Title: Here Tomorrow Gone Today (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.

Summary: SGA/SPN Crossover AU. One shot. 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. Shep POV.

Spoilers: SG1 Season 9 and 10. SPN, none.

Sheppard stalked out of the Hammond's canteen, tossing the empty paper cup into the recycler. The coffee might taste like mud, but at least it was caffeine. He pushed back at the exhaustion tugging on his coat tails, threatening to trip him up, too many days with too little sleep and too much action. Running a ragged hand through his long hair, making it stand up on end more than usual, John made his way to the 302 bay, already running through the mission plan for the 12th time. Fuel was scarce and his usual ship, the one that needed expert handling had been making weird sounds when he landed, and he knew there was a good chance a vital system could crap out on him when he least needed it to, like in the heat of a dog fight but there was no time to fix it himself and certainly no spare mechanics for a lowly 302, even if it was his.

So, it took John half a beat to take in the state of his 302 and the full implications, as he turned the corner into the hanger and saw the guts and innards of his ship scattered all over the deck.

"What in the hell?"

There were a pair of boots, worn and dirty, like everything was, sticking out the bottom of the 302, and a bitten off curse as an errant bolt, nut or screw – random metal piece was tossed out and rolled along the deck towards him.

Already on the edge, pushed past his limits, John growled, strode over and kicked at the nearest boot and yelled, "What the hell are you doing to my ship?"

The pair of boots ignored him, and did not scurry out to reveal the face of the soon to be dead 'I don't care how scarce they are' mechanic. Instead a low drawl echoed dully from the 302, "Fixing it, moron. What's it look like."

Sheppard nearly said, nearly – 'It doesn't need...' but he knew damn well that it did, so instead he yelled, "I don't frigging have the time for this – I need to be in the air in... 3 minutes."

"Then you better radio in and tell 'em you're going be 2 minutes late – I'm almost done."

Staring at the mess of parts and pieces around him, John growled again, feeling his heart rate increase in response. "The hell you are and the hell I am! Just .. put it all – damnit who the hell are you?"

There was a loud clang, another curse and then, "Look dude, the more you keep yakking at me the more time this is gonna take, so stow it, go stand somewhere and look pretty, and I'll fix your rust bucket."

Sheppard opened his mouth to reply, had too many options, most of them seasoned by time well spent with Marines and settled for, "Screw that." He stepped forward, bent down to drag the guy out from under the ship and was he was on sort of elevated skate board?

"Touch me and die, man."

Not usually one to listen to idle threats, Sheppard was spared the necessity of beating the crap out of him when his ear wig bzzed and he taped it automatically. "Sheppard."

"Colonel, your mission is delayed for ... ten minutes. The Apollo hasn't jumped in yet but confirms arrival in 7 minutes."

"Understood." Sheppard tapped off and scowled down at the elevated boots and legs.

"See, plenty of time. Now back off." Instead Sheppard kicked the closest boot and then backed off, and paced around the innards of his ship.

And fortunately, the guy was only 5 minutes and soon scooted out from under the ship, his long legs and torso dangling off the elevated board. Smeared with grease and dirt and definitely not in an airman's uniform, the idiot messing with his ship sat up and said, "Good to go."

Waving at the array of parts and what he assumed were miscellaneous necessities, Sheppard snarled, "Really? And these were what... party favours?"

The guy shook his head, and said, "Nah – spare parts, redundant systems and dead weight. She'll run like a dream now."

"Or kill me."


Sheppard couldn't help it he stepped over to his girl and stuck his head under the hood so to speak but couldn't see anything wrong, not he'd knew what to look for anyway. It'd take him a while to figure it out, and he could but it was the while part that had kept him from tinkering. That and Rodney's vocal insistence that he not.

The mechanic was picking up all the scattered parts, including the errant bolt that had rolled off and Sheppard snapped, "So what cannibalise my ship so that when I drop of out the sky, you'll still have something to work with?"

"Its space, you don't drop out of nothing, and yeah, the parts of one will save the lives of many and no, you won't die."

The guy barely looked up, hardly seemed fazed at all by the towering fury looming over him and John snarled, "Just who the hell are you anyway? And who authorised you to tear my ship apart?"

Shrugging, the guy said loudly, "Dude with the clipboard pointed me at your bird and said fix it. So I fixed it. You could say thank you."

"Dude with the ... Rodney? Rodney sent you?"

He looked up at Sheppard, met his gaze with calm but tired eyes and said, "Rude and obnoxious, could use a mainline of caffeine and abrasive as hell?"


"Then yes, Rodney sent me."

Momentarily derailed, uncertain as to why Rodney would send 'this' guy but certain that Rodney would only send someone who knew what they were doing to mess around the battered 302s, John stammered for the umpteenth time, "Who the hell are you?"

Standing up, his tools and spare parts stowed away in a tatty duffle, the guy sighed, "Dean Winchester. Who, might I add, did not expect the world to end like this and did not expect to become a grease monkey on a frigging space ship. You're welcome."

And with that, he was gone and John had Control in his ear barking orders to go go go. So he went.

The next time John Sheppard saw Dean Winchester, it was on the hangar bay of the Deadalus. He'd had to land there instead the Hammond when the Fleet bugged out, and there was a scramble to get aboard the nearest ship. Winchester was leaning into the engine of a 302, cursing, more parts strewn around him.

