Here Tomorrow, Gone Today 6/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)
Here Tomorrow, Gone Today 6/9 (SGA/SPN Crossover AU)
Author: Tari_roo
Rating: PG (Gen)
Fandom: SPN/SGA
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing. But if I did… there’d be less shirt-wearing.
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. Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN: Season 4 and 5
AN: I have decided that the Attack took place between 4.8 and 4.9 of SPN. Thus: Sam had stopped ‘whatever’ he was doing with Ruby, but Dean hadn’t told him yet about Hell.
This picks up immediately after installment 4 so: Previously on Here Tomorrow… The Winchesters traded devil’s traps for booze, and O’Neill found out. Something worked, so now Daniel’s intrigued and Jack has a headache. Oh and Bobby is on Atlantis.
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“Enochian is a poorly constructed 17th century language that is a paltry imitation of an ancient language, discredited by scholars for years!” Daniel sounded just this side of petulant, which was a little surprising.
“16th century, actually and why wouldn’t an ancient ‘lost’ language to have an English translation and understandable structure for the people of the time?” Sam rebutted, arms folded across his chest.
Jackson snorted and shoved absent glasses further up his nose, “Because it’s a ridiculous notion?”
“Oh? And Latin isn’t an outgrowth of Ancient … at all! And it’s not like there are millennia between the Ancient’s return to Earth and the rise of Rome!” Sam retorted, folding his arms in defiance. There was a murmur of noise from the collected audience.
Daniel snorted, again, “Considering the lifespan of the Ancients, it is entirely plausible that their language could have influenced both Greek and Latin. Merlin’s presence alone…,”
Sam smoothly interrupted with, “And the possibility of Angels visiting 16th century magick users is implausible? “
“There’s no reliable evidence for the existence of Angels…” Jackson scoffed, to which Sam’s face creased into a similar expression of contempt. “Right! And this isn’t Atlantis and you weren’t an Ascended Being for how long? And Egyptian Gods don’t stalk the galaxy in outfits that would embarrass a Vegas showgirl!”
“The precedent of the Ancients… who have a policy of non-interference… does not by default give credence to the medieval idea of angelic messengers, let alone validate a made up language!”
“It doesn’t? Seriously? I would never have figured you as close minded, Dr Jackson.”
“Ouch, that had to hurt,” Mitchell muttered. And Jackson did look a little taken aback.
“Yeah,” Sheppard replied, not really paying attention. It was a crowded conference room, as only a possible defense maybe weapon against the Ori could cause. Everyone was there, or trying to be. Every Commander of a ship, Gate team, department and refugee group. And everyone’s attention was on Daniel Jackson, expert on Ancient Earth cultures, Ancients, Star Gates and Ascended Beings, arguing with Sam Winchester, Nurse.
Haggard faces. People looking older than they had a few months ago. Ellis still on crutches, Carter still pale and wane. General O’Neill especially was looking drawn and tired. He’d lost weight, they all had. No one wanted to miss this meeting though, even if the last few meetings had been more depressing in their lack of options. People were still trying to slip inside the conference room, adding to the press of curious, hopeful people. There was space around General O’Neill though, who was glaring at Jackson and Winchester, like folk could ‘read’ the imminent explosion in the air around Jack.
Sheppard though was looking at the other Winchester. Dean had been fairly animated at first, especially when he tried to sidetrack O’Neill by winning the ‘piss off Jack’ bet. But as it became apparent that they weren’t going to fast talk their way out of an explanation, Dean had gotten quiet and distant, and let Sam take the lead.
Sam, who was normally quiet and friendly, was happily and willingly going toe to toe with Jackson, pulling weird history and facts out of thin air. The centre of the debate was a small little book, leather bound, old, tattered - questionable. Enochian. Sheppard had never heard of the language, let alone the controversy around it. Jackson had instantly been skeptical and if Daniel ‘I think alien’s built the pyramids’ Jackson was skeptical….
