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."
God, Sam. My poor Sam. Once again, Rhys is struck by the overwhelming desire to just be able to bundle Sam up, take him away from all this. To just hold him and make this all go away. Sam's huge and powerful, far stronger than Rhys, and yet Rhys still feels perfectly at ease with the big man's hands on him, trusting completely that Sam won't hurt him. He watches the tension go out of him, and reaches over to brush away some stray hair, tracing his brow gently and feeling for the fever he's fully expecting to start soon. Kneels there with him, and lets him lean close and feel his heartbeat and breath, soak up the fact that Rhys is real and solid and unharmed.
And after a minute, when Sam's breath returns to something like normal, he says softly, "Do you want to try and sleep, or just rest a few minutes?"
No blood, no damage. Sam tilts into his touch, even as his skin itches and burns with need. He's warm, but he can't tell if that's from his sudden upset or just the withdrawal wreaking more havoc on his already overtaxed system.
"Sleep." It's not even something he'd debate. He's exhausted, nerves stretched high and tight, and if he doesn't find some way to ratchet down his body he's going to fly apart. "Please. I need you to try before.. before something else happens."
Even now, in his frazzled state, Sam has no hesitation in completely giving himself over to Rhys. He trusts him in everything, knows that Rhys will take care of him, help get him over this. "God I'm so tired." Tired of all of it.
"Shh. Okay. C'mon. Up you go." He gives Sam a moment to get himself together enough to get up, before maneuvering him to the bed. He won't take arguments: it's the easiest place for Rhys to work and Sam needs room to get comfortable and rest. Anyway, if Sam really wants to protest, it's a queen-sized bed with room for both of them. It's only been casually made after Rhys's middle-of-the-night waking, the rumpled covers pulled up in a hurry, but it's clean and there's plenty of room for Sam to stretch out, and Rhys gets him situated before pulling a couple of the extra pillows down from the headboard and getting himself propped up with Sam's head and shoulders in his lap.
Rhys knows that you can start hallucinating with as little as 24 hours without sleep: Sam's pushed way past that, and that can only be making things worse. So he lets Sam get comfortable, pulling the worn quilt over him and smoothing his hands over his back and shoulders as Sam curls up against him. It quiets something in Rhys's restless, pain-filled heart to be able to physically shelter Sam like this, because right at this moment, he doesn't feel huge and powerful and intimidating...he just feels hurting and fragile, and Rhys wants so badly to fix that.
"Think y'know the drill. Just try and relax, get comfortable, and I'm right here," Rhys says softly as he starts to concentrate on finding his focus, letting his senses shift into that mixed state between aura and physical where he needs to be to do this kind of work. "I got ya, Sam. It'll be alright."
Sam makes a quietly grateful noise as he sinks into the bed. It's warm and still smells faintly of Rhys, that vanilla-spice scent overlaid with the heady smell of his skin. His nerves are badly jangled and the simple, small gestures help start to smooth out the ragged edges. A soft pillow, a warm blanket, the familiar touch of a dear friend.
There are few people that can make Sam feel safe and protected; he's simply too big to shelter. But Dean, Ellen and Rhys are on a very short list of family members who Sam can feel safe with.
He does as he's told, shutting his eyes and trying to relax into the warmth and protection that Rhys was providing.
In the end, it doesn't take much. He's wrung out, exhausted beyond endurance, and he's safe. Rhys was there to catch him when he fell; he'd be there to protect him.
This time, with Sam cradled in his arms and no interruptions, Rhys can work freely, putting his powers to work on all the little hurts. It's not a cure-all, not a switch that makes everything all better, but Rhys has been doing this a long time and has a natural gift for it, so he thinks he can do at least something, take the edge off things. Rhys starts simple, focusing on soothing away the tension in those big muscles, and then concentrates on easing Sam down, a combination of gentle hands, big doses of natural sleep chemicals and a subtle psychic vibe until he feels Sam start to sag in his arms. Though the sheer amount of power Rhys pushes might result in a brief feeling of lightheadedness, like freefall, for the most part, it's a pleasant feeling...warm and spreading like bathwater, or a really good hit.
Even