Here Tomorrow Gone Today 5/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)
Here Tomorrow Gone Today 5/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)
Author: Tari_roo
Rating: PG (Gen)
Fandom: SPN/SGA
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if SGA was still on, Sheppard would wear t-shirts more often and climb stuff. And if I owned SPN, there would be less shirt wearing entirely and more workouts. Unbeta-ed, so mistakes are mine.
Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. The world ended and not how any hunter would have imagined. A BSG-style fleet of refugees on the run, with Dean Winchester aboard the Hammond.
Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none
A stiff breeze inexorably bent the long grass, a merciless force determined to win. Yet the moment the breeze died down, took a breath, the grass slowly straightened, once more reaching for the sky, a blaze of gold topped green, lush and vibrant.
Late spring and the meadows, fields and green spaces were already choked with heavy growth, seeds and flowers bursting, the barren months of winter forgotten. The narrow little farm road, more dirt than tarmac, that ran into the main road towards Sioux Falls was quiet, the hum of insects the only sound in the late afternoon. The earth’s slow turn away from the sun was turning the bright spring sky darker, the light less bright yellow and more gold. It would be hours yet of sunlight, the unseasonal heat not yet passing, but there was barely any movement other than buzzing insects.
It was almost as if there was a breath being held, a pause before exhalation, waiting, wondering. The breeze picked up again, flattening the grass intermittently, turning the thick fields into a choppy sea of gold with green depths stirred beneath.
The sharp bark of a gunshot shattered the quiet and a flurry of previously hidden birds burst from cover filling the sky with shadows and movement. The insects’ hum was swallowed in the distant but growing sound feet pounding on the road, running.
“Move!”
Another gunshot and suddenly the road was filled with people, running. Mostly women and children in the front, a knot of men with rifles at the rear, watching the road behind more than the front, even as they urged everyone forward.
Bobby spotted the sharp rise on the left, a steep hill towering over the road, unexpected in the flat farmland of South Dakota, but just what they’d been looking for. “Sheriff Mills! Left. Get to high ground.”
Jody Mills leading the pack of terrified people nodded sharply, hefting her rifle over her shoulder and directing the folk up front to head off road. Bobby turned to watch the rear again, the mix of neighbors and strangers around him comforting in the fact that they were armed, human and all in the same predicament.
Sam and Dean were several long feet behind everyone, buying the slower, less experienced to mass terror people time to get ahead of the marching invaders. Dean was taking pot shots with his sniper rifle, scope barely used, but more often hitting his mark. The only reason they were all still alive was that the invaders didn’t have one of those weird priest guys with them. Instead it was just human looking aliens in armor with spears that shot lasers. Of all the cockamamie ways for the world to end, they got invasion by the steampunk religious zealots. Figured.
Bobby continued to back up, shot gun at the ready, watching out of the corner of his eye as the thick grass on the hill was flattened by dozens of feet, all desperate to reach some sort of safety. Thing was though… they didn’t really have anywhere to go, to hide. They were just running, and in true Winchester fashion, hoping for the best. Figuring it out as they went.
Sioux Falls was a wasteland, a slaughterhouse more than battlefield. Some towns got ultimatums. Convert or die. Other towns got bypassed entirely. And some… like Sioux Falls just got the sharp edge of the sword and death. No quarter given. No mercy. No escape.
The distinctive hiss and snap of energy weapon fire, something out of a bad sci fi movie filled the air, and then Sam was running towards them, those long legs eating up the road. “Go, go. They’ve regrouped. Go!”
Bobby didn’t wait to see if Dean was following, he turned and ran up the hill. The high ground was it. Their last advantage. The new Alamo in South Dakota. Maybe little Big Horn. The slope was slippery with bent grass, and Bobby stumbled a few times, catching his knees, breaking denim and skin. As he reached the top, Sheriff Mills joined him. The women and children were huddled on the lee side, laying flat behind bushes and trees, as if that was any cover for space spears.
