He hums something in reply, honed in on Sam's voice like it's guiding him back. Now that he's stopped moving, now that he doesn't have to focus on step after step, it's harder to think. He shifts, and agony claws up his body, enough to make him stand still and steady as can be. That's not right though. Sam's focused, Sam's here, but if Sam's focused on him then who's focused on Sam?

Clint rips his gaze up, unsteadily, swaying, as he remembers the wolves and their tenacity. If they come back, if they come back -- but Sam speaks up, bids him listen, and Clint does. He moves easily, unthinkingly, mouth parting, teeth sinking into the yield of fabric.

It already hurts, he's not sure Sam can make it worse. He's wrong. There's a thin sound from behind the muffle of fabric, jaw clenched tight as Sam gets to work.