"Just be careful, okay, Sam? I'll be right here, I'll be waiting." Calm, yes, in control, yes, but even Rhys can't keep that note of worry out of his voice. Hearing Sam's voice break like that cuts through him like a knife, and when he hangs up, it takes Rhys another long moment to collect himself.
Then, he forces himself to let instinct take over. Just another call, Jared. You know how to handle this. He puts the stereo on low- music is good, it helps keep him from thinking too much- pulls on some clothes and turns up the space heater, because it's still pouring rain like a bastard out, and sets to work getting everything he might need ready. Coffee for himself, hot water for Sam. Blankets and towels. Rummaging through his shelves for the right herbs for the detox remedy. His big first aid bag, because he doesn't know if Sam is injured or not.
Automatic pilot, because this is what Rhys does, dammit. It's what he's good at, it's what people rely on him for. What Sam is relying on him for. So with everything set up and in place, he forces himself to settle down and wait.
He drives too fast, too erratically and it's a damned miracle he doesn't get pulled over. The blood is giving him too much focus, but Sam knows that it's only a matter of time before that focus starts to shatter and the world explodes in bright, sharp edges again. But for just a few minutes, Lucifer is silent and it's the closest thing he's had to peace since he left Tuck's house.
It would be so easy. So easy to keep driving, to lose himself in the blood until it killed him.
Another brutal dig into his palm sends a cramp spiking up his forearm. No. No, he was going to Rhys's. He was going to get help and he was going to make it.
By the time he makes to to his apartment, it's nearly dawn. He's barely slept in two days and the power racing through him all but guarantees he won't go back down for awhile. Pale and sweating despite the cold, he knocks on the door, hating himself for being so weak.
Rhys has napped a little off and on since the phone call, knowing he's going to need his energy, but never more than a light doze. And even that is difficult, worried as he is- wondering if he should have told Sam to stay put, if he should have gone to him rather than letting him come here. He still doesn't know if Sam's injured, how bad it is, how bad Sam is, and when the knock comes, he's on his feet before he's registered that he's awakened, moving to unlock it. Relief floods him, at least one little worry resolved- that Sam's made it here okay.
Tears of remorse sting his eyes again as Sam all but collapses into the mage. He'd let him down, let everyone down in one moment of weakness. Rhys understands, but that doesn't make it any easier. Sam is soaked through, but he can't stop clinging, whispering broken apologies into his shoulder as Rhys steers him further inside.
The blood is still running high and hot in his veins, but it's not a high he can enjoy. Sam knows what comes next. Pain and hallucinations and everything else that comes with the horrific withdrawal.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have been stronger, should have been better.." Like all Winchesters, he holds himself to a standard that's all but impossible to achieve. A standard where weakness is unacceptable.
"Oh, Sam. Sam. Shhh." Sam's guilt and self-loathing are bitter and heartbreaking even through Rhys's mental shields, like a burnt and acrid taste on the back of his tongue, and he shifts to try and get as much of his shoulders under the bigger man as possible. Rhys is in decent shape, but Sam is a behemoth. He pays no mind to the fact that Sam is rainsoaked and freezing, steering him to the worn but overstuffed couch where he's already got extra blankets laid out, and guides him to sit.
Rhys's apartment isn't anything special- just a loft above a junk shop in a slightly questionable part of town. He's done his best to make it comfortable, though, with throw rugs everywhere to cover up the bare floor, pillows and afghans to add brightness and warmth to the cheap furniture, and couches and chairs picked to be comfortable in spite of their shabbiness. One side of the loft is screened off with a folding partition to section off Rhys's bed and dresser, there's a desk and wire bookshelves that make up his workspace, and there's a kitchen nook with plants on the windowsill and a little chair and table set, which results in a nicely livable space. Homey, even, especially with the scent of herbs and old books and coffee permeating the loft.
It's just the couch that Rhys needs for now, though, and he gets Sam to sit and peels off his soaked jacket for him before wrapping him in a worn cotton Army surplus blanket and sitting down next to him. Never more than a foot away because Sam is clinging so close, and Rhys is fine with letting him. "Ah, Sam," he says softly, rubbing the big man's shoulders, and his voice is full of sympathy and worry. No judgment, no recrimination, just a terrible ache at seeing his friend like this.
There are very few places that feel like home to Sam. The Impala. Bobby's house. Rhys's loft, complete with the possessed bear downstairs. The loft might not be much by some standards, but to Sam it was perfect. Welcoming and warm and everything in it reminded him of Rhys, right down to the spicy scent in the air.