Even though they should probably all drop and not stick out like lined up targets, everyone with a weapon, rifle or handgun, stood on the rise, waiting for the enemy to appear. There was no chatter, no quips or jokes. The only sound was muffled crying, the odd sniff, the pounding of your heart in your ears. There were a lot of shaking hands on rifle butts, nervous fingers hovering over triggers, sweat drenched faces.
Sam was a statue of silent intense anxiety. The sound of gunfire was gone, the weird energy weapons silent. Whatever Dean was up to…
The detonation of an explosion blew out across the fields, flattening crops and grass and everyone on the hill took a step back, feeling the wave of pressure, the distant trail of heat. “Shit,” Sam hissed and moved as if to head back down the hill. But Dean was already around the corner, running hell for leather down the road. He looked like a damn armory, rifle slung over his backpack, but he cleared the hill with ease, soon joining them all.
Expectant faces in unison turned to him and the cocky grin wasn’t as wide or deep as it should have been. “That was close, nearly took my eyebrows off.”
“Idijit.”
No one was asking how and why the Winchester boys who sometimes hung around Bobby Singer’s place had so much armament, or experience in blowing stuff up. No one cared and it wasn’t so much a case of gift horses and dental hygiene but more like relief … that someone knew what to do.
Sam rolled his eyes, and said, “How many?”
Kneeling and pulling out more ammunition and grenades, Dean shrugged, “Some. Enough. Well, enough to piss them off even more.”
Grim smiles all around and people bent to pick more ammo. Dean smiled brightly and said, “I saw no sign of reinforcements, so if we can pick them off from up here, or get ‘em to run…”
And that was the plan. All of it.
No radio. No Tv. No cellphone signal. Nothing. Nada. No sign of the military. No sign of anything. If they survived this… they’d decide what to do next.
It was maybe unnecessary but Bobby grunted and said sharply to everyone, “You got a rifle, make the shots count. Handguns? Don’t shoot ‘em till they’re on the hill or you can see the whites of their eyes.” More grim smiles and sharp nods and Sheriff Mills laughed, “What, no inspiring speech, Singer?”
Bobby forced a smile. “Nope. Just shoot ‘em.”
And then they were there. Sam and Dean had taught the SOBs caution and at Sam’s shout everyone on the hill ducked and scattered for position and cover. Dean though remained standing and snapped a shot off at the scout below. The helmeted alien got off his own shot before Dean’s dropped him but his went over their heads, or at least where they heads had been.
Like some mad man, which he was anyway, Dean remained standing, rifle up, eye sighted down the barrel, and as more alien soldiers rounded the corner of the road, the nice blind corner with heavy trees and vegetation, he popped one, two, three men before Sam hauled him down and a volley of spear blasts hit the air where Dean had been.
“Balls,” Bobby muttered to himself, cocked his shot gun and looked for an opening.
It wasn’t like the movies at all. No hail of gun fire, no pretty fall of shell casings like rain, or slow motion effects as men fell. It was a terrifying, adrenalin soaked nightmare. The soldiers below peppered the hill with blasts from their spears and cautiously the survivors of Sioux Falls popped up and took pot shots. On their own, it wouldn’t have been enough to keep the soldiers pinned, or reluctant to charge the hill. But when you had two idijits hell bent on killing as many evil SOBs as they could…
Dean was firing steadily and accurately, and Sam was right behind him, just as deadly, just as accurate. No doubt they were keeping some ridiculous tally. Bobby had already heard them muttering something about Helm’s Deep and perhaps the last cuff to the back of their fool heads had followed. A shot gun needed a little closer range and unfortunately, Bobby got his chance all too soon.
Religious zealots were the same the universe over it seemed and a dozen or so soldiers charged the hill, running up straight into the answering gunfire from the shot guns and handguns. None of the soldiers made the top, but they weren’t all dead, most only wounded and waiting no doubt for a chance.
There were maybe another two dozen soldiers at the base of the hill, not too bad odds for their ragged bunch of survivors. Except, the aliens could get reinforcements, or worse, one of those freaky priests would arrive. And their own ammunition was in short supply. It had been a long run from where they’d had to abandon their cars. It was going to be close. Ammunition versus reinforcements.
