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.
Rhys knows full well how strong Sam's psychic defenses are. He's treated him for wounds before and used his healing abilities on him, and every time it's been...difficult at best. Rhys simply can't influence someone who's fighting him, even with his abilities being benign. The fact that Sam relaxes enough to let Rhys use his powers on him at all speaks volumes about how much the big hunter trusts him, and Rhys appreciates that.
One dose. That's...better than it could be, but twelve hours is a while. He has at least a rough idea of what kind of symptoms to expect, but he's winging this and he hates to admit it. Just...play it as it comes. React as he needs to, he's good at that. Rhys lets his breath out and rubs Sam's arm, but lifts his head again when he sees and feels the twitch, frowning. "...Sam?"
He screws his eyes shut, trying to will away the noise in his head.
We’ve already had this talk, Sam. Do we really need to do this again? I’m not going anywhere.
“It’s starting,” he grates out, stubbornly raising the tea to his lips again, draining the rest of it in one long swallow. “Hallucinations.” God, he didn’t want to do this. It was probably misguided as hell, but Sam had wanted to keep this from Rhys. He knew him, knew that Rhys would move heaven and earth to try and help him, to silence the voice in his head. But there was no hope. All he could try and do was maintain, and he wasn’t even able to do that anymore.
Despairing, Sam huddles close to Rhys. “I’ve been seeing things since I got out.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to mention from where.
“I don’t know how bad.. how bad this is gonna get.”
Once it's empty, Rhys takes the mug away so Sam can't hurt himself on it, puts it aside. He'd known there was a lot about...well, everything that Sam and Dean hadn't been telling him, Sam in particular, but he's not surprised. This job comes with a lot of resignation, he's found, and if there's a little hurt with it, it's only a little. Rhys knows what it's like, trying not to hurt friends with your pains. And...he's in no place to throw stones, anyway, not with his own secret coiled up inside, coursing through his own blood.
Rhys shifts all the way back to the arm of the couch, tugging Sam with him so that he can wrap him up in his lap, blanket and all, and still leave enough room for Sam to stretch out. Rhys is smaller, but years of hauling cases of booze in bars and tearing apart junkers in auto yards has given him surprising upper-body strength for his size, and muscles cord and tense in his arms and chest as he pulls Sam toward him, urging him close. "S'okay, Sam. You know you're safe, you're right here with me, okay?"
He's not sure exactly what to do about hallucinations, especially those that stem from being trapped on another plane of existence for an unknowable amount of time. But if he can keep Sam calm, keep him grounded, then that much he can do. The demon blood is still in his veins, though fading, and Rhys will deal with that first, helping Sam's body cope with the toxins and the sudden shock of being without the drug, and then...take it from there. It's all he can do.
So he pulls Sam into his lap, where they can at least pretend the big hunter is safe, and where Rhys can set to work trying to defuse at least some of the myriad bombs now running through Sam's system.
Sam lets Rhys manhandle him into a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and laying his head against his chest as he's pulled in close. Calm. If he's calm he can normally keep a handle on the hallucinatons. Coming down off the demon blood isn't helping, but if he can focus.. slow easy breaths. One at a time. He can listen to Rhys's heartbeat and find some way to focus.
A sickly cracking of bone and flesh and the warm splash of blood on his cheek brings Sam instantly upright. Horror paints his features as he watches Lucifer slowly withdraw his hand from the bloody crater that had been Rhys's chest. The archangel shrugs and flicks a bit of flesh from his finger as Sam chokes on a scream, scrambling off the couch and away from the horrifying sight.
He buries his head in his forearms, trying to hide from the grisly image. It's not real. It's not. But that doesn't stop the upswell of horror and grief and guilt
For a minute or two, it works. Sam resting against his body, Rhys holding him close and just starting to get into the cadence of his aura, focusing on opening up his senses so he can start working him down into something like peaceful rest.
Then Rhys startles as Sam pulls away from him, shaken out of the start of his trance and following to his knees but uncertain, hesitating to reach out as Sam cowers at the other end of the couch. Particularly as the shock of horror hits him, an empathic jolt that he can't quite keep out.
"Sam? Sam?" Worry hits him, watching the sheer panic and sickness overtake the bigger man. "Come on, stay with me, man, it's Jared..."
Run. Run. Everything in him is screaming to run, get away from the horrible grinning visage of Lucifer and his bloody forearm. Sam screws his eyes shut, pressing his thumb into his palm as hard as he can. His breath comes in short, terrified pants as he struggles for control. It’s not real. It’s not real. Dimly, over the terrified skitter of his own heartbeat, he can hear Rhys’s voice. Jared. A promise of safety and comfort.
It takes him longer than he’d like, but Sam stubbornly fights to regain control of his own mind. He’s not broken yet, he’s not ready to give up that fight. Rhys is just one more reminder of all of the good things in his life he’s still fighting for and Sam clings to that with all of his resolve, all of his flagging strength.
“’m okay,” he rasps out. Not okay, but he’s better. He’s beaten it back one more time and as long as Rhys is there, he’ll keep fighting.
Rhys keeps talking, encouragements to try and keep Sam grounded, keep him here, as he inches closer to rest a hand on Sam's shoulder. Careful, ready to pull away if he has to, but letting Sam know that he's right there with him and real. "You're right here, Sam, it's okay. Just breathe. Whatever it is, it's not real." He doesn't know what Sam's seeing, but it's got to be horrible. It's got to take a hell of a lot (no pun intended) to shake the big man like that.
So Rhys keeps up the soothing patter, voice raised just enough to have authority while still keeping a gentle tone. Giving Sam something else to concentrate on, and trying to talk him through breathing and focusing his way through whatever horrors his mind is throwing at him.
