He didn't need to worry about it? He was drinking blood and enjoying it. That was a worrying concept. "I..." He swallowed hard and shook his head. "I was never supposed to like it. That wasn't part of the plan." It was something that he assumed that he could walk away from when all of this was over. He wouldn't need it. Now that he thought about it, Sam wondered if he'd ever really be able to turn his back on the red substance that he found flowing through her veins. How would he survive without it if he couldn't even go a week without going insane?
Maybe if that blood wasn't right in front of him, being dripped into the flask in his hand right before his very eyes, Sam might have been more logical about the situation. The old Sam, the one who knew better than to even do all of this in the first place - and would be offended at the concept! - would have argued, immediately, that he wasn't doing anything for her. This was for him. It had been from the very start. To make things better for everyone. Why would he have to keep going for her? Why did she seem so desperate to keep him going?
All things that he would have asked. Pressed at. And if he didn't get a response that he wanted, he'd have turned and walked away. But logic was officially lost on him.
Sam reluctantly pulled the flask back. It was practically full. He pushed it to her arm again. Practically wasn't enough. He needed it to be entirely filled.
"I can't keep doing this forever," he concluded, watching the blood at her arm. "It's not...we have to stop it eventually."