Another ten or so soldiers charged the hill, but the answering fire was less devastating, and Bobby actually saw and felt the spray of blood as he blew away a soldier who had somehow dodged everything but Bobby’s shot gun. In the lull, Dean yelled, “Ammo check?”
There were too many ‘Out!’s and ‘couple more, then that’s it’s. Way too many. Dean grunted and hissed for Sam and Bobby only. “We’re all down to bare bones. You got your machete, Bobby?”
Singer didn’t bother to reply verbally and Dean grinned. The soldiers below either had a death wish or were… aliens with moral guides and rationale that were.. alien but the last of the soldiers charged the hill in rush, yelling loudly. Before anyone could return fire, the soldiers fired off volley after volley of energy blasts, straight at their positions. The spear blasts were hell of a lot closer than home, and blew chunks of out their line and the hill, sending grass, dirt and blood everywhere.
Someone was screaming, and there were calls for a medic, like it was some damn war movie. Sheriff Mills wasn’t moving beside Bobby, her rifle silent, her face covered in blood. Ears ringing, Bobby rose to one knee and snapped two shots off, reloaded and then two more. As expected, the wounded aliens were still capable of fighting, and there were hell of a lot more enemies rushing them than a dozen.
Dean didn’t even pause as his rifle jammed on empty, he drew that pretty Colt and something else and stood like an idijit cowboy and fired into the soldiers. Sam was no better, calm and deadly. But their line was broken, and Bobby could hear screams from the children below as soldiers reached the top and opened fire.
Dropping his shotgun, Bobby fired away with his six shooter, making every bullet count. The screams had stopped and Bobby had to duck as a spear came far too close for comfort, the soldier coming out of nowhere. His last bullet ploughed into the man’s face and Bobby fumbled for his machete. It was a split second, less, one glance too long at Mills, her unseeing eyes, the blood soaked grass and Bobby missed the movement.
Turning too late, Bobby could only gasp as the spear entered his stomach. Reflex made him grab the smooth metal shaft, stop the forward motion and Bobby looked up into the merciless snarl of the Ori soldier. The machete felt heavy but Bobby lifted it anyway. The soldier though died in a spray of blood as Dean materialized through the smoke of burning grass and gunfire and shot him the back.
Dean stared at Bobby for a full second, torn and before Bobby could snarl or growl, the kid was gone, running towards the heat of the fight, Sam. Suddenly alone with the dead, Bobby sank down on his knees, groaning back the scream as the spear moved. He pulled the damn thing out, which was probably a bad idea, and scanned the area, half afraid to hope.
It was going to be close. There were a lot of dead, but more Ori than human. Sam and Dean were wading into the last knot of soldiers from the rear, with the last few men and women fighting kept the children alive. There were no gun shots, no spear blasts, just the cry and scream of men fighting hand to hand with blades. It was difficult to see, the burning grass making his eyes water. It had started out like something from the b-side of Hollywood sci fi, into a western and now it was Braveheart. And shit if Bobby could figure out why he was thinking about movies. There were never going to be movies again.
Clutching his belly, feeling the slow hot seep of blood, Bobby cursed the spreading weakness, and numbness. Someone screamed, like a stuck pig, high pitched and spine chilling, and then the scream abruptly cut off, followed by the distinctive thud of a head falling. You didn’t hunt vamps without knowing that sound.
Silence fell, stunned, shell shocked silence, but Bobby knew even though he couldn’t see. He knew.
Sure enough, through the smoke like the specters they hunted, Sam and Dean stalked towards him, ran more like. They were both covered in blood, arterial spray and worse. Bobby couldn’t help it, he asked, “We get ‘em?”
Sam nodded, “Yeah, but we’re down to five men, ten or so women and crap load of kids.”
“Shit.” Not much of a victory afterall. Mills, with her quick smile and long suffering sighs at the antics of Bobby Singer was gone. The wind was blowing her hair into her face, matting the blood, covering those sightless eyes.