For some reason, the sight amused him this time, and it may have been as a result of the lingering adrenalin, but John ambled over and said loudly, "Gutting another ship I see."

"Improving. Go away."

"Rodney's rubbing off on you, I see."

From the belly of the ship came a snort and "More like plotting my imminent death. So unless you're a pilot who's miraculously learned how to fix their own damned ship, back off."

Smiling a little, John did just that, calling over his shoulder, "My bird flew great – thanks!"

There was a muttered, 'whatever' behind him.

After that John saw Winchester often, usually in the hangar bay of one of the 303s, usually in the middle of mending a 302 and once arguing with Zelenka near a Jumper. They passed each other once or twice coming out of and into a canteen, and John nodded while Winchester ignored him.

The next time he actually got to speak to the guy again was weeks after the last time and it mostly had to do with the fact that Winchester was asleep inside his 302.

The guy looked completely done in, utterly exhausted and he was boneless in the cockpit, head slumped back like he'd closed his eyes briefly and then ... passed out. Sheppard was strangely reluctant to disturb him, well aware of just how tired everyone was. Being on the run, under constant attack was blindingly exhausting and fatigue was turning everyone into harder, meaner versions of themselves. But unfortunately, he had a CAP to run, and for that, he needed his bird.

"Hey, Winchester! She good to go?"

Winchester sat up with a start, nearly bashing his head on the edge of the canopy and mumbled, "'m up. 'm up."

He turned bleary, blood shot eyes on Sheppard and said, "What time is it?"


Winchester groaned, and started to haul himself out of the 302, "Damn. I missed my beam back to the Apollo. Crap..."

He began pulling out his tools and loading them in the duffle, stopped, double checked whatever he'd been doing in the cockpit and then scrambled down the ladder. "You're good to go, man."

"Thanks." Winchester actually stopped at that, as if he was ... surprised and said, "What?"

"Thanks. Appreciate it."

Perplexed and maybe a little pissed, Winchester tossed his duffle over his shoulder and stalked off, shouting, "Whatever, dude."

And then, the next time John Sheppard crossed paths with Dean Winchester, it was by design and not in person.

He'd managed to snag Rodney's maintenance schedule during a brief down time in hyperspace, had boggled at the long and extensive list, and noted the number of non-military, non-familiar scientist names on the list, one of which being Dean Winchester. Zelenka, also in a brief down time had confirmed that they'd asked among the civilian refugees for people with technical skills to come forward, had gone back for mechanics and then for anyone willing to learn. There was so much to fix and too few hands to do it. Running a rag tag fleet of refugees and exhausted military officers was proving to be a lot harder than even Jack O'Neill imagined.

The schedule for priority fixes though was insane. The mechanics Rodney, Carter and Novak deemed competent enough to work on military ships and systems were few, and rostered almost 24-7. And in some cases double booked on different ships. Carefully, deliberately, Sheppard began reassigning the priorities, moving his ship off immediate and regular checking, benching a few more 302s whose pilots were in the infirmary or morgue and then scheduling down time for the mechanics, especially Dean Winchester. They had more ships than pilots at the moment, and if their plans, the immediate ones, came to fruition, everyone would be able to breath, calm down again – for a while.

When Rodney discovered the changes, and then found the time to actually track Sheppard down, who had simply turned off his radio whenever Rodney chirped in to launch a tirade, it was t-minus 13 minutes to the big push. As a result, the conversation had been brief for Rodney and ignored by Sheppard, who had just slapped his friend on the shoulder and said, "Keep the porch light turned on."

"And no damn suicide runs!" was Rodney's parting rejoinder.

By the time the Fleet regrouped in the Milky Way, over a world without a Stargate but plenty of supplies of fresh water and food, it was battered, exhausted and triumphant. The plan had worked, the causalities had been minimal and they would have time to breath... maybe even come up with a plan that didn't consist of ways of just keeping the Ori off their backs and escaping to fight again. Maybe come up with a plan to attack, to take back their homes.

There was a party on the planet, an actual barbeque and when John materialised on the surface, he went in search of Teyla and Ronon. The ships carrying the civilian refugees and non-combatants had been in orbit for weeks and they already had a small settlement on the rise, crops planted and hopes established. He nodded at Mitchell and Teal'c, both of whom were plying Carter with the local moonshine, which she was refusing – mostly by giving it to a very drunk Jackson. Rodney was due in the next transport shuttle, the Apollo's transporter beam hit during the mission.

Eyes peeled for his friends who he had not seen in weeks, Sheppard spotted one familiar face and smiled. Dean Winchester was slouched against an improvised chair – a log, a tin cup of something (moonshine) in hand and was laughing at something a tall, hell massive guy was saying. He looked dead tired, as usual, but more at ease and the obvious affection and relief was apparent on both faces. Someone yelled, "Winchester!" and both men looked around, and waved at someone.

Brothers? Something else? John shrugged and pushed it aside when he spotted Ronon and was instantly barrelled into by a tiny male version of Teyla. "Shep!"

"Hey, Torren." Teyla's smile was broad even as her eyes sparkled with unshed tears and there was no escaping Ronon's hug. "You made it, John."

"Yeah. Yeah we did."


I may continue, I may not. Kinda like the one shotness