Sam clings to the sound of his voice like a lifeline, keeping his eyes screwed shut so he doesn't have to see the terrible damage done to Rhys's chest. He can smell the blood, thick and coppery in the air, hear it pattering on the floor as Rhys creeps closer to him.
Rhys was talking to him, his voice was gentle, which meant that what he was hearing, what he was seeing wasn't real.
The hand on his shoulder helps and Sam reaches out blindly until he finds Rhys's shoulder. The skin beneath his fingers was real and warm and solid. He wasn't dying. Lucifer hadn't taken him.
"Yeah, it's me, Sam. I'm right here. Everything's okay." He puts his hand over Sam's larger one on his shoulder, indicating that it's perfectly okay for Sam to touch and letting him feel for whatever it is he's looking for. The solidness of Rhys's body underneath, the gentle curve of collarbone, the well-worn fabric of t-shirt. No blood, no gore, just a strong smooth chest and a heartbeat only slightly quickened from worry.
The touch helps to anchor him and Sam slides his hand down his chest, fingers sliding along the curve of his collarbone, down across his chest, even feeling the nipple ring through the worn cotton. Whole. Alive. Safe.
His hand stops over his heart and for a moment Sam just breathes.
"I-okay. 'm okay." Slowly Sam opens his eyes and the tension melts out of his frame. It had stopped. The hallucination had stopped. He shifts close, wanting nothing more than to curl into his lap. "I'm so tired Rhys.. Christ I'm so tired."
"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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One dose. That's...better than it could be, but twelve hours is a while. He has at least a rough idea of what kind of symptoms to expect, but he's winging this and he hates to admit it. Just...play it as it comes. React as he needs to, he's good at that. Rhys lets his breath out and rubs Sam's arm, but lifts his head again when he sees and feels the twitch, frowning. "...Sam?"
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We’ve already had this talk, Sam. Do we really need to do this again? I’m not going anywhere.
“It’s starting,” he grates out, stubbornly raising the tea to his lips again, draining the rest of it in one long swallow. “Hallucinations.” God, he didn’t want to do this. It was probably misguided as hell, but Sam had wanted to keep this from Rhys. He knew him, knew that Rhys would move heaven and earth to try and help him, to silence the voice in his head. But there was no hope. All he could try and do was maintain, and he wasn’t even able to do that anymore.
Despairing, Sam huddles close to Rhys. “I’ve been seeing things since I got out.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to mention from where.
“I don’t know how bad.. how bad this is gonna get.”
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Rhys shifts all the way back to the arm of the couch, tugging Sam with him so that he can wrap him up in his lap, blanket and all, and still leave enough room for Sam to stretch out. Rhys is smaller, but years of hauling cases of booze in bars and tearing apart junkers in auto yards has given him surprising upper-body strength for his size, and muscles cord and tense in his arms and chest as he pulls Sam toward him, urging him close. "S'okay, Sam. You know you're safe, you're right here with me, okay?"
He's not sure exactly what to do about hallucinations, especially those that stem from being trapped on another plane of existence for an unknowable amount of time. But if he can keep Sam calm, keep him grounded, then that much he can do. The demon blood is still in his veins, though fading, and Rhys will deal with that first, helping Sam's body cope with the toxins and the sudden shock of being without the drug, and then...take it from there. It's all he can do.
So he pulls Sam into his lap, where they can at least pretend the big hunter is safe, and where Rhys can set to work trying to defuse at least some of the myriad bombs now running through Sam's system.
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A sickly cracking of bone and flesh and the warm splash of blood on his cheek brings Sam instantly upright. Horror paints his features as he watches Lucifer slowly withdraw his hand from the bloody crater that had been Rhys's chest. The archangel shrugs and flicks a bit of flesh from his finger as Sam chokes on a scream, scrambling off the couch and away from the horrifying sight.
He buries his head in his forearms, trying to hide from the grisly image. It's not real. It's not. But that doesn't stop the upswell of horror and grief and guilt
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Then Rhys startles as Sam pulls away from him, shaken out of the start of his trance and following to his knees but uncertain, hesitating to reach out as Sam cowers at the other end of the couch. Particularly as the shock of horror hits him, an empathic jolt that he can't quite keep out.
"Sam? Sam?" Worry hits him, watching the sheer panic and sickness overtake the bigger man. "Come on, stay with me, man, it's Jared..."
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It takes him longer than he’d like, but Sam stubbornly fights to regain control of his own mind. He’s not broken yet, he’s not ready to give up that fight. Rhys is just one more reminder of all of the good things in his life he’s still fighting for and Sam clings to that with all of his resolve, all of his flagging strength.
“’m okay,” he rasps out. Not okay, but he’s better. He’s beaten it back one more time and as long as Rhys is there, he’ll keep fighting.
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So Rhys keeps up the soothing patter, voice raised just enough to have authority while still keeping a gentle tone. Giving Sam something else to concentrate on, and trying to talk him through breathing and focusing his way through whatever horrors his mind is throwing at him.
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Rhys was talking to him, his voice was gentle, which meant that what he was hearing, what he was seeing wasn't real.
The hand on his shoulder helps and Sam reaches out blindly until he finds Rhys's shoulder. The skin beneath his fingers was real and warm and solid. He wasn't dying. Lucifer hadn't taken him.
"J-Jared?"
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His hand stops over his heart and for a moment Sam just breathes.
"I-okay. 'm okay." Slowly Sam opens his eyes and the tension melts out of his frame. It had stopped. The hallucination had stopped. He shifts close, wanting nothing more than to curl into his lap. "I'm so tired Rhys.. Christ I'm so tired."
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