“Hey, let me see, Bobby.”
Dean. Strong hands moving his away from the wound, making him hiss and moan. “Shit, Bobby.”
Bobby grasped those shaking, trembling hands covered in blood and dirt with his own trembling hands and gasped, “Leave it, just …”
Dean’s smile was gruesome, bright teeth in a blood covered face and he laughed, “You say one word about leaving you behind and I will punch you, Bobby.” Sam though was standing, a great big tree of worry and concern, looking up at the sky. “You hear that?”
Mouth open to say, ‘what?’ and Bobby heard it. A dull thudding hum, like… a freaking huge engine. Dean stood as well, machete suddenly in hand, like that would make a difference if it was … a spaceship. And it was. A massive, rising up over the hill, spaceship.
“Shit.”
Bobby felt what small hope he had curl up and crisp away in the fires blazing down the hill. Spaceships meant aliens… which meant… But Dean was smiling, and pointing at something, grabbing Sam’s arm. It was difficult to hear over the sound of the engines, the grass and trees twisting in the cross breeze. Everyone was pointing, and finally Bobby saw it. Painted on the bottom of the ship in bright yellow letters , ‘US Airforce’. And next to that in hot pink, ‘Eat shit and die, Ori.’
“No frigging way, man!”
There were flashes of light, then more people on the hill, appearing out thin air. People dressed in uniform, mismatched and damn wonderful to see. More flashes of light, and more people, running to help the injured, rescue the survivors. Dean and Sam were shouting at some officer over the noise, pointing back towards Sioux Falls. The officer was nodding and yelling back, but Bobby couldn’t hear over the relief pounding in his heart.
A fresh faced medic, the little red cross on her arm ran over to Bobby and he couldn’t help the smile. Her smile was less cheerful, more careful but she was swift and efficient, calling over her radio. She said quickly, “Sir, we’ve got a lot injured so you may have to wait for surgery, but you should keep. I’m going to beam you onboard and …”
“Beam? Since when is this Star Trek?” Bobby couldn’t help grousing, as she gave him a shot of morphine. Her face was grim, smile gone, “Since never again, sir. Marks, we good?”
Marks was apparently on the other end of the radio, and as she turned away, Bobby couldn’t help reaching out and hissing, “My friend… Sheriff Mills.”
The medic looked over at Mills, her face briefly sad, buried behind the mask of ‘must push on’ and shook her head. “Sorry, sir.”
Bobby had the presence of mind to take one last look at the flat grasslands of his home for more years than he’d care to recall and then white light enveloped him. It was over before it began and from the quiet, controlled panic on the hill, into the noisy, controlled panic of a triage ward. There were doctors, nurses and medics everywhere, and someone helped him to a bed, a pallet of blankets in a long row of wounded and injured.
There was a woman on his right, half her face wrapped in bandages, and she was crying silently. The man on his left was staring up at the bulk head, his black uniform charred and stiff with blood. Bobby leant back as well and wondered just when in the hell the US Air Force had got themselves spaceships.
And what was happening everywhere else on planet on Earth.
And what else the Government had been hiding all these years.
And if Rufus was ok.
And if he’d ever see his house again, or if he was going to die in a massive explosion when this ship was attacked.
But really, he could only see Mills’s face, her smile, her laugh, and the thought on the fact that she deserved a hunter’s funeral.
Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*
Bobby lost a few days in the haze of pain in waiting for surgery, surgery and post-op. In between the morphine shots that got fewer and the hospital that got more crowded, there were announcements about the Fleet fleeing Earth. About a StarGate. About the Ori. About… shit that made no sense whatsoever, but hell if Bobby cared. Between the pain, morphine and sleep, it was more of information undershare than overload.
After surgery, he woke up on a different ship, this one as tacky as all get out. Gold hieroglyphs, chintzy walls, and Bobby felt like he was maybe still in a nightmare. But the nurses looked familiar, their smiles less stiff.
