Andy trudged towards the worn down motel, blood dripping down her arm from the gash on her shoulder. She held her side, trying to keep blood from pouring out. She had one thing on her mind and one thing only. Room 103. Room 103 held her salvation. Room 103 was the difference between her living and dying.
"Damn hit men." She muttered under her breath, trying to keep her mind working. A fog was creeping into her mental state, she knew she had to keep herself alert or she would pass out. "A few steps more."
Stumbling up the steps, she scanned the room numbers. 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103. There, that's the one she needed. She vaguely realized that she was leaving a trail of blood. Just as she was about to knock on the door it flew open. A pair of strong, sturdy, rough hands caught her as she pitched forward, blood smearing all over his jean shirt.
"Andy!" he gasped out, the only thing he could muster up as he dragged her inside.
"What the hell?" this sentence came from the corner of the room, another male was seated at a table, a laptop open in front of him. He stood up quickly, knocking down the chair he was occupying.
"Sam, clear this bed!" Jean Shirt yelled.
Sam quickly shoved a worn duffel bag onto the floor, setting a pillow down.
Jean Shirt laid Andy on the bed, pulling her shirt off quickly.
"Hey there handsy," she said weakly, her vision blurring, "Buy me dinner first."
"Shut up, Andy! Where are you hurt?" Jean Shirt asked, sturdy hands scouring her body for open wounds.
Sam grabbed her arm, "Dean, get me the needle and thread, this needs to be stitched."
Jean Shirt, or Dean, ruffled through the duffel bag like a madman. Several seconds later, he pulled out the things Sam had requested and shoved them into his hand.
"Just fix her!"
A few hours later Andy sat up gingerly, rubbing her head. She looked over her body, assessing the damage. I'll live she thought to herself, running a finger lightly over the bandage that encompassed her ribcage. The gash on her shoulder was mended as well. She had bruises all over, but other than that she was fine.
"Hey," A soft voice from the other bed said, the bed creaking as the person sat up.
"Hey, Dean," She smiled, sat up, and propped herself on her elbows.
Dean sat next to her on the bed. He went put his arm around her but hesitated, settling for awkwardly placing his hands in his lap.
She sighed heavily, sucking in a bit of air as a sharp pain ran through her side.
"Andy, what was it?" Dean asked quietly, looking at her from the corner of his eyes.
"Humans," she laughed softly, "plain old humans."
"Who was it then?" He asked, the ghost of a smile playing across his male model like features.
"Moriarty's men," She shrugged, knowing full well the look she was going to receive.
She wasn't disappointed. His head snapped towards her direction, an eyebrow raising.
"Moriarty, as in, Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes, Moriarty?" Sam asked from his corner of the room, stunned. Dean looked from Sam to Andy, confused.
She nodded, laughing softly.
Dean stared at her for a few seconds, trying to assess whether or not she was being serious. He nodded slowly. "Moriarty . . . all righty then. How?"
Andy smiled mischievously, "Oh, this is really mind blowing."