A/N: Hah! It's done! I've been working on this sporadically for two weeks, but never had any time to actually sit down and write anything substantial until today. And bonus - I do believe a plot-like substance is beginning to form from the quagmire that is my story. Please excuse my geography, though. It's sketchy at best. As usual, if you see anything amiss, please notify me.

Dean needs a change of scenery. He's always been a rambler, not to mention they still have no idea how half the country turned out. They've been kept busy in the north and Midwest, driving between the foothills of the Appalachians and the Rockies, but after a particularly cold day in Minnesota-almost-Canada Dean resolutely turns the Impala's nose south with a pointed glare and Sam just shrugs. A zombie is still a zombie, and he's sure there will be plenty in Texas as there were in Iowa.

They work their way down to the military warehouse, first. No matter how many times they swing in and clear the place out, a few more stiffs always manage to wander through it. Prudence dictates they carefully sweep the place for zombies, first, but then they get down to business. The restocking trip was Sam's idea; he wants to bring along the hummer, as well as the last boxes of ammo their earlier raid had turned up. They've become experts at turning most everything into weapons, but it's always good to bring along the real stuff just in case.

At the warehouse, Sam gives the hummer a tune-up. Dean loads the weapons. He's better with cars, but he called dibs on packing. One way or another, the flamethrower will be coming along.

Sam doesn't care where they go, so Dean decides on Florida. "Come on," he says. "All those old people down there? The zombies won't be able to move without walkers." Sam laughs at the mental image. "I guess it's hard to bite someone without your dentures." Dean grins and snaps his fingers. "Exactly, it'll be the easiest job we've ever had. Besides, I want to check out Disneyland; I hear it's not very crowded, this time of year."

The route they plan crosses the Appalachians early, and hugs the coast down to Florida. It'll be a straight shot east then south. The plan works, until they unfurl the map to look for major roadways that pass through the mountains that would still be in relatively good shape. Most of the best options cross over near New York, Boston and D.C.; all heavily populated places that neither brother is willing to go to without a supply of Molotov cocktails and a nice homemade bomb. So instead they plan a route that goes through the shadows of the Appalachians for a time, then rushes for the coast before meandering down to Florida.

Their costal detour will cost them a day, but Dean wants to see what happened to the oceans. He always loved getting jobs on the coast, just so he could see the waves as he worked. He still dreams of the salty sea air ruffling his jacket and the soft whoosh of waves slapping the shore.

Sam gets a funny look on his face as he looks at the map of the country, idly tapping his pointer finger on the dot marked Washington D.C. "Do you think the president's a zombie?" Dean stills. "You know, I never thought of that. All those politicians probably got snacked on first. Nothing says I wish I didn't vote for you like a zombie bite." Both brothers pause to contemplate the idea. It's never really occurred to them that there isn't some sort of government, even after the apocalypse. Before the virus, things like voting and politicians were a strange concept, an abstract existence at best. The events in their lives never affected those in D.C., so when the apocalypse happened they never gave a thought to all the big-wigs in Washington.

After Dean shifts his world view to accept the fact that there really isn't any government whatsoever, his second thought is, "We should have an election." Sam snorts. "Of the land of Winchester? No thanks." He throws a handful of dirt at Dean's smirking face. The elder Winchester is undeterred. "Well, if you're abstaining from voting, that means I vote myself to the office of president. And my first act is to declare pie the national dessert." Sam looks decidedly unhappy at his brother's newfound position.

The further south they get, the worse the desert is. The North was arid scrubland, but still marginally alive. There were a few hardy bushes and shrubs that managed to survive, and rain was a semi-rare occasion. In the South, however, it's the definition of wasteland. They drive past acres and acres of what used to be green farmlands. Now it's desert, shifting sands drifting over the decrepit grain silos and barns that loom up from the flat landscape. "Dean, do you think this is what the Dust Bowl looked like in the great Depression?" Dean looks up at the searing sun, the vast emptiness that spreads for miles, the complete abandonment. "No." he says. "I think this is worse."

Even the zombies appear in worse shape, the further south they get. Huge lesions eat away at their leathery skin as the sand scrapes and tears at them. The sun bakes them slowly, sapping away their energy and evaporating what's left of their bodily fluids. Now, more than ever, they appear to be rotting from the inside out. It gives the Winchesters a strange sort of hope. Every day they fight, the zombies disintegrate a little more. Maybe one day, they'll all just die entirely – nature accomplishing what 6.8 billion people couldn't. Even if they aren't around to see the last zombie destroyed by the elements, it's a comforting thought.