Seemed there were more aliens out there than Religious Zealots Bent on Killing Us All. There were aliens who pretended to be Gods. Good aliens and bad aliens that did that. And the US Airforce didn’t just have one spaceship, they had five. And half a dozen appropriated alien ships, like this one, a Goua’ld Mothership.
There was a lot of information that Bobby was now very interested in hearing, and he asked a lot of questions, listened to the ship wide info blasts with more attention. A civilian fleet with hospital ships and supply vessels. A combat fleet trying to take on the Ori, with things called 303s and 305s. But no one, not a single nurse, could tell him what he really wanted to know. Where were Sam and Dean?
The list of survivors, refugees, from Earth was long. And kept changing as more runs were made on Earth, and people died in battle. Everyone got excited when two more Motherships were captured, but a long, cold shadow of depression fell over the fleet when news that the Ori had found Pegasus reached the Fleet. Even the civilians who had no idea what Pegasus was, or why it was bad news, felt the pallor of despair.
Bobby was healing nicely and the nurses were asking what skills he had, how he could help once he was ready. In return Bobby asked for information, anything, on the Winchesters. On Rufus, daring to hope that his old buddy had found his way onto a ship as well. Two whole weeks after his surgery, itching and agitated to do something other than lie around, Bobby’s answer came looking for him.
Sam, with a patch on his shoulder indicating nurse, sauntered into Bobby’s recovery ward one morning and even though they were in space and it was always night, Bobby’s day brightened. Sam’s smile was everything relief and happiness and joy were supposed to be and his embrace was tight and fierce.
“Shit, kid. It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise, Bobby. They said you were doing ok, but…”
Annoyed that they had known he was ok, but not he them, Singer scowled and Sam smiled. “Tried getting in to see you sooner, but it’s been… crazy. All hands on deck, as it were. If you weren’t injured, you kinda got press ganged into helping.”
“So, I see.”
Sam had a lot to say. About being a grunt, and then a stock taker until being shifted into medical. “They need all the nurses they can get. Once they’re happy I won’t kill someone, they’ll send me to the Combat Fleet.”
Bobby rolled his eyes, feeling very old and tired, “Funny how we all suddenly signed up for military service, huh?”
Sam shrugged, “Not really. Kinda… necessary. Dean’s already with Combat, fixing planes.”
Probably looking as surprised as he felt, Bobby chuffed, “What? Since when…”
Looking away, no doubt hating that Dean was out of sight, away, in danger without him, Sam shrugged again, “Need mechanics more than they need nurses. Fighting a war, and all.”
Sam couldn’t stay long, some big assed Marine on light duty yelling for him, but Bobby saw him regularly over the next few days, and they chatted late into the night a few times. Not once though during all those late night chats though did Bobby ask about who had survived, who Sam had seen. And Sam didn’t offer, not wanting to confirm what Bobby already knew.
Eventually things went from bad to worse, the Ori found the Fleet and they had to bug out. Being on board a ship taking fire was pretty damn frightening. The cool purple blue haze of hyperspace was awesome. But Earth and plans on taking it back were dropped, like charred hopes and dreams. It was run for your life.
One crash course on alien technology later and Bobby joined the maintenance crews, especially as he had a knack for dead languages. Sam had five minutes to say good bye before he transferred to Combat, and then… Bobby was on his own again.
Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*
The first time Bobby set foot on Atlantis, he couldn’t help gaping like a guppy. Most folk were gaping right alongside him. Towers that arched up into the black expanse of space. A pale blue gas giant rotating below them, long lines of black and red clouds twisting over its surface. The fatal, icy vacuum of space held off by an invisible shield. It was breathtaking.
The walk from the Ugly Ducker, the Mothership that had been his home for the last several long months, along Atlantis’s pier was … indescribable. It was all very well being in space when all you ever saw was stars from outside a window, and gold chintz, but this… this was space.
“Bobby!”
