"I’m-" Sam’s voice abruptly cut off, sucking in a sharp hiss of pain, eyes screwed shut as the needle pierced his skin again. "Fine," he finished coarsely, muscles tense below delicate and meticulous hands making short work of the gash on his abdomen.

Intended to be a simple clean cut werewolf run morphed to surgeon-steady hands and practiced precision as you stitched his "could’ve-been-avoided" injury — one of two werewolves multiplied into far too many to leave unscathed.

Courteous and perhaps just outright stupid, Sam dove for the larger pack, reluctant and refusing to let you take the worst of them. A simple mistake proved detrimental, foolishly permitting himself to take on more than capable, resulting in his rueful silence as you supported him, bloodied and limping, out of the abandoned warehouse and into the car, speeding far beyond reason to your motel.

The drive was an agonizing blend of attempting to safely drive while disregarding most laws of the road and simultaneously trying to keep the dying — an over exaggeration but accurate to the unbridled panic settling in your chest — figure beside you from bleeding out.

Stumbling in the motel room, his knees gave out, dropping haphazardly into the nearest seat, placed precariously on the edge of the wood. Locks of hair constricted his vision, hunched over to block the strained look corrupting his features. Pained eyes finally raised as he heard the soft thud and clatter beside him, an imperceptible smile of appreciation taunting his lips as he watched you rummage through a medical kit.

Peeling away darkened layers of clothing, fabric bloodied from the lacerations, each layer providing a deeper and bolder shade of red until nothing but a plain grey undershirt remained, contorted and mutilated with tears and rips.

"I’ll be alright," he tried again, nails biting and tearing at the fabric of his undershirt, keeping the red-stained fabric away from your working hands. Small slices scathed his cheek, blemishes and bruises splotching his skin alongside the three slashes of claws across his side and abdomen. Dried remnants of blood imperfected his features, coloring his lips and leaving a small steady line from his nose.

"{{user}}-" His words broke off again, drawing in a ragged inhale and releasing it just as shakily. "A couple of werewolves aren’t gonna kill me," he remarked tiredly, underlying traces of attempted lightheartedness to spare your worry laced his tone amidst the anguishing and unforgiving pain.