But Sam was making quite a few good points, that Daniel had had to concede to a few times. And it fit. Celestial Beings of one sort did not preclude the existence of others. In fairness though, John was more intrigued as to why Dean, who was the louder, more vocal of the brothers, was quiet. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with the topic, or embarrassed. More resigned. O’Neill was approaching meltdown as the argument continued with no end in sight and it took a lot to tip the easy going General over into ‘red’.
“Just because aliens stole the identities of ancient Gods doesn’t mean those Gods weren’t real!”
“It does if those gods were fictional to begin with!”
“Enough!”
All eyes swiveled to Jack O’Neill and Jackson opened his mouth to protest or maybe thank him, but Jack pointed at the book on the table and snapped at Sam Winchester, “Where did you get that? And what made you try out weird protection symbols on Bumfreak Planet B?”
An expectant hush fell over everyone, and Sam fidgeted slightly as the attention moved solidly to him. Even Dean was watching him, a strange sort of look on his face - kinda sad. Standing up straighter to his rather impressive height, Sam replied firmly, “We.. I found it in a second hand occult book store last year. And honestly, we didn’t know.. or think it would work. It was more of a … theory.”
“Theory?”
“What were you doing in an occult book store?”
“So you intended to con those villagers?”
Jackson and O’Neill shot withering looks at Woolsey, who refused to look abashed, and Sam was smiling indulgently at them all. Ignoring Jack’s question, Sam replied, “We made no promises, Mr Woolsey. We had nothing they wanted, and their chief mentioned protection against the Ori as a joke and we … found an opportunity to test a theory. We definitely did not try to con them - they were happy to ‘test’ it out too.”
Woolsey and O’Neill continued to trade unhappy glares and Daniel snapped again, “What theory?”
“That Ascended is the same as Celestial and if a book says that ‘these’ symbols will keep Angels from seeing or finding you, maybe it would work on Ascended Assholes as well.”
The collective body of interested parties shifted as one of the doorways where a grizzled, bearded man had pushed his way through the throng and replied gruffly, tone fully implying Jackson was an idiot. “Bobby,” Sam greeted, a small smile of relief flashing on his face. O’Neill squinted at the newcomer and growled back, “And you are?”
“Bobby Singer,” Bobby Singer answered, giving the General a considering look.
Sheppard was a little amused as both Jack and Daniel traded glances, while Woolsey huffed to himself. Dean was looking at Singer as well, an even less recognizable expression on his face. Before anyone could fire off another question, Singer said loudly, “Who in the hell cares where the symbols come from, or why they work. They do … and you’all should be thanking Sam, not grilling him like a charred steak.”
But Singer and the Winchesters were obviously not familiar with the way the former SGC command, or any military command worked. At the top, you debated and probed and questioned - everything! The answering flurry of questions and demands was a torrent of curiosity and almost immediately Singer was rolling his eyes.
In the rising noise of people arguing, Mitchell stood up to let Carter sit next to Sheppard and John smiled in greeting. She nodded, slowly and said softly, “Personally I don’t care why it works, but neither Daniel or Jack are going to let it go at that.” Sheppard nodded, and shot a look at Dean Winchester. He was slumped in his chair, fighting a yawn, and absently wiped a weary hand over his face.
Eventually, O’Neill silenced the hubbub with a sharp whistle and a ‘Shut up!’ and in the silence snapped, “Yes, it works. Streamers and confetti all around. But there is more to this and I’m not going to take on the Ori with a ‘just go with it’! You two,” and he pointed at Singer and Winchester, “are going to tell us ‘everything’ and do it sooner rather than later because it is only a matter of time before the Ori find us again. Got it?”
And it was then that there was a flash of light and a guy with wings fell out of the air above them, and landed smack in the middle of the conference table.
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Two days after the First Attack
Carter woke to the quiet, familiar hum of the Hammond in hyperspace. For several, long, wonderful moments, she lay in bemused half slumber, content to laze away the seconds, before the full impact of the last 48 hours rushed into remembrance with the force of a freight train.
