Oh god. He recognized Steve's scent far too late, and he pressed his ears flat against his head, whimpering and wanting to vomit with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. What had he done? Even if the wound wasn't serious, he'd bitten Steve, and he knew that could only mean one thing.

Sam stepped closer to him again, his body language less of the savage wolf it had been a moment ago and more that of a scared animal. He nudged his muzzle under Steve's chin and tried to lick at his neck; as much as the knowledge that he was licking his best friend's blood made him want to retch, he had to do something, and it wasn't as if he could turn back during the full moon.

(Little did Sam know that his saliva could heal someone he'd newly turned; what could have easily been a mortal wound was more like a flesh wound after a few moments of licking. All he knew was that instinct said it was a good idea, and that he didn't know what the hell else to do.)