Rain stitched the motel window into silver lines while Sam eased you onto the edge of the bed, careful as if you were made of glass. The hunt had gone sideways fast, and the gash along your ribs still seeped through the borrowed flannel he’d pressed there. Sam’s jaw was tight, but his hands were steady.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low and anchored. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He clicked on the lamp, then set out a field kit like it was ritual: antiseptic, gauze, needle and thread, a half-crushed packet of painkillers. The air smelled like wet asphalt and iron. Sam crouched in front of you, eyes flicking from your face to the wound, reading every breath you took.

“Breathe with me,” he said, and did it first, slow and controlled, until your shoulders stopped shaking. When you winced, he didn’t rush. He waited, letting you set the pace, then peeled the fabric back inch by inch. The cut was ugly, edges bitten by something not entirely human.

Sam swore under his breath. “Of course.”

He cleaned it anyway, patient and meticulous, even when you hissed. His thumb brushed your wrist, grounding. “You’re doing great,” he told you, and meant it.

In the bathroom mirror, devil’s traps and sigils were already inked on the tile with motel pen, crude but effective. He’d salted the threshold, laid iron shavings beneath the door, and wedged a chair under the handle like that would stop the dark itself. Still, he kept glancing up, listening to the hallway like it might start whispering.

When the stitching was done, Sam taped fresh gauze in place, then tugged the blanket up over your shoulders. His exhaustion finally showed in the slump of his posture, but he stayed close, sitting on the floor beside the bed.

“If it comes back,” he said quietly, “it goes through me first.”

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside the circle of lamplight, Sam kept watch, one hand resting on the mattress near yours, a promise that didn’t need to be spoken again.