Fic: All Men Are Prophets

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Title: All Men Are Prophets
Author: azewewish (Brenda)
Recipient: ileliberte
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Where there's movement, there's hope. And one thing John Winchester knows how to do is put one foot in front of the other.



He's 80 miles outside Barstow when the engine of John Winchester's beat up Nova seizes and coughs to a stop. May as well have been a million. The intermittent A/C gives a last dying and noisy wheeze, then stills, sticky warm air taking the place of Freon-induced coolness. It's barely past dawn – the ground still casts a pinkish tone that's beautifully ephemeral, fading slowly into yellow like a week-old bruise as the sun creeps over the horizon.

John climbs out, cursing under his breath, the driver's side door protesting in a whine of steel and rust. The beat to hell car's total POS, but since the Impala's been in at Bobby's for some much needed repairs and TLC, the Nova's gotten him from place to place well enough. Until this morning. 80 fucking miles, man.

The second he steps outside, the heat hits him like a furnace blast. Must be near triple digits already and the sun's barely up. His t-shirt – once a cheerful blue faded by time and cheap laundry detergent – sticks to his skin like malevolent taffy. Sweat beads along his brow, rolls down his neck. Even the act of breathing feels like he's inhaling soup.

The bandage housing his hastily sewn stitches rubs against his ribs when he pops the hood, but he ignores the throbbing pain for the moment. If he can't get this thing started, he's got way more to worry about than a superficial wound. At first glance, nothing seems wrong with the engine block. No hoses are disconnected, nothing's smoking or cracked or leaking. All he can hear is the tick-tick-tick of the engine cooling. Which means whatever's wrong with it is beyond his limited means to fix out here in the middle of nowhere without the proper tools.

(Which means you're fucked.)

(Don't count on it.)

He spends the next few precious minutes taking stock. His cell's got no coverage – not surprising, considering; he's got four full canteens of holy water in the back seat, which wouldn't be his first choice for liquid, but beggars can't be choosers. He's got a duffel bag full of weapons and ammo in the trunk, a spare tire and wrench that are pretty much useless, and a smaller duffel bag stuffed with bloodied and dirty clothes, courtesy of a lousy, long week on the job tracking a nasty band of vampires. His first aid kit is up to speed, for once, which definitely counts as a blessing. He's got a pretty decent map of Nevada, and a compass that's survived 'Nam and been with him ever since. It's not quite 8AM on a Saturday. He's got a little over nine hours to get where he's going. He's got weapons and a mission. He has everything he needs.

No time to waste.

Twenty minutes later, after creating a makeshift backpack crammed with an extra pair of socks, water, ammo and the first aid kit, he sets out, leaving the rest behind in the trunk. If he can, he'll come back for all of it. Guns aren't cheap, and a few of the other items had been hard to come by.

He'd taken the time to wrap a cool, wet bandana around his head for moisture, and had pulled on a light-colored oxford to wear over his t-shirt to protect his arms in lieu of sunblock. His jeans and boots are already in good condition. He sets off at a steady pace, and keeps close to the shoulder of the road. It'll be hotter like this, but he might get lucky and see another traveler. He's not counting on it, but there's nothing wrong with hope.

Stupid not to have checked the Nova out before he'd left New Mexico, but it's no more than he deserves for being sloppy. He knows better, and he'll remember the lesson for next time. He's never been a fan of hindsight, anyway – too many people have lost their wits and lives to chasing the past and reliving every mistake like maybe, somehow, things would play out differently if they thought about it hard enough. Like time's not linear and they can change what's come before. Like the past is waiting like a maiden in a tower for a knight in shining armor.

John's learned the hard way that there's no such thing as a benevolent ghost.

(You'll never make it.)

(Watch me.)

A grey-spotted lizard skitters in front of him, making a z with its tail, disrupting the sand, then burrowing under it in a flurry of movement. The thickness of the air is a vacuum on his tongue, seeping into his taste buds like melted anti-sugar, bitter and dull. The weight of it presses on his shoulders until he feels like Atlas, hunched and alone – only he'll take the burden and gladly if it means another step forward. He's been in worse places, worse situations – 'Nam, Laos, Vermont, Mexico, Portland. The desert holds no grand mystery or epiphany.

The road ahead shimmers like mica in a riverbed. He's afraid to blink and ruin the image, even as he squints in the glare, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses or a hat. The sun is a merciless, hot mistress beckoning him to lie down, rest, give up his burden. He feels a little like Odysseus and his men, ignoring the siren's call, tied to the earth by ropes thicker than anything made by man.

(You should have listened.)

(Not to you. Not ever.)

His feet feel like lead, weighing him down with every hard-fought stride. The water is brackish, warm, provides no respite or relief. The horizon is an endless fading sea of dust and asphalt, broken only by the lonely towers of a few saguaro cacti standing sentry in the distance. Even the wind is strangely muted, unmarred by birdsong or the roar of jets overhead or even the hissing of a snake. Nothing disturbs the fetid silence. He may as well be the last person on earth. He wonders if this is what the apocalypse feels like.

(This is a futile gesture, John.)

(Nothing done out of love is futile.)

Steadily, he marches on, one dusty boot in front of the other. He can feel his wound reopen, feel the blood seeping under the bandage and along his ribs, but he doesn't dare stop. The sun's fully overhead, mercilessly burrowing under his clothes to scald raw nerves, which means... He knows what it means. No need to give voice to the hard hammer of fear lurking beneath his chest. He'll make it. He hasn't come this far to fail now.

He can practically hear the hiss of his blood boiling beneath too-thin skin. His mouth is too cracked and dry to whistle, but the who-whos from "Sympathy for the Devil" echo over and over in his head in an endless loop. Who-who. Who-who. He needs shelter and rest. But he needs to keep moving more. Each step is a triumph of will and spirit. A testament, even if it's only to his small church of one, that he will make it..

(Your boys have forgotten you.)

(As long as they need me, it doesn't matter.)

Unseen black eyes watch his slow, shuffled progress with malicious glee. Time for a new obstacle, it thinks, rubbing invisible hands in anticipation.

A puff of smoke appears over the horizon, and John can barely make out the flashing glint of metal. In the still, unnatural silence, he thinks he hears the throaty whine of an engine.

Behind him, a screeching howl of rage falls on deaf ears.