The Otherside of Tomorrow Part 1

Author: Tari_Roo

Rating: PG (Gen)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing, however if I did... SGA would have become space pirates, BSG would have not sucked in the end and SPN... would involve less shirts and more hurt.

Summary: The world ended - sorta. Free humanity is on the run from the Ori, and these are the missing scenes (i.e. demands) of Here Tomorrow.

Spoilers: Yes. But only for season 4 of SPN and all of SGA.

Missing Scene - Chapter 2. Dean aboard the Hammond

"Shit. Crap! Shitty crap!"

Dean fumbled for a clothe or something to stem the flow of blood and came up empty. Rolling out from underneath the 302, clutching his hand, Dean applied pressure to the gushing wound and staggered to his feet.

A brief thought about weirdo alien bacteria flittered through his brain, because no matter what Sam said about sterile environments in space and vacuums and other shit, they were still on a spaceship, in space...

It was late, way after his original shift had ended, so that meant the infirmary would be quiet. Check that, Dean groaned, it was going to be extremely busy and bursting at the seams. Combat in space was damn scary – mostly because it was so damn quiet. At least, it seemed that way. There was a lot of running around and yelling and scrambling to get 302s in the air, er, vacuum of space, but once that was done... it was quiet. No explosions. No screams. No gun shots...or laser blasts. Real space battles were kinda dull. No wonder George Lucas added awesome sound effects to Star Wars, 'cos otherwise it'd being like watching it on mute, and that was no fun. Not unless you were doing your own commentary.

Sam hated when he did that.

After the battle it was noise and work again. People screaming, nurses and doctors running around, pilots and planes in need of help. But it wasn't combat, it was aftermath. And then the quiet of hyperspace as they ran – again.

Dean really didn't like running away, especially not from wrinkled old dudes with walking sticks.

Realising he was standing in the middle of the hangar, leaving a long trail of blood behind him, Dean yawned, and headed for the transporter room. It was new. It was ... an old storage closet. But with so many people and a big fleet, the ring transport and Asgard transport were constantly ... albeit not consistently, working. So each deck had one now, a room dedicated to transport.

On the way, Dean snagged a bandage from a triage cart near the hangar doors and wrapped his still bleeding hand. He was hot bunking with some sweaty Marine and a nervous Engineer – so between the three of them, the bunk was pretty rank. But the laundry was backed up and reserved for priority washes only. Clean clothes once a week was a good week. Fresh bandages and clean underwear... that was priority. Either way, Dean hardly used his designated sleeping space. With so many people close by, one below him, one above, a dozen in the crammed sleeping quarters... yeah, sleep did not come easy even after a good, long 18 hour shift. Dean figured he'd twist Sam's arm into letting him sleep in the Apollo's infirmary. They hadn't picked up as many critical wounded, most already transported back to their ships.

A yawning Zelenka was manning the transporter station and he barely raised an eyebrow at Dean's appearance, let alone the bloody hand.

"Who did you piss off?" Dean smiled, and Zelenka rolled his eyes.

"His balding majesty, that's who. McKay is still convinced 'I' changed the duty rosters – again. He refuses to believe that Sheppard can crack his password in his sleep. No, it must be me." The little Czech didn't look too upset, mostly because gamma shift on the transporter meant actual sleep in some decent space (there was a nice sleeping bag under the console).

Dean shrugged and shared a 'what can you do about crazy, super paranoid bosses' look.

"The Apollo?"

"You got it."

As the transporter light faded and Dean tipped a wounded hand at a sleepy George, he trotted off to the infirmary. The corridors and decks of all the 303s were pretty much the same, so it wasn't hard to a) find your way around once you knew where to go and b) get horribly lost when you didn't. Either way, Dean confidently hurried down the corridor, turned and stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly he turned around, and looked back down the corridor. It had been a glimpse, the barest of motions, but as he looked back, his pulse raced.

"Castiel?"

The angel flickering in the overhead light, turned a full 360 and stared down the corridor at Dean. The look was unreadable, almost vacant and Dean took a single step towards him when he vanished. There, then gone.

"Castiel?"

Standing, hoping for a moment the angel would return, Dean waited. And then gave up and hurried towards the infirmary and Sam. His hand was still bleeding.

*sga*spn*sga*spn*

Missing Scene – Chapter 1 Dean and Sam at the planet shindig.

"Dean!"

The press of people was pretty intense, lots of folk trying to meet up with friends or family from the Civilian Fleet and likewise folks from the Civilian Fleet desperate to find out who had survived the engagements with the Ori.

"Dean!"

The good thing about having a giant for a brother was that he was easy to spot in a crowd, usually a head taller than everyone else. With the amount of hulked out Marines in the Fleet, that wasn't always the case but there he was, looming over everyone. Goofy grin, too long hair, damn hoodie. Sam Winchester.

Dean felt something settle inside him, something he didn't even know had been riled or upset. Sammy.

"Sam!"

He waved and the big lug waved back, broad smile splitting his face.

They met in the middle of everyone, the flow of people splitting like river water around a stone, as Sam engulfed his brother in a massive hug. It caught Dean a little off guard, as it'd only been a few weeks, maybe a month since they'd last seen eachother. But… whatever.

Dean hugged Sam back.

"Good to see you, man."

Sam's smile hadn't stopped, it'd just gotten bigger if that was possible. "You too. Glad you're… you know."

"You too," Dean nodded. "You having fun playing farmer?"

"Farmer slash nurse slash construction slash pack animal… but yeah."

Figures the old egghead, brains of the operation, would get a kick out of manual labour. "You having fun being a grease monkey?" Sam laughed and dragged Dean towards a roaring bonfire. Dean shrugged and said, "You heard anything about Bobby?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, saw him briefly a few weeks ago, healing up, just taking him a while… longer than he'd like. But he should be ready to be rostered soon."