Ori ships in orbit. Priors and soldiers decimating civilian populations. Colorado Springs a crater of destruction. Confusion as comm. lines went down, and then despair as the trails of smoke from the D.C. area could be seen from space. Firing ineffective weapons, running from Prior controlled ships, trying to figure out what everyone else was doing. Flying low over South Dakota, trying to figure out what in the hell the next step should be and watching a group of people fighting for their lives. The decision to stop and pick them up had been automatic, instinct.
There had been no time for tears, or grief or sorrow as they fought to stay alive and rescue as many people as possible. The Ori didn’t seem intent on genocide, but they weren’t pulling any punches.
It all came rushing in, a tide of overwhelming despair. Curling over onto her pillow, Sam wept. Long, all encompassing, body shaking sobs. Kids screaming for dead parents, dragged away from scenes of death and destruction by crying Marines. The screams of 303 pilots as their planes exploded. Dead, expressionless faces of people leaving their homes and families, running for their lives. The smell of blood and vomit and urine filling the vents of the Hammond. A mother screaming, inconsolable, over her child, dead before they even picked them up. Her medicated, grieving silence.
They had bugged out. Run. Abandoned their world.
Was it possible to feel so much shame to be alive?
The soft pip of Andrews trying to get her attention on the shipboard comm. drew Sam back to the here and terrible now. Trying to calm down, trying to stop the tears, find the calm born from a life in the military, Carter sat up and wiped her face. But the tears weren’t stopping. Her uniform was rumpled and smelly after two days of combat. “Colonel? General O’Neill on the comm.”
That was enough to get her off the bed, out of her quarters and on the Bridge faster than the tears could dry. No one said anything as their Commanding Officer ran on to the Bridge with red eyes and messed hair. They all looked the same. The comm. was radio only, and distorted, but it something deep and terrible settled inside Carter as she spoke to Jack.
It wasn’t a long conversation. Reassurance of being alive. Locations. Rendezvous point. Jackson and Teal’c on board the Apollo. Mitchell with him on the Deadalus. Sheppard with her. Atlantis gone, lost to Pegasus when their Wormhole drive kicked in.
And at the end, as Jack was winding up, Sam tried to articulate … something. Her ‘Jack’ was cut off by his, “Later, Sam.” Andrews had already altered their course and Sam quickly tied back her hair, straightened her BDU top and headed out to see the state of her crew and rescued civilians. She should have stayed on the Bridge.
It was walking into a maelstrom of emotion. Carolyn Lam had triage centres in every available space. The 303 deck was an emergency hospital ward. Sam caught a brief glance of John and Rodney arguing in the 303 bay, both covered in grease and blood, both waving tools at each other as they tried to cobble a squadron together. She left them to it. The Asgard weapons were down and she promised Bill she’d come back and help. Food was already running low, so rationing was in force. They were running out of morphine and antibiotics. Life support was stretched to the limit, they were carrying too many people than was safe.
24 hours later, Sam sat in a quiet corner near Engineering and ate an MRE, the first meal she’d had since breakfast on the day of the attack. The rendezvous had been an abortion, the Ori waiting for them. Everyone had simply flashed in and flashed straight out. Now they were waiting for contact from O’Neill again. And while they were waiting, people were dying. Not enough medicine or doctors. Non-essential areas in vacuum to save O2 with the scrubbers overworked.
It felt wrong to just sit and eat and do nothing. But she was doing it anyway. It was easier to work than to think. And right now, eating was work. Breathing was hard.
It was too soft to really make out, but as the volume grew Sam looked up, her breath catching in her throat. The store rooms leading to engineering were being used as dormitories for the uninjured civilians and Carter had been ignoring the quiet murmur of unfamiliar voices for hours as she worked on the Asgard array.
Staggering to her feet, MRE forgotten, Sam limped down the corridor, drawn inexorably like a bee to honey. She wasn’t the only one. A couple of tired, no exhausted, Airmen were hunched in the doorway, Sheppard behind them. The corridor was crowded with boxes from the store room, but inside the room, someone was playing a guitar.
Someone was singing.
