He doesn't entirely scream, but that's less due to strength of will than the lack of air in his lungs. Instead, there's a gasping, ragged sound, muddled behind the fabric in his mouth. Doesn't bother answer even if he could, trusting Sam implacably, blind to anything but the pain cutting through him at the tightening of the tourniquet.

For a moment he's not even sure it's over, tourniquet twisted and tied off, until Sam's hand is curling around his good arm, urging him on, back towards base. Clint blinks owlishly, jaw tight and tense, eyes dazed. His head ducks, agreeing, moving on autopilot. Mission resumed, it takes more effort now to force his leg forward, swaying even as he moves.

The truth is this, without Sam, he wouldn't make it to base. Even now, he's slowly leaning his weight in against Sam.