Meticulous motions mended the blemishes and gashes that embellished your skin, gauze securing the less pressing wounds as Sam attended to the perilous slash across your abdomen. Silence persisted as long as you remained in full consciousness, the void only filled with words if he felt you start to slip.

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

A simple mistake proved detrimental in his eyes, foolishly permitting you to take on more than applicable, resulting in his rueful and petty silence as he carried you, bloody, 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 while simultaneously trying to keep the dying — an over exaggeration but accurate to the unbridled panic settling in his chest — figure beside him from bleeding out on his watch.

If there’s anything Sam refused to lose, you were it for him.

After inadvertently and haphazardly dropping you onto the precarious edge of the bed, he rushed to gather up your slumped form, dropping you into the nearest armchair instead.

Silence prevailed. An array of medical supplies alongside a bloodied and roughed up towel sat beside him on the floor as he knelt by your seat, attention solely placed on your wound. Three slim slices corrupted his skin on his cheek, a negligible notion vacant from the forefront of his mind as he focused silently on you.