He hates himself for being so weak, for falling apart when everything else was already going sideways in his life. Numb and trembling he lets Rhys guide him over to the couch and strip off his bloody and soaking wet jacket. Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his wet hair.
"Two demons," he finally whispers. "'s gonna get bad."
Sam lays his head on Rhys's shoulder with a wounded sound. "I'm so goddamn sorry." Rhys knew. He'd been there, he knew how difficult it was to deal with addiction, which is why Sam came to him in the first place. But it's also why he feels like such a failure. Rhys was strong enough to resist; why wasn't he?
"S'okay. We'll get you through it, Sam. Promise." Rhys has a moment of wishing that Bobby were still alive to help him with this, give him an extra set of hands to get Sam through this hell, but Bobby's gone...a loss that Rhys doesn't feel as acutely as the Winchesters do, but still hurts nonetheless.
Sam sags against him, and Rhys just gathers him up as best he can, wrapping him tight in the blanket where it's warm. Rhys has had his battles with addiction, true, and has done a good job of staying clean. But he hasn't been through the nightmares that Sam has, hasn't had the constant, unbearable pressure wearing away his resolve. Compared to Sam's life, Rhys has faced only small hells.
The one time that Rhys's life truly did rage out of control...thinking Sam was dead, his friend Sunny murdered by a psychotic stalker just a few short months later...resulted in blood on Rhys's hands and scars on his soul that would never go away. That was enough damage, but Rhys had managed to crawl back. Had Rhys lived through what Sam had, his fight might have gone much differently, as he resorted to more and more desperate measures just to stay afloat.
That was the way it always was, that was the trap. Just a little to get you through, at first...and then you're so far down the hole you don't know which way is up anymore. Demon blood, black magic...the same was true for both of them.
And then there was the hunger, which was something else entirely. The little voice that loved to lie, but in the end, never even tried to be about anything but power and satisfaction.
Yeah, Rhys knew those demons, had danced more than a few times with them...without even adding in the quite literal one in his blood. And knowing what Sam had been through...he could only be amazed that he had fought them with such fury for as long as he had.
His fingers stroke Sam's rain-soaked hair, trying to smooth it out a little, and he looks at the blood-spattered coat now piled on the floor. "Just take a few breaths, okay? You hurt at all?"
Sam had gotten used to the hunger, that quiet, nagging ache that used to keep him awake at night, staring at the ceiling while his skin itched and burned and crawled. Most nights he was so exhausted that he was able to sink into sleep before it caught hold. But there were still nights when he missed that power, that certainty. It was a lie, but as things spiraled out of control, Sam found himself wanting that lie, even for a little while.
Which is probably why he fell in the first place.
He'll always hate himself for failing, for slipping right when Dean needed him to be strong. But he was never as strong as Dean, or as strong as Rhys. Choking on a sob, he nods, trying to take a long, slow breath. The comforting and familiar smells of his apartment help soothe some of his initial upset as much as the warm, steady presence beside him does.
"Just.. just knocked around. 'm okay." Sam rubs at his eyes. He's so tired. God, he's so fucking tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid.
Rhys would ask how long it's been since Sam slept, but the answer is already clear: entirely too damn long. His eyes have that unhealthy, feral shine of a high gone bad, yet still shadowed with dark circles, and Rhys can see him starting to crumble right here on his couch. He'll have to get up soon and start getting some remedies into him, concoctions to counteract some of the hell that's coming when Sam starts coming down, but for now, he doesn't want to let go, can't stand the thought of leaving Sam...stranded again for even a moment.
"Okay. Just take it easy, then. I'll get you something to drink in a minute. But you're alright here, okay, Sam? Y'made it safe, the wards are up, so just...try and relax, let it go. We'll get it all straightened out, I promise." Rhys's hand works gently at Sam's shoulders, stroking soothing circles as the big man rests his head against him. He can ask all the questions later, about how this happened, but all that matters right now is letting Sam know that he's safe here, that he can rest. It's going to be rough, and Sam needs his strength.
"I'm so tired," he chokes out, shutting his eyes and letting Rhys's warmth chase away the chill of the rain. "Haven't been right since.. since Cas got me out. 's all wrong and I can't keep pretending it's not."
Sam looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. His fingernails have left little half moon indentations in his palms. He's broken. On some fundamental level, he's broken and he's not sure he's ever going to make it back. "I'm all wrong."
