[ Beverly catches the tail-end of Sam's voice on the phone and honestly, looking at the mess his brother's made, she agrees with his bewilderment that she was number one for the phone a friend option. Holy shit. She meets Dean's grin with blank incredulity. Then: ]

Don't, [ she says again through grit teeth, the exasperation from three seconds ago losing out to something sharper, a warning. He's absolutely correct that the smile, the cheeky one-liners, are all the wrong thing to throw at her in the middle of a medical emergency she feels woefully inexperienced and underequipped to handle. Their fledgeling relationship hasn't hit rocky terrain in the past, and this definitely isn't throwing a spanner in the works, but if he keeps making jokes, she's gonna —

Oh. She falters as his expression shifts, mellows into something both familiar and not (reminiscent of their shared lazy mornings and out of place in this dingy motel); the breath she's been holding, ready to release in some kind of reprimand, rushes out of her in a loud exhale instead. God. Okay. Okay. ]

Okay.

[ Out loud, more to herself than to him. Get your shit together, Marsh! She isn't angry, not really. Not at him. It's just the worry getting all twisted up inside and that does jack in the here and now. She takes a steadier breath, wetting her lips as she looks over him, brow still wrinkled with concern. Her brain switches gears, starts putting mental steps in order: Shirt first. Need to see what she's working with and stop the bleeding. ]

Okay. [ She's gotta stop saying that. Makes her sound as rattled as she feels, which isn't helpful. She pats his thigh for reassurance, then reaches for the open edge of his flannel, only half-processing his question, more concerned with peeling fabric away from the wound without it hurting too much. ] Uh, I don't know. Maybe. I've got — I brought everything I could find. But I don't...

[ Wait, what? ]

Stitch you ba— [ She snaps her eyes up at him, wide and incredulous. ] I can't sew this up!