Sam was almost in a light doze, the fingers of one hand gently stroking Catherine's, the slight pressure of her fingers in his grasp offering a sort of comfort to him. The fingers of his other hand tangled themselves affectionately in her hair. If she was still holding on, there was hope, a chance to save her. He wasn't going to let her go, not now, not when they had a chance to finally have all of the things that they had lost once more.
"I promise when you get better," he whispered, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss against Catherine's forehead. He hesitated slightly before continuing to speak. The thought of what he was about to say still frightened him, frightened him in a way he never thought he could feel. If it would please Catherine though.... "If you want to try again, sweetheart, we will. Whatever you want. You just get better for me."
His hand reached out, gently feeling her forehead before going into the bathroom once more and getting a fresh wet washcloth. He gently pressed it against her forehead, smiling slightly when he saw her lips twitch as if she were trying to smile herself.
"That better, darlin'?" he murmured, pleased, as he leaned down and kissed her again. He reached out, gently brushing a few strands of hair off of her forehead, absently noting the dust in her hair as he touched it. Dust and blood. He closed his eyes for a moment before, not wanting to think about that blood, before moving to the bags that the kids had brought.
"Want me to see if there's something we can do about your hair? Know how you always hated to have it messed up," he whispered as he finally located the antique silver plated brush that he had seen Catherine use so many times before. He drew the chair closer to the head of the bed, reaching over and starting to run the brush through her hair, one strand at a time, slowly working the dirt out, cleaning her up as best he could. He felt the silken strands slip through his fingers despite the blood and grime, secretly reveling in the feel. 'I always did love this,' he thought to himself, remembering sensuous summer nights when he had brushed long flaxen locks on a beautiful young marshal. "Remember this?" he asked softly, and was rewarded with that almost-smile again. "I do, too. I'll do it every night from now on, I swear."
He kept brushing, gradually making the short hair presentable again, careful to work around the various bumps and lacerations. He wished she'd grow her hair back out. He had loved it long, protested vehemently when she'd cut it. But she had, logically, pointed out two things: one, the style was easier to manage for a woman in her job, and two, he no longer had a right to protest. Well, maybe now he'd have the right to ask her to grow it out again.
"That feel better?" he said when he finished, taking her hand in his once more as soon as he had the brush back in the bag. Her fingers tightened around his, but he knew instantly that something wasn't right. Instead of the light, reassuring touch, her fingers squeezed his in a shaky grasp, before starting to tremble uncontrollably.
"Catherine?" No, this couldn't.... He shot a look at the monitors, afraid of what he would see. Heartrate was up, even his inexperienced eyes could tell that, other readings.... He leaned over her, pressing a kiss against her forehead. Hot, her skin was so hot. "Catherine?" Her eyes flickered open for a moment, but that did nothing to reassure him. They were glazed, staring at him as if she wasn't even seeing him anymore before slipping shut again.
Sam turned as he heard footsteps at the door. "Get a doctor in here now!" he demanded as soon as he saw the nurse, his tone one that put fear into the hearts of fugitives everywhere. No, this was not going to be the way things ended. He wasn't going to let Catherine go.