He doesn't want Rhys to leave, he doesn't want to be alone for an instant. When Rhys is close, things are quiet, calmer and Sam knows it's only going to get worse.
Rhys doesn't know the angel well enough to figure out his involvement in all this. Their only meetings have been extremely brief and stilted, given how...awkward Castiel is, and it's not much surprise to him that Cas hasn't been a lot of help with all this.
"Hell, Sam. Wouldn't have told you to come if I didn't mean it," Rhys says quietly, and he leans just enough so that his head rests against the bigger man's. Not leaving just yet, because Sam needs him to stay a little longer, and he can do that. This isn't about relationships or wanting or any of the other nebulous, uncertain things that have passed between them in the years they've known each other. This is about Sam hurting, and Rhys doing his best to stop the hurt, that's all. Simple, basic human affection to soothe Sam's pain...something that Sam has had far too little of, in Rhys's experience. "It needs to go somewhere, Sam. You needed to go somewhere. You know I'm here for whatever you need, you just gotta ask. Whether it's stitches or a place to crash or whatever. I said anything and I mean it."
Because he loves him, even though he can't say that. But even that aside, they're friends, close friends, and Rhys takes care of people. The idea of Sam alone in a motel room somewhere, or worse, out in the rain, struggling through withdrawal with no one to help him, makes Rhys sick to his stomach, and he grips Sam a little more tightly. "After everything you've been through, man, it's not just gonna magically be 'all better'. No matter how much you want to pretend it is, believe me." He runs his hand through Sam's hair again, smoothing the still-damp strands.
Or how much Dean wants to pretend it is, but Rhys pushes down that little bit of anger for the moment. Dean is the one that takes the most after his father, and Rhys...just might have a few issues with the way John Winchester raised his sons. The stress between the brothers has been building for months now, and Rhys can only guess how that contributed to this, but, again...leaving that for another time. More important to get Sam quiet and settled first, then look at the reasons.
No. No, it's not going to be okay. He's going to go insane, or the job is going to kill him. But it means something to hear that honesty rather than he standard Winchester denial of 'shut up everything's fine and keep going'. It's okay to be broken. It's okay to hurt and he can't stop the tears now, clinging to Rhys like a lifeline while he sobs raggedly into his shoulder.
Sam wants this. He wants this quiet life with Rhys, away from hunting and fear and pain. He wants it and he's afraid to want it, because anything he wants is taken away and he's not sure he could survive Rhys being taken away. The mage was his dearest friend, closest ally and possibly more, even if he'd never screwed up his courage to say anything about it.
So he clings to Rhys. He clings and he finally lets himself fall apart.
One the storm starts, it doesn't last long. He's too exhausted, too drained, and coming down from the high leaves him limp and weary on the couch while Rhys moves to warm something for him to drink.
It hurts Rhys to see Sam break like this, but he knows he needs to, that all this frustration and pain and fear has to come out, like the poison of infection before it can heal. So he just holds Sam close and lets his tears soak through his t-shirt, feels one of the strongest men he knows shake himself apart against his chest.
And that brings a few from Rhys, too, just a couple of slow, quiet tears escaping in frustrated ache. He wants so damn badly just to wrap Sam up in a blanket like this and make it all go away, to promise Sam that the hurting will stop and mean it, but this is all he can do. Sam deserves better, but this is all Rhys can give him. But...at least Rhys can do this much, as small as it is. He holds Sam while he cries himself out, soft voice full of soothing reassurances and hands working a gentle rhythm on his back, hair and shoulders until Sam finally collapses completely, empty and exhausted.
Rhys lets Sam just lay there for a few minutes longer once he's finished, still reluctant to leave him but knowing symptoms are going to start showing up soon. Best to get him undressed, warmed up, and into bed as soon as possible, now that he's calmed down a little. So after a little longer, Rhys smooths back Sam's hair again with a cool hand, tucks the blanket around him carefully, and says, "Be right back, Sam. Going to get you something to drink, then we'll get those boots off and get you into bed, alright?" Rhys won't take arguments. His bed is a queen-size, one of his few luxuries, so Sam will actually have room to stretch out, and he's bought this couch specifically because it was big and comfortable to sleep on. Sam can have the bed, and Rhys will be just a few feet away on the sofa.
Thanks to the prep work he did before, it only takes Rhys a few minutes to put together the two things Sam's going to need most: a thumb-sized vial of something syrupy and floral, and a mug of warm, bitter tea dosed with honey to make it more palatable. Once again, Rhys is wishing Bobby were alive for guidance, because he's working from theory rather than experience, but he does know his business, and is working on the basic knowledge of things that will help purge the toxins out of Sam's system and ease some of the side effects...the best he can do for him right now.
