"Sam-" Rose started, before being predictably interrupted by Sherlock. She sighed heavily. Was the detective seriously bringing up John when they were about to get their brains gnawed out?

If ANYONE needed to talk to Sam, it was Rose. She hadn't seen the younger Winchester in days, and Lucifer had been in her head, and it was his fault, and he didn't even know because-

Then, a pause, as she looked him over.

...It clicked in her head, and Rose felt all sorts of stupid. Sam had been here. Trapped. His disheveled, scraped-up appearance explained it all. Smiling, she let her anger dissipate. The girl tuned out Sherlock's rambling to toss her arms about Sam's waist.

"Hi," Rose said, finding nothing else.

The sound of a zombie hitting the floor broke her out of the moment. She looked to see the detective was okay, followed by Eric. Lastly, forgetting how bloodshot her eyes were, she returned her focus to Sam. "Let's go," she said, as if he wouldn't notice.

Momentarily distracted by Sherlock, Sam looked up and was about to reply when the other man smashed the ever living shit out of another zombie.

"Hi" He answered Rose, instinctively wrapping his arms around her.

There was a far distant (thought not too far) roar, and having been there for a while he knew what it meant. There were a fuck ton of zombies on the way. A hoard, if you will. And they were in the worst possible position to defend themselves.

"This way." He instructed, nodding back to the direction from whence he had come. There were Black arrows painted on the walls in that direction anyway, left by previous survivors.

There was a safe house.

Sam had seen it, ducked in for more supplies, and come back out to look for anyone else alive. He knew if he was going to make it out alive, traveling with at least one other person increased the odds. And it was all he could to to keep going. That was his job, right? Kill bad things. Save people. The family business, if you will.

He pulled Rose along side him, turning to lead the way.

The hoard was getting closer, lead by a Tank from the sounds of it. He could also hear the distinctive sound of a hunter, snarling as it lept alongside it's less-mutated companions. They were out for blood, and now in a group of four, they were likely to get at least one of them.

"There's a room up ahead." He explained as they moved. "We'll be safe there."

And as they turned the corner, there it was, illuminated by a slap dash orange paint job around the door frame.

"C'mon, everybody in."

The Hoard was right behind them, nipping at their heels, twenty, no, thirty undead rushing down the hallway. The Tank crashing against the walls, roaring at the top of it's lungs.

The door closed, the bolt slid securely shut.

They were safe. For now.