He heard Dean but spotted Sam first, long frame easy to spot over the crowd. Dean shoved his way through the press of people gawking at the Ancient City and Gas Giant, and engulfed Bobby in a massive bear hug. The kid felt thinner, leaner, and he looked tired, face drawn. But his smile was bright and unqualified. “Shit you look good, man!”
Sam joined them and gave Bobby a less desperate hug, but no less heartfelt. Bobby grinned, and slapped Dean on the back, “I hear you’re some big wig with tech department now, Dean.”
Sam laughed and Dean rolled his eyes, “Don’t remind me, Bobby. Being the Man sucks.”
“It’s good to see you, kid.” Dean nodded, eyes suddenly bright and he shoved past all that ‘chick flick’ crap to say, “Likewise. Even though I get called names every hour, on the hour, I missed your sour mug.”
“Idijit.”
Sam picked up Bobby’s duffle, scrounged and bartered from the Quartermaster on the Ugly Ducker, and containing everything he owned, and said, “Come on, we’ll show you your room.”
Smiling brightly enough to make Bobby suspicious, Dean grinned, “Yeah, Sam sold his last snickers bar to make sure you got a room near us.”
Before Bobby could protest, Sam snorted, “Only after you blackmailed de Jongh with what … late shift roster asshatery, I believe you called it.” Dean nodded and Bobby groaned, “Why on earth would I want to be anywhere near you two yahoos.”
Draping a thin, grease stained arm over Bobby’s neck, Dean smirked but failed to hide the genuine emotion, “’Cos you love us, old man and missed the shit out of us.”
And Bobby didn’t have the heart to say anything more than, “Balls.”
Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*
Atlantis ran on Old Earth Time, rather than Lantean time. Sam tried to explain the difference, but Bobby didn’t care. It just meant it was easy to fit into the rosters and schedules. And it also meant that every second Wednesday it was Karaoke Night.
Bobby managed to miss the first one by the simple fact of being on duty with Dean in the Hammond’s hangar, trying to get a batch of 303s ready for CAP. The Fleet was together but it was only a matter of time before the Ori found them again and they had to be ready.
The next one though Bobby was gently escorted to by a grinning Sam and a reluctant Dean. No protests or excuses were accepted and even Dean’s protests were half hearted. The main mess hall, which was always busy, and had three counter parts across the city what with the massive refugee population, was packed. A rough stage set up, a screen and projector coaxed into working on Ancient power lines and the room was buzzing.
As was usual, Dean and Sam found a space near the back, with a wall to lean against. Dean snagged some food, something that looked sticky and sweet, and some meat pie. Sam got a round of Polish moonshine and Bobby sank down into the hard seat and prepared for a night of torture.
General O’Neill opened the night with his usual brevity, threatening to space the first man, woman or child who sang Journey, Abba or Humperdink. And then opened the floor.
Bobby sipped on the moonshine, which was the safest way of consuming the rotgut, unless one wanted to go blind, deaf and stupid, and braced himself as a passel of nerds from Engineering claimed the stage. Recognizing Zelenka and Biro only, Bobby ignored the nudge from Sam, and the whispered, “You’ll like this.”
As the opening beats of Weird Al’s White and Nerdy, filled the room, Bobby couldn’t help the smile, damnit. Turned out Karoake night wasn’t so much singing, as… talent show. Zelenka was a closet rapper and this was the traditional opener for the evening. Everyone sang along. Even Dean.
And it was good. Xenobiology did a full on scene from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, costumes and all. Two squads of Marines leapt about the stage in full combat gear and tutus, in the choreographed beauty of Swanlake. Everyone whistled and cheered during a rendition of Walk the Line, with shouts for Sheppard to join them, which were ignored by the grinning Colonel nearby. Some civilian turned chef got a standing ovation for Cry Me A River, while Archaeology were booed off the stage when the opening bars of a Backstreet Boys song were played.
As the evening wound on, Bobby found himself singing less, laughing more and feeling very … overwhelmed. And he wasn’t the only one. There were a few wet eyes in the audience, even for crap songs like the Macarena. This was home, songs from the world, the planet, most people knew they’d never see again. Memories of friends and family either dead or missing, lost. Songs from a life and a place lost forever. Maybe.