While he's exhausted and aching, Sam does feel better for having finally let all of that go. His head is pounding, his stomach knotted up and Sam knows that it's only going to get worse. But he's safe with Rhys. It doesn't matter how bad things get, Rhys will take care of him. He is one of the few people Sam trusts enough to completely let his guard down around and he's grateful for that.
He nods distantly as Rhys tucks the blanket around him, rubbing at his eyes. Slowly he levers himself up, struggling with the swollen laces of his boots, getting them toed off in time for Rhys to hand him the fragrant mug and the little vial.
Sam sips at the tea, wrinkling his nose at the bitter smell, but he keeps drinking. It's the only thing he's had in nearly twenty four hours and his stomach roils, but he keeps it down. He keeps drinking, leaning against Rhys's shoulder and soaking in the comfort of his presence.
Rhys brings back the drinks and settles close to Sam again as he hands him the mug, making sympathetic noises at the faces he makes as he struggles with the tea. "Yeah, I know, it sucks, but it'll help. And if you're alright with it...I can try and magic you down a little bit."
Little things. Little improvements. It helps Rhys focus, helps make Sam as comfortable as possible as he starts to dry off, starts to relax and let his guard down a little bit. The space heater has warmed the apartment up, it's quiet, and Sam is safe here.
And, he hates to ask, but he needs to know. Rhys's voice is gentle and he lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck to check for fever and says softly, "How much was it, Sam? For how long?" He thumbs away some of Sam's shaggy hair, a careful gesture. "Just...need to know what I'm gonna be dealing with here, that's all."
If it was anyone else? Sam would have balked at the idea of any external magical influence. But this is Rhys. Sam trusts him, cares about him, and he manages a shaky nod around a grimace as he sips more of the tea. He needs to sleep while he can, his body is aching and screaming for rest.
Three demons. Three demons in the back of a bar. One heady dose of blood and the power lighting up in his veins. The rest was a blur of breaking bodies and the roar of his own dormant abilities.
Sam shudders, clinging to the mug. "I.. one demon. The others.. I used my power on. I was looking for another demon when I called you. It's been maybe twelve hours."
Not long now, Sammy.
The phantom voice makes him lurch and Sam drags his eyes back to his mug. Not now. Please. Not now.
Then, he forces himself to let instinct take over. Just another call, Jared. You know how to handle this. He puts the stereo on low- music is good, it helps keep him from thinking too much- pulls on some clothes and turns up the space heater, because it's still pouring rain like a bastard out, and sets to work getting everything he might need ready. Coffee for himself, hot water for Sam. Blankets and towels. Rummaging through his shelves for the right herbs for the detox remedy. His big first aid bag, because he doesn't know if Sam is injured or not.
Automatic pilot, because this is what Rhys does, dammit. It's what he's good at, it's what people rely on him for. What Sam is relying on him for. So with everything set up and in place, he forces himself to settle down and wait.
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It would be so easy. So easy to keep driving, to lose himself in the blood until it killed him.
Another brutal dig into his palm sends a cramp spiking up his forearm. No. No, he was going to Rhys's. He was going to get help and he was going to make it.
By the time he makes to to his apartment, it's nearly dawn. He's barely slept in two days and the power racing through him all but guarantees he won't go back down for awhile. Pale and sweating despite the cold, he knocks on the door, hating himself for being so weak.
"Rhys?"
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"Hey. Hey, I'm right here."
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The blood is still running high and hot in his veins, but it's not a high he can enjoy. Sam knows what comes next. Pain and hallucinations and everything else that comes with the horrific withdrawal.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have been stronger, should have been better.." Like all Winchesters, he holds himself to a standard that's all but impossible to achieve. A standard where weakness is unacceptable.
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Rhys's apartment isn't anything special- just a loft above a junk shop in a slightly questionable part of town. He's done his best to make it comfortable, though, with throw rugs everywhere to cover up the bare floor, pillows and afghans to add brightness and warmth to the cheap furniture, and couches and chairs picked to be comfortable in spite of their shabbiness. One side of the loft is screened off with a folding partition to section off Rhys's bed and dresser, there's a desk and wire bookshelves that make up his workspace, and there's a kitchen nook with plants on the windowsill and a little chair and table set, which results in a nicely livable space. Homey, even, especially with the scent of herbs and old books and coffee permeating the loft.