They've stopped somewhere in Eastern Tennessee for the night when the dream hits. It's nothing specific; a row of run-down cars parked in desert terrain, an abandoned city, a sign that reads 'Welcome to Mississippi." He jerks awake with a gasp, a horrible feeling sinking his stomach that has nothing to do with jerking awake right into the steering wheel of the Hummer. The Impala is parked less than six inches away, and Sam simply kicks reinforced window bars with a booted foot. The actual window is rolled down, just like the driver's side window of the Impala, so that any approaching zombie would hopefully be heard before it attacked. Since the apocalypse, sound travels easily in the silent days and nights.

The bars provide a satisfying metallic rattle and Dean is up and awake immediately, dagger in hand. "We have to go to Nevada." Dean looks at Sam in confusion. "Why-" Sam meets Dean's gaze with a meaningful look, and Dean's lips tighten. Even after years of disuse, it's hard to forget your brother's I just had a vision and we fucking need to get there NOW face "Trust me, Dean. We have to go." Sam turns the key in the ignition and heads west. Dean is driving right behind him.

They drive for the rest of the night. They drive the entire day. They drive halfway into the next night. Sam relentlessly pushes them further south, stepping on the gas pedal until it hits the floor. He hasn't looked at a map, but he knows where to go; it's a feeling in his gut, as accurate as any compass. Go south. Go west. Hurry.

Eventually, the brothers have to stop. The Hummer is running low on fuel, and their eyes are sticky with lack of sleep. Sam scowls as Dean starts their camp ritual. Dean just ignores him and keeps on scratching the protection sigils into the gritty earth. (He doesn't know whether it qualifies as sandy soil or soil-y sand.) They're useless against zombies, but it's like a safety blanket that they can never quite fall asleep without. Today, he also adds a devil's trap. Sam's abilities were always connected to demons. Old Yellow Eyes has died, but who's to say that somebody new hasn't taken up the reins and decided to mess with Sam again?

After Dean's satisfied with the traps, he grabs a small shovel out of the Impala and digs a pit for the fire. Near the edge of the camp but still within the protection lines, he also digs a latrine. In total, the time it takes to set up their camp is short. It's still as comforting as any routine they had when things like motels were still in business.

Once Sam stops pouting long enough to drag out their mismatched pots and start cooking what will pass for dinner, Dean starts rummaging around in the Impala's glove box. "Hey, Sam," he calls. "Where's that pen thing you used to draw a devil's trap on the Impala?" Sam doesn't know where it's gone, but Dean doesn't stop until he finally unearths it from beneath the back-seat floor mat. He then covers every inch of the Impala with protection sigils. Sam calls out a few suggestions while he suspiciously examines what might have once been canned spam. They argue good-naturedly about how to draw certain runes. Neither one bothers to look in the few books they have stored in the Impala's gun compartment. (They're just another thing that's hard to forget once you've done it a hundred times.)

They stop to eat, and then Dean sets to work on the Hummer. The cars look like they belong in some devil-worshiping horror film, but neither brother cares. Who's left to judge, anyways?

In a way, both brothers are morbidly grateful that the virus spread so rapidly. Most stores were raided or broken into in the early days, but homes are stocked with emergency rations, batteries, tanks of gas, clothes, toiletries, tool, and any other item the brothers seem to require. Had the outbreak taken months to kill most of the population, or even years, the danger of starvation and lack of supplies would have become an issue long ago. That's not to say there aren't lean periods – sometimes they drive through a swath of houses that have already been raided, or a place that's good for hunting zombies but has too many to risk a stop – but there are enough supplies squirreled away in basements and storage facilities to see them through a hundred years. (Neither brother says that they'll expect to actually need rations for more than a decade or so.)

In the morning, Sam wants to take off right away. "You know there's a time limit on these things." Dean juts out his chin stubbornly and doesn't give up the keys. "You're not helping anybody roaring off like a bat outta hell." It's been so long the h-word doesn't bring up bad memories of fire and torture and demons. Dean would consider that progress, except he hasn't really gotten over it. It's just there are more important things. Like staying alive in a world full of zombies. He doesn't have time or energy to waste being afraid of a word or of things that are over and done with.

After a Dean-enforced breakfast, the elder Winchester digs out his maps of the country. He looks over them, trying to find the best route to Mississippi. Sam, normally a passive participant, paces impatiently. "It's not like there's anything for us to hit out there, Dean. We can just drive in a straight line." After Dean points out that cars can't drive over rivers (namely, the Tennessee River that they're about a hundred miles from), Sam grudgingly settles down. Dean ignores him and plots their course around all major and moderate-sized cities.