"Poor Bobby."

Sam's grin was infectious and whatever was cooking smelled heavenly.

"What is this?" Dean stared at the supersized drumstick Sam was handing him.

Sam's eyebrows bobbed in amused surprise, the firelight from the massive bonfire dancing over his face, the shadows and angles of his face changing. "Since when do you care? Its meat, its fresh and it tastes good."

Dean took the drumstick, turned it carefully, inspecting it cautiously. "Since we aren't on Earth and this could be just about anything, including an alien fish."

"Giant Dinosaur Chicken."

This time Dean's eyebrows climbed into his hairline and he sniffed the roasted meat, and mumbled, "Colonel Saunders eat your heart out, huh?"

Sam's reply was to take a massive bite out of his own drumstick and he sat down on a handy log. "Half the crew of the Apollo are plotting ways to get Maquire onto our ship. That guy is a genius with limited ingredients."

"Keep dreaming, Sasquatch. He's ours. Colonel Carter will make damn sure he stays," Dean sighed and bumped into Sam's shoulder as he sat next to his brother. "Any hooch make it down?"

Sam nodded, "Yep, you just missed the Pole Brothers, but I think Schneider and Holtz will be by just now with their 'German' vodka."

"Gah," Dean waved his meal in the air, nearly hitting Sam, "no thanks. That's 60% proof, guaranteed to make you go blind."

Sam munched on the mutant chicken leg, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. Tentatively trying a small bite, Dean chewed slowly, thinking. Eventually the penny dropped and he twisted, nudging his 'oh so sly' brother. "Our ship? The Apollo?"

Another massive, shit-eating grin and Sam nodded. "Yep, finally got cleared for the Combat Fleet."

"As what?" Dean mumbled into the meat, suddenly ravenous and uncaring of its 'alienness'.

"Nurse."

Dean choked a little bit and Sam helpfully slapped his back, hard enough to bruise, laughing a little as he did so. Dean half coughed, half choked, "Nurse? Seriously?"

"You have a problem with that?" The smile was sharp and bright and a little brittle, like Sam was itching to push back, but masking that desire under friendly, brotherly laughter. Smiling back, genuine and warm, Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's neck and pulled him close, "Nah, you got some mad sewing skills, dude. Used to have the small, neat little scars to prove it."

Sam's eyes softened, the brittle edge submerged by memory and sadness. "So, we're going to be neighbours.. kinda."

The smile was still easy, soft and Dean squeezed a little tighter, resisting the urge to 'noogie' Sam's head with his drumstick. "More than neighbours, Sam. Fellow support skivs and gophers." Sam tipped his half-eaten drumstick at Dean.

"So, you met anyone famous?" Sam mumbled, watching the bustling crowds around them, nodding at a few people.

Dean rolled his eyes, "What like Miley Cyrus or something?"

"No, idiot – SGC famous. Any of the big wigs... the top brass."

Dean stared at Sam, quietly chewing, the meat going down a treat. Swallowing, Dean grinned, "I'm sure you'll get your chance to brush shoulders with the... elite. Why..."

Sam didn't turn to face him, just stared at the fire and people, but his words were clear, firm. "Don't know. It's hard... you know. Not being in the thick of things. In charge."

Dean leant back, as much as one could on a wooden log, and looked up at the alien sky overhead. He spotted the flashing lights of one of the 303s, but otherwise the sky was unfamiliar and worrying because it was so. "Kinda nice, actually. Just going with the flow. Letting someone else worry, make all the calls."

It took several long moments for Sam to answer, and his voice sounded harder than normal, like he was trying to be calm, reasonable. "Dean... we. We're not novices or ordinary people. We could help."

"Don't be stupid, Sam. We are novices – about this. Its frigging space, dude! Space. What the hell do we know about space and stargates and aliens?" Dean flipped the half eaten drumstick into the fire, his appetite gone.

Sam looked back at him, over his shoulder, face half cast in shadow, lost in the black. "Dean. We could help."

Dean cut the rest of whatever Sam was going to say with a short, sharp, "We are, Sam. We are. I'm fixing ships and weapons – you're bringing a lifetime of triage and emergency field medicine to the game." He tried to inject as much finality into his tone as possible, as much – please drop it. Sam maybe picked up on it or, maybe he just gave up in order to argue another day, but his sigh was capitulation wrapped in reluctance.

The moment hung between, frozen and cold, and Dean rubbed his eyes, exhausted, ready for sleep. Just as he was about to call it a night, already, a shout went up and several people started cheering. Sam grinned and nudged his brother, friendliness and charm all over. "What?" Dean yawned, but Sam didn't have to answer. There was a loud strum, a collective 'tuning' and a very drunk group of Marines (it was always Marines) started singing Oops, I did it again.

"Ah, come on..." Dean groaned. But Sam hauled him to his feet and practically dragged him towards the much larger bonfire where most of the spits were, and the 'approved' hooch. The Marines were getting more catcalls than anything else, and there was a general edge of excitement in the crowd. The moment the song ended, and the boos died down, someone started singing a offkey version of Henry the VIII.

Sam found them a spot to sit, next to some ladies who giggled at them both. Dean prepared himself for a night of hellish pop renditions, and amusement in the form of Sam trying to flirt. "Winchester! You're up next."

Dean looked up and Colonel Sheppard was standing over him, an old battered guitar in his hands.

"No way in hell, sir."

Sheppard didn't appear to be fazed in the least... he just smiled. "Something fun this time, ok?"

Dean grumbled, but took the guitar.

*sga*spn*sga*spn*

Fin... for now.