It's just the couch that Rhys needs for now, though, and he gets Sam to sit and peels off his soaked jacket for him before wrapping him in a worn cotton Army surplus blanket and sitting down next to him. Never more than a foot away because Sam is clinging so close, and Rhys is fine with letting him. "Ah, Sam," he says softly, rubbing the big man's shoulders, and his voice is full of sympathy and worry. No judgment, no recrimination, just a terrible ache at seeing his friend like this.
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He hates himself for being so weak, for falling apart when everything else was already going sideways in his life. Numb and trembling he lets Rhys guide him over to the couch and strip off his bloody and soaking wet jacket. Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his wet hair.
"Two demons," he finally whispers. "'s gonna get bad."
Sam lays his head on Rhys's shoulder with a wounded sound. "I'm so goddamn sorry." Rhys knew. He'd been there, he knew how difficult it was to deal with addiction, which is why Sam came to him in the first place. But it's also why he feels like such a failure. Rhys was strong enough to resist; why wasn't he?
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Sam sags against him, and Rhys just gathers him up as best he can, wrapping him tight in the blanket where it's warm. Rhys has had his battles with addiction, true, and has done a good job of staying clean. But he hasn't been through the nightmares that Sam has, hasn't had the constant, unbearable pressure wearing away his resolve. Compared to Sam's life, Rhys has faced only small hells.
The one time that Rhys's life truly did rage out of control...thinking Sam was dead, his friend Sunny murdered by a psychotic stalker just a few short months later...resulted in blood on Rhys's hands and scars on his soul that would never go away. That was enough damage, but Rhys had managed to crawl back. Had Rhys lived through what Sam had, his fight might have gone much differently, as he resorted to more and more desperate measures just to stay afloat.
That was the way it always was, that was the trap. Just a little to get you through, at first...and then you're so far down the hole you don't know which way is up anymore. Demon blood, black magic...the same was true for both of them.
And then there was the hunger, which was something else entirely. The little voice that loved to lie, but in the end, never even tried to be about anything but power and satisfaction.
Yeah, Rhys knew those demons, had danced more than a few times with them...without even adding in the quite literal one in his blood. And knowing what Sam had been through...he could only be amazed that he had fought them with such fury for as long as he had.
His fingers stroke Sam's rain-soaked hair, trying to smooth it out a little, and he looks at the blood-spattered coat now piled on the floor. "Just take a few breaths, okay? You hurt at all?"
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Which is probably why he fell in the first place.
He'll always hate himself for failing, for slipping right when Dean needed him to be strong. But he was never as strong as Dean, or as strong as Rhys. Choking on a sob, he nods, trying to take a long, slow breath. The comforting and familiar smells of his apartment help soothe some of his initial upset as much as the warm, steady presence beside him does.
"Just.. just knocked around. 'm okay." Sam rubs at his eyes. He's so tired. God, he's so fucking tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid.
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"Okay. Just take it easy, then. I'll get you something to drink in a minute. But you're alright here, okay, Sam? Y'made it safe, the wards are up, so just...try and relax, let it go. We'll get it all straightened out, I promise." Rhys's hand works gently at Sam's shoulders, stroking soothing circles as the big man rests his head against him. He can ask all the questions later, about how this happened, but all that matters right now is letting Sam know that he's safe here, that he can rest. It's going to be rough, and Sam needs his strength.
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Sam looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. His fingernails have left little half moon indentations in his palms. He's broken. On some fundamental level, he's broken and he's not sure he's ever going to make it back. "I'm all wrong."
He doesn't want Rhys to leave, he doesn't want to be alone for an instant. When Rhys is close, things are quiet, calmer and Sam knows it's only going to get worse.
"'m sorry. Shouldn't have dumped this on you."
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"Hell, Sam. Wouldn't have told you to come if I didn't mean it," Rhys says quietly, and he leans just enough so that his head rests against the bigger man's. Not leaving just yet, because Sam needs him to stay a little longer, and he can do that. This isn't about relationships or wanting or any of the other nebulous, uncertain things that have passed between them in the years they've known each other. This is about Sam hurting, and Rhys doing his best to stop the hurt, that's all. Simple, basic human affection to soothe Sam's pain...something that Sam has had far too little of, in Rhys's experience. "It needs to go somewhere, Sam. You needed to go somewhere. You know I'm here for whatever you need, you just gotta ask. Whether it's stitches or a place to crash or whatever. I said anything and I mean it."
