques were so solidly founded on repression and refusal to show weakness. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Dean woke up and lost control like BA had.
The rotors spun furiously and the chopper rose smoothly into the air. Sam peered down at the rippling dry grass beneath them and the burning barn beside them. To his horror, the demon who had been running the show was stumbling out of the back door of the barn, flames still burning up his left arm, someone's handgun in his right hand.
"Oh boy oh boy," the pretty guy on the other side of Dean said in an oddly polite understatement of the danger. "Better step on it, Murdock."
The pilot whooped. His voice crackled through the communicators. "This is your Captain, Howling Mad Murdock. Please ensure your doors are locked and harnesses are buckled, as I'll be taking this baby up to top speed."
"Sam?" Dean's voice asked groggily. He looked around, his eyes widening and his shoulders tensing as he took in their surroundings. "What the hell? Why are we flying?"
"It's not for long man. Just try to keep calm," Sam said soothingly.
"Keep calm?" Dean's voice became strangled. "We're trapped in a death machine being flown by someone who calls himself Howling Mad Murdock and thinks you can communicate with other worlds using soap!" He struggled with the harness Sam had strapped him into, searching for the buckles to undo them.
Sam grabbed his hands to stop him. "Dean, I can guarantee that it's safer to stay in the helicopter than to jump out without a parachute. It's only gonna be another five minutes."
"Trust me," Murdock contributed. "By the time we get to the rendezvous you'll love choppers. A bird like this will get us there in a fraction of the time it would take to drive, and we've got the whole sky to use. Even if we did come across something in our way, this baby can turn on a dime and has the second best vertical lift of anything on the market. See, I'll show you."
"Hold on," Face warned Sam and Dean, just in time. "I don't think this is helping, Murdock!"
Sam clutched at his harness as the helicopter turned sharply to the left, rolling over so Sam's door was almost parallel to the ground. He peeked down at the dusty earth beneath them, and held his breath until he felt the helicopter level off beneath them.
He looked at Dean, who was slumped pale-faced against his harness.
"I think he fainted," said Face. "Don't worry; Murdock's really a very good pilot."
Sam was starting to think Dean might have the right idea about flying after all. The pilot was singing now. "Good-bye, Little Darling, good-bye." Sam folded his arms and tried not to listen, occupying his mind by trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Okay, so these brothers were businessmen who had been buying up the town of Hackton, including bars, the motel, and the farm they had just been at. Something had scared them enough to perform a ritual to remove themselves to some point in the future, switching themselves with Sam and Dean. Whether they had chosen Sam and Dean to switch with for a reason was yet to be determined. It must also have been necessary for the Little brothers to appear to still be in Hackton in 1984, or they wouldn't have bothered to perform the glamour to make everyone see them when they looked at the Winchesters. It was possible that they had simply not wanted anyone to know they were gone, but Sam thought it was more than that. And then there was the demonic involvement. As far as he could see, only one of the men at the barn had been a demon, and the rest were human flunkies. The group who'd attacked them in the bar were not affiliated with the other group, but both groups had a bone to pick with the Little brothers. Finally, it seemed that there was another, bigger boss who was expecting results. Sam had to assume that he was a demon, too. Demons just didn't take orders from humans, not even as part of a wider plan. So what to do now?
Well, first things first: They would have to figure out who the guys who had rescued them were, and do some serious explaining about the sudden, dramatic changes their appearances had undergone.
Murdock landed the helicopter expertly in a field behind a small farmhouse. To Sam's relief, there was hardly a bump as they landed. Maybe Murdock really was as good as he said he was. They waited until the blades had stopped spinning and the dry grass of the field was still again before climbing out and heading towards the house.
Dean seemed none the worse for his head injury. Sam could only just catch him in order to examine it, because Dean was too busy glaring suspiciously at the guys who had rescued them, and pretending he hadn't just freaked out about being in a helicopter, to worry about concussions. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, so he wouldn't need stitches. He probably wouldn't even get a scar. Dean was like that. He could have his face ripped off by rabid cats and he would look fine the next day.
"It's fine, Sam," Dean pushed him off and sat in one of the faded wooden chairs in the small kitchen. He looked across the room at Face and Murdock. "Now, why don't you start explaining why everyone wants to play with the guys you thought we were so much."
"Or," said the pretty guy, from where he was reaching under the kitchen counter for something, "You could tell us who the heck you are." He turned around, aiming a shotgun in their direction. "Murdock, tie them up."
Dean groaned. "You've gotta be kidding me."