Dean leads today. "Dude, your gas mileage efficiency sucks. If we're not stopping, we've got to make what we have last. And to do that, we have to maximize the number of miles we can get per gallon. So I'm leading." It's a bullshit argument; neither of them gives a shit about mileage efficiency. If they did, they wouldn't be driving a monster of an Impala and a Hummer. Not to mention, their planned route goes through at least one fill-up joint a day. Odds are half of them will be empty, but that still leaves plenty of fuel (plus their emergency tanks stored in the back seats) to use. Sam shrugs and lets Dean take the lead anyways, because it's what his older brother always does.

Dean drives in the crippling heat of southern USA, window down, hair blowing in the breeze, and humming Metallica off-key. If it weren't for the bars on the window, it could almost pass as a normal pre-zombie day. He checks the side mirror, and Sam's barreling behind him in the truck. It's mostly desert, so Dean just veers off their imagined road and slows down until he and Sam are even. "Sam!" He bellows over the wind and the twin growling of engines. "Wanna race?" Sam glances at the empty desert in front of them, then back at his brother; Dean's face is split into a huge grin, and he roars ahead for a second before falling back, even with Sam's truck again. Sam glances out at the desert once more and stomps on the gas. Dean's right behind, then pulls ahead, laughter echoing back to his younger brother.

That night, it finally rains. It's a thunderstorm – huge and slightly terrifying, even for them. It announces its presence in the dead of night with a huge peal of thunder. (Sam jerks awake into the steering wheel, yet again. Dean just bolts awake) Rain quickly follows after that, pounding against the cars with a vengeance. The lightning flashes. With no buildings or ambient light, they can see every forked bolt dance across the sky. It's beautiful yet instinctually terrifying. The wind howls and rocks the cars, threatening to flip them sideways but never quite following through. Neither brother sleeps well in the chaos of sound and light. Finally, Sam risks a five-second dash to the Impala so they can sit in the front seat at watch the fury of nature.

The next morning, the huge puddles quickly evaporate and the clouds roll out as fast as they came. Any evidence of rain vanishes by the time the sun is at full strength, and the land is once again almost a desert.

They're picking over a small fill-up joint that would still in the middle of nowhere if the virus hadn't struck. They add to their hoards of breakfast bars, M&M's, water bottles, energy drinks, dried jerky, salt, weapons, and canned foods. As they're walking out with everything, Sam pauses before the register. He snags a couple of packs of batteries. Dean gives him a weird look. He shrugs. "I don't know. Just thought we might need them soon." It's just another feeling that has been itching at him since the vision.

What they can't fit into their cars and what won't spoil in the dirt, they bury. A crudely etched devil's trap on a large rock is half-buried in the sand above it. Dean marks their cache on his maps and Sam makes a note of it in his journals. If they ever swing by here again, they know where to get it. They have caches like this stored throughout the country, peppered around the roads they're most likely to drive through another time.

"We haven't used that thing for months now. Why do you suddenly need to turn it on now?" Sam stops fiddling with the universal radio. He sighs. "I don't know. It's just – a feeling. Like we're going to need it." Dean stares. He knows his brother enough to fill in the blanks. "Like there might be some people down here that have survived this long." Sam tears open a pack of batteries and refuses to meet his brother's gaze. "Yeah, maybe." Silence descends on their camp. Finally, Dean sighs. "Look, I know you want to think there are more people out there. But, Sammy – we haven't found any survivors for years. Shit, you saw how many people lived past the first month. If – if they managed to survive the first wave, chances are, they're either dead by now or secured away somewhere where we can't get to them." Sam ducks his head and just keeps messing with the radio. Dean sighs, and goes for a walk.

Rrrawwrrrrgahhhhh…. Mmmmnnnooooppphhh… "Son of a bitch!" Dean bolts upright for the third night in a row, swearing a blue streak. "Can't a man get any damn sleep!" The lone zombie inching its way towards them groans again. Dean purposefully grabs his machete and opens the Impala doors.

Five minutes later, Dean's back in his car and grumbling as he tries to find a comfortable position. Sam snickers as he salts and burns the body. The flames will draw other zombies, but it's close enough to dawn that they'll be long gone before any substantial numbers come calling. And if any more come before sunrise – Sam snickers again. ("Dude. Shut. Up. Now.")