Because he loves him, even though he can't say that. But even that aside, they're friends, close friends, and Rhys takes care of people. The idea of Sam alone in a motel room somewhere, or worse, out in the rain, struggling through withdrawal with no one to help him, makes Rhys sick to his stomach, and he grips Sam a little more tightly. "After everything you've been through, man, it's not just gonna magically be 'all better'. No matter how much you want to pretend it is, believe me." He runs his hand through Sam's hair again, smoothing the still-damp strands.
Or how much Dean wants to pretend it is, but Rhys pushes down that little bit of anger for the moment. Dean is the one that takes the most after his father, and Rhys...just might have a few issues with the way John Winchester raised his sons. The stress between the brothers has been building for months now, and Rhys can only guess how that contributed to this, but, again...leaving that for another time. More important to get Sam quiet and settled first, then look at the reasons.
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Sam wants this. He wants this quiet life with Rhys, away from hunting and fear and pain. He wants it and he's afraid to want it, because anything he wants is taken away and he's not sure he could survive Rhys being taken away. The mage was his dearest friend, closest ally and possibly more, even if he'd never screwed up his courage to say anything about it.
So he clings to Rhys. He clings and he finally lets himself fall apart.
One the storm starts, it doesn't last long. He's too exhausted, too drained, and coming down from the high leaves him limp and weary on the couch while Rhys moves to warm something for him to drink.
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And that brings a few from Rhys, too, just a couple of slow, quiet tears escaping in frustrated ache. He wants so damn badly just to wrap Sam up in a blanket like this and make it all go away, to promise Sam that the hurting will stop and mean it, but this is all he can do. Sam deserves better, but this is all Rhys can give him. But...at least Rhys can do this much, as small as it is. He holds Sam while he cries himself out, soft voice full of soothing reassurances and hands working a gentle rhythm on his back, hair and shoulders until Sam finally collapses completely, empty and exhausted.
Rhys lets Sam just lay there for a few minutes longer once he's finished, still reluctant to leave him but knowing symptoms are going to start showing up soon. Best to get him undressed, warmed up, and into bed as soon as possible, now that he's calmed down a little. So after a little longer, Rhys smooths back Sam's hair again with a cool hand, tucks the blanket around him carefully, and says, "Be right back, Sam. Going to get you something to drink, then we'll get those boots off and get you into bed, alright?" Rhys won't take arguments. His bed is a queen-size, one of his few luxuries, so Sam will actually have room to stretch out, and he's bought this couch specifically because it was big and comfortable to sleep on. Sam can have the bed, and Rhys will be just a few feet away on the sofa.
Thanks to the prep work he did before, it only takes Rhys a few minutes to put together the two things Sam's going to need most: a thumb-sized vial of something syrupy and floral, and a mug of warm, bitter tea dosed with honey to make it more palatable. Once again, Rhys is wishing Bobby were alive for guidance, because he's working from theory rather than experience, but he does know his business, and is working on the basic knowledge of things that will help purge the toxins out of Sam's system and ease some of the side effects...the best he can do for him right now.
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He nods distantly as Rhys tucks the blanket around him, rubbing at his eyes. Slowly he levers himself up, struggling with the swollen laces of his boots, getting them toed off in time for Rhys to hand him the fragrant mug and the little vial.
Sam sips at the tea, wrinkling his nose at the bitter smell, but he keeps drinking. It's the only thing he's had in nearly twenty four hours and his stomach roils, but he keeps it down. He keeps drinking, leaning against Rhys's shoulder and soaking in the comfort of his presence.
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Little things. Little improvements. It helps Rhys focus, helps make Sam as comfortable as possible as he starts to dry off, starts to relax and let his guard down a little bit. The space heater has warmed the apartment up, it's quiet, and Sam is safe here.
And, he hates to ask, but he needs to know. Rhys's voice is gentle and he lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck to check for fever and says softly, "How much was it, Sam? For how long?" He thumbs away some of Sam's shaggy hair, a careful gesture. "Just...need to know what I'm gonna be dealing with here, that's all."
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Three demons. Three demons in the back of a bar. One heady dose of blood and the power lighting up in his veins. The rest was a blur of breaking bodies and the roar of his own dormant abilities.
Sam shudders, clinging to the mug. "I.. one demon. The others.. I used my power on. I was looking for another demon when I called you. It's been maybe twelve hours."
Not long now, Sammy.
The phantom voice makes him lurch and Sam drags his eyes back to his mug. Not now. Please. Not now.
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