I can't believe the news today
Oh, I can't close my eyes
And make it go away
Sam shook her head as one of the Airmen made to move to let her past and she leant against a box in the corridor, hidden, the singer half seen through the doorway. It was the group from South Dakota, their first rescue followed by too few others. Everyone in the room was silent and it was the loud clear voice of the man with the guitar that had them all enthralled.
And the battle's just begun
There's many lost, but tell me who has won
The trench is dug within our hearts
And mothers, children, brothers, sisters
Torn apart
Sheppard gave her a small smile and leant against the same box, silent and far away. What a difference 72 hours made, twelve hours, one hour…. Everything they knew… gone.
Wipe the tears from your eyes
Wipe your tears away
Oh, wipe your tears away
One of the Airmen, O’Connell, was leaning on the comm. panel at the door, so that the song was being piped to the entire ship. It felt like the pause button had been pushed, a moment to just be… remember.
And it's true we are immune
When fact is fiction and TV reality
And today the millions cry
We eat and drink while tomorrow they die
Sam didn’t care if anyone heard her croaky voice as she joined in on the last chorus, refusing to cry, again, refusing to do more than give voice to her tears.
Sunday, Bloody Sunday
The Airmen and Sheppard stayed as the song ended, and the man with the guitar started another. Sam though turned away, went back to her work, her engine and the simplicity of an ancient alien design. It was easier than remembering.
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During the hard, lonely years when he was butt of several very clever and hurtful jokes, Daniel Jackson had daydreamed about the expressions of his skeptical colleagues when his theories about the pyramids were proved correct. It was petty and childish, but in those dark days before Catherine had found him and changed his life, it had been a small, petty, childish comfort.
After the Stargate, and Abydos and Sha’re, it hadn’t mattered anymore. Those professors and colleagues had been so far off his list of concerns that Daniel had barely wasted the energy to even think about their expressions. But later, when the SGC was a reality and SG-1 his family, he had daydreamed about the day when the programme was declassified and he could see their reactions.
Now, years, a lifetime of space exploration and an invasion later, those men and women who had mocked and ridiculed him where probably dead or living under an oppressive alien religious hegemony at best. No doubt though, that their expressions of stunned disbelief had been pretty damn similar to the one on his face right now when alien ships burst out of the clouds and opened fire.
It was one thing to argue and debate over the existence of mythological, imaginary beings and be proved wrong later. It was quite another to have the evidence that you were wholly and grossly wrong drop from the heavens and land on your conference room table.
There were bloody feathers everywhere.
“Castiel!”
Daniel risked a glance at Sam Winchester, but his expression was as stunned, if not more, than his own. The only person with the presence of mind to move was Dean Winchester. The man, the angel, on the table, was writhing in pain, his white wings smoking and blackened in parts. But he was moving, moving towards Dean Winchester. Across the divide of wood and stunned silence, the angel reached out and grabbed Dean’s hand in an iron grip and gasped, “You’re.. right. They are coming.”
It was almost simultaneous.
The entire city shook as the shields absorbed an energy weapon blast and Chuck’s voice echoed through the city, “Ori ships dropping out of hyperspace, four, no five. Battle stations. We are under attack!”
Sheppard was up and out of his seat, running for the control chair, pushing through the crowd. Jack was yelling orders, people were obeying. The room cleared fast, helped by Asgard transport beams back to 305s and Motherships. Jack’s order boomed throughout every ship and the city, “Bug out. Delta 1B. Now.”
Daniel stayed where he was though, as did the Winchesters, Singer and Carson Beckett. The doctor was at a loss, wanting to approach, to help but … well… it was a friggin’ angel!
“Cas?”
“I’m sorry, Dean Winchester.”
Daniel tried to make sense of the emotions flitting over their faces but the moment was lost as Atlantis jumped to hyperspace.
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Day Five on Atlantis
“Why in the hell are you still here? Your shift finished three hours ago!”
Dean looked up at Rodney McKay, quirked a ‘whaddya think’ eyebrow and looked back down at the navigation unit he was fixing.
Rodney went red, counted slowly to ten, gave up at three and snarled, “You screw that unit up because you can’t see straight, Winchester and I will space your ass!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… always with the spacing of my ass.”