Dean didn’t really sing, or laugh. He was slumped over on the table, watching silently, fingers tapping along with most songs, occasionally smiling. Sam though was singing full belt, loud and clear, cheering everyone and everything, but especially any Bon Jovi song. Bobby finished Sam’s drink and slumped further into his seat. Despite O’Neill’s threat, a large rowdy group of mechanics and gophers sang Don’t Stop Believing and the General waited until the cheers died down before ordering Teal’c to shoot them. Fortunately, the big Jaffa just raised an eyebrow.
The mixed bag of emotional catharsis might have gone on all night, but everyone was on long shifts, and either needed sleep or were already late for their shift, so the last act of the night, the traditional closing performance, took to the stage to a round of applause and groans. Cam Mitchell and his gate team, all Marines, all bulky and over muscled, shooed the last act off, took their positions and held up helium balloons. Sucking in a good lungful, Mitchell and team hummed in squeaky harmony and launched into Walk like a Man, reaching notes and off key pitch that would have had Franke Valli turning in his grave. The roar of approval from the crowd was deafening.
Taking up the beat by pounding on the tables, everyone sang along as Mitchell crooned notes not meant for human ears and the Marines strutted up and down the stage in a parody of the Ministry of Funny Walks. The song lasted far longer than the original, but no one cared, and it only really ended once the helium was gone. The standing ovation and demands for an encore were ignored and happily the crowd dispersed.
Dean and Sam didn’t move, waiting for the press of people to leave and Bobby absently wiped at his face, refusing to acknowledge the tears. Sam bumped Dean gently and smiled, “At least Parrish and Lorne didn’t try Immigrant Song again.”
Dean nodded, arms draped over the table, head on hand, elbow pressed into the formica. Rodney McKay, who Bobby had heard more horror stories about than anyone else in the Fleet, passed their table and snapped loudly, “Shift started thirty minutes ago, Winchester.” Dean’s reply was singular, and pointed, one middle finger that didn’t go down until McKay was out of sight.
“I hate him.”
Sam stood, and stretched, yawning, and said, “Come on, Bobby.”
Feeling all of his years, and all the light years from wherever the hell they were to home, Bobby frowned, “Didn’t you just finish a shift, Dean?”
“Yep.”
Sam nodded, and sighed, “Thought you were going to talk to Carter?”
Dean just stood though, and gave them a small wave as he headed out. Bobby shared a concerned look with Sam and asked, “And?”
Shrugging Sam made his way through the tangle of chairs and tables, Bobby trailing and said, “Complaining helps for one or two shifts and then there’s a crisis and only so many people who can fix shit and ….”
“Yeah…”
The walk back to their section of Atlantis dedicated to living quarters was quiet, and by the time they reached the corridor that was ‘home’, Bobby was really feeling the effects of the moonshine. “Night, Bobby.”
Looking at Sam, who was paused in motion between doorway and hall, wearing long black combat pants, a tattered old jacket and boots a size too big, Bobby sighed, “Thanks, Sam. It was …”
Sam nodded, face always so expressive, so apt for the mixed emotion of the evening and smiled, “Yeah. Night.”
“Night.”
Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga* Spn*sga*spn*sga*spn*sga*
TBC… in chapter 6
What with the dramatic events of last week, I felt a little peculiar writing this chapter. The world is a scary place without needing fictional space invasions and I hope I did the emotions justice. People fleeing their homes, in peril, always cuts me close and it’s not something you can say would never happen to you.
Dean, Sam and Bobby are fringe characters to the main drama unfolding in this story, but it is their story that I am interested in telling, rather than the main players, the ones in charge. BSG never really covered the ‘civilian’, mere ‘cog’ in the machine story to my satisfaction, and the impact of being a refugee and last remnant of humanity for the ordinary folk. I know why of course, but when you have 30 000 odd survivors, that’s a lot of personal stories with personal tragedies.
Thanks for reading
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6