Rhys puts the book quietly aside and just enjoys the calm when he's done, the feeling of being someplace else for a little while. For the moment, it's like being in a bubble, him and Sam, a little shelter defined by voice and warmth and care. He smiles at Sam, propped against him sleepily, feels the shift in him and the way the tension's gone, and breathes a soft sigh of relief, rubbing his back lightly.
Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book. No, Sam doesn't know about Rhys's 'other' blood (in spite of the times that Rhys has been tempted, so tempted to confess), but...sometimes, everyone needs some quiet in their head.
If there’s one thing Sam knows, it’s needing to keep voices quiet. His addiction, the self-doubt that he’s fairly sure he’ll never be rid of. And then there was Hell. Everything that Death had kept back with that wall, Cas shattered in one moment of careless arrogance and Sam couldn’t stop the flood once it started. There was no one left to rebuild the wall. Dean couldn’t help, and they’d lost every other resource they’d had.
He should have come to Rhys sooner. Hell, the moment the wall fell, Dean should have brought him to Rhys.
But if there’s one thing Winchesters did well it was Make Bad Decisions.
None of that mattered now. Not when he was laying close to Rhys, reveling in the warm tones of his voice, the slow track of his hand along his shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of miss that quiet.”
They’ll talk about Lucifer soon enough, but not now. Sam offers a faint smile. “I think I can sleep now.” He’ll be okay. As long as Rhys is there, he’ll be okay. With a heavy sigh, he shuts his eyes and burrows in a little deeper. Sam doesn’t have the words to thank Rhys for everything he’s done, everything he’s meant to him. So he reaches out and simply threads their fingers together. “The one bright spot in my life, y’know?”
They're trying to fix things, that's what matters. And right now, Sam is relaxed, quiet, the lines of strain gone from his face, curled up and looking like he can actually get a little more badly-needed rest, and that's a good sign. Just a little at a time. A day at a time, hell, an hour at a time, at this point, Rhys is happy for.
He leans his head against Sam's shoulder as he rubs the bigger man's back. Still warm, but it feels like the fever might be coming down a bit. And when Sam offers his hand, laces his fingers with Rhys's, the mage accepts it without question, liking the way Sam's bigger hand engulfs his entirely too much, he thinks. Even if it reminds him how strange it is for him to be protecting Sam like this, when it always feels like it should be the other way around.
But it feels good, it feels like his hand belongs there, and he squeezes gently where their fingers wind together. "S'okay. Happy to be here, y'know," he says softly. "You should have good things, Sam. You deserve 'em." It's almost an afterthought, and the words are laced with sadness, but they're honest. Sam is probably the strongest, kindest, bravest man Rhys has ever known. He deserves so much better than this, and Rhys would give it to him if he could. But this...this is the best he can do, so this is what he does.
"Go ahead and get some sleep, Sam. Feels like your fever's coming down some." He feels less like death, and while he's still got to be miserable, Sam's calmer, less stressed, hopefully in less pain and past the terrifying seizures.
"I'll be right here if you need anything." I'll always be right here.
Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book. No, Sam doesn't know about Rhys's 'other' blood (in spite of the times that Rhys has been tempted, so tempted to confess), but...sometimes, everyone needs some quiet in their head.
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He should have come to Rhys sooner. Hell, the moment the wall fell, Dean should have brought him to Rhys.
But if there’s one thing Winchesters did well it was Make Bad Decisions.
None of that mattered now. Not when he was laying close to Rhys, reveling in the warm tones of his voice, the slow track of his hand along his shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of miss that quiet.”
They’ll talk about Lucifer soon enough, but not now. Sam offers a faint smile. “I think I can sleep now.” He’ll be okay. As long as Rhys is there, he’ll be okay. With a heavy sigh, he shuts his eyes and burrows in a little deeper. Sam doesn’t have the words to thank Rhys for everything he’s done, everything he’s meant to him. So he reaches out and simply threads their fingers together. “The one bright spot in my life, y’know?”
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He leans his head against Sam's shoulder as he rubs the bigger man's back. Still warm, but it feels like the fever might be coming down a bit. And when Sam offers his hand, laces his fingers with Rhys's, the mage accepts it without question, liking the way Sam's bigger hand engulfs his entirely too much, he thinks. Even if it reminds him how strange it is for him to be protecting Sam like this, when it always feels like it should be the other way around.
But it feels good, it feels like his hand belongs there, and he squeezes gently where their fingers wind together. "S'okay. Happy to be here, y'know," he says softly. "You should have good things, Sam. You deserve 'em." It's almost an afterthought, and the words are laced with sadness, but they're honest. Sam is probably the strongest, kindest, bravest man Rhys has ever known. He deserves so much better than this, and Rhys would give it to him if he could. But this...this is the best he can do, so this is what he does.
"Go ahead and get some sleep, Sam. Feels like your fever's coming down some." He feels less like death, and while he's still got to be miserable, Sam's calmer, less stressed, hopefully in less pain and past the terrifying seizures.
"I'll be right here if you need anything." I'll always be right here.
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