McKay stalked off, muttering into his almost-but-sure-as-hell-ain’t-coffee and clipboard, and Dean sighed, quietly. It was late, but it was hard to tell when you’re in space and all any window showed you was stars. But he’d sent his guys off for some food at shift end so it wasn’t like he was making anyone else work late. Just him. Sam would probably track him down shortly, bring him a bitchface and a plate of luke warm food.
Which was kinda nice.
Usually.
It was thirty minutes before Dean remembered that Sam was on the late shift in the Infirmary and that unless he got up off his own ass and got some food, none was going to miraculously appear. Putting down the nav. unit Dean sighed, yawned and rubbed his eyes all in one gruff motion. Shit, he was tired.
But the notion of whatever goop the mess had pulled together really didn’t appeal, and sure there were rumours of another food run in a few days once they were sure that no Ori were on their tail, but mystery veg-loaf was more challenge than he was feeling up to. Maybe a moonshine run…
“Dean Winchester.”
Dean didn’t even bother turning around. The brush of unseen wings, power in motion, heralding an unwelcome visitor ruffled his hair.
“Whaddya want Castiel?”
Castiel slowly walked around the work bench, stepping over the scattered remains of engine parts and spare bits and bobs. He looked more rumpled than usual, but you couldn’t tell from his expression if he was scrapping the end of the barrel.
“You know why I have returned, Dean.”
Cold, clinical bastard.
Dean scowled and sagged forward a little, head propped up in one hand, elbow pressed into the workbench. “Then you’re wasting your time. I haven’t changed my mind.”
The angel was studying the room, its tall, blue stylized walls. If Dean thought it possible, the guy looked reluctantly approving. But as Castiel turned to meet Dean’s tired gaze, none of that approval was visible. “Our efforts against the Ori are deadlocked. Neither side is making any progress. But their numbers grow. And ours diminish. You must agree.”
Dropping the screwdriver he’d been white-knuckling, Dean tried to find the energy to get angry and shout and protest as he had every other time Castiel had appeared. But he could only find the anger to snap, “No, I don’t.”
Maybe things were worse than just deadlocked because Castiel snapped back, “It would not be the first time you have capitulated, Dean Winchester. You have agreed to far worse under less favourable conditions!”
“You threatening to put me back on the rack?”
Castiel’s expression was … disquieted. And it was a good word for the douche too - disquieted. A Sam word. Hell, a damn literary genius word. Castiel was repulsed by the idea, but perhaps desperate enough to consider it. But before they went further down that twisted little garden path, Dean growled, “You cannot promise me that your plan isn’t just wiping out humanity to spite the Ori. You can’t guarantee that Sam wouldn’t be tempted by Lucifer. Hell, Cas, you can’t even look me in the eye and tell me you think it’s a good idea letting Lucifer out and hoping like hell that he fights the Ori with you. And doesn’t just betray us all.”
He couldn’t and Castiel looked down, and picked up an errant piece of broken tech. “You cannot know for certain, but I can promise you, Dean. Heaven is a better alternative for the inhabitants of Earth.”
Dean laughed, low and angry, “Great. Death or enslavement. Great options, Cas.”
“No, it is death either way. Death to serve those abominations or escape to Heaven.”
The conversation killer statement lay between them and Dean watched Castiel fiddle with the connector end of a faulty component of an afterburner. Motioning towards it, he said “It helps the 303s go faster.”
Peering at the useless piece of equipment that had to be fixed because there were no spares, Castiel said slowly, “Do you still dream of Hell, Dean? Have you told Sam?”
The spike of fear and adrenalin was so reflexive that Dean barely flinched. Alcohol was scarce, so sleep was even more so. Food ash. The need to work, keep busy overwhelming. “It reheats cooling gases inside a turbojet engine.”
Castiel put the afterburner component down and sighed, “You broke the first seal.”
“And the world was invaded by aliens.”
“Who we can defeat if Lucifer is freed to unite Hell in our cause.”
“Scorpion and the frog, Castiel.”
The ruffle of unhappy wings was both motion and sound and Castiel bristled, “You would sentence the world, humanity, to enslavement and torture.”
