“it’s not your fault, sam,” you murmur softly. sam’s kneeling at your feet, on the ugly patterned motel room rug, and carefully cleaning the gash on your stomach. it stings, and when he can afford to, he holds your hand tenderly. your other hand rests on his shoulder, squeezing when you need to.

your calves rest against the edge of the mattress, and sam’s face is guilty.

“it is, though, honey. and i know that. you know it, too,” he counters, voice revealing how upset he is. it was a choice he made that got you hurt.