Dean slammed a fist down on the bench and snarled, “You want to free Lucifer and let him wear Sam! And wipe out humanity! Do you really think the Ori are going to let you take away their worshippers? Everyone dying is not a plan, Castiel!”
“Do you really think these… people… these SGC people are going to save Earth, Dean?”
“Maybe,” Dean sighed, pursing his lips, weary. “But at least they want to.”
Castiel was holding the afterburner component again and with a deliberate motion, smashed it into the bench. “Foolish human pride. You are dooming your race.”
“Go to hell, Castiel. If you’re going to bend over and let Lucifer screw heaven and earth, at least get some practice in.”
He barely heard Castiel leave but the room immediately felt emptier, less. Atlantis was stationery, a white point in space, off the Star Gate grid, laying low. People talked like they were the last remnants of humanity here on Atlantis, even though there were people still on Earth. Just no one knew what was happening to them.
Dean did. Thanks to Castiel. And thanks to Castiel Dean felt the weight of those lives squarely on his shoulders. Ten years in hell. Humanity saved to Heaven. Escape from the half life of pain, fear and regret - and soul crushing shame.
He wasn’t between a rock and hard place - he was still in Hell.
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Wings. The man had wings.
Carson was tempted to cross himself even though he had never been a religious man, and his mother would have laughed to see it. Great bloody wings.
Dean Winchester looked up and waved Carson over. “Doc.”
Where to start, what was hurt, how can an angel be hurt? Carson moved with deceptive efficiency covering his nerves. “Where are you hurt, sir?”
The angel was wearing clothes, a smoldering trench coat and tattered suit. The blood was splattered, like arterial spray and there was a lot of it. Carson tentatively touched a pale wrist and felt for a pulse. Castiel arched up off the conference table and screamed. Carson crashed backwards into the chair behind him in shock.
“Cas?”
Dean was holding the angel down on the table, stopping him from writhing off, “What’s going on, Cas?”
The angel’s pale, sweat drenched, bloody face grimaced in agony and he groaned, “Ori.. they… hurt… the sigils.”
Sam and Bobby Singer were moving before Carson or Jackson could even process the agonized words. Sam had a sharpie and was scrawling symbols on the walls, while Bobby was doing the same with can of grease. Dean ripped open Castiel’s shirt and started painting a wide, complex circle on his chest. As more and more symbols were drawn, the angel slowly stopped thrashing, grew quiet and subsided. Carson could only stare for so long, before he moved as well, but towards his patient and began assessing the wounds. Stab wounds, burns, claw marks.
Sam Winchester drew one last symbol that completed the circumference of the room and like a switch being thrown, Castiel collapsed, spent. No longer in pain. Daniel, who had been copying the symbols on the conference table in his own pen, looked up just in time to see the wings disappear. A spray of bloody feathers remained.
“What the hell?”
Carson looked at Dean and said sharply, “I need my kit. He’s losing, has lost a lot of blood. Can we move him?”
Dean shook his head, hands now more gentle, soothing on the angel’s shoulders, “Probably not, Doc.” Carson nodded and tapped his radio, “I need plasma and a medkit, now.”
Daniel, Sam and Bobby drifted back towards them and in the expectant silence of ‘what now’, Castiel groaned a deep echo of profound grief, “Heaven has fallen. We were betrayed. I… you were right.” Unaccountably, it was Dean who started to cry, tear poised in eyes like bottomless pools. “Cas….”
Passing out seemed like the logical, human thing to do, which was what Castiel did. Carson looked around, saw the same shattered emotions on everyone’s faces and swallowed.
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But I won't heed the battle call
It puts my back up
Puts my back up against the wall
Fin
AN 2: Ah… depressing, I know. Cliffhanger, yeah. Another song-insert. But it seemed to work, I hope. This is why I wanted to leave it as a one shot, the emotions of a prolonged post-invasion, human tragedy are just so poignant. I tried to make this less dark and more light hearted but I couldn’t. Sorry. But I hope you enjoyed or at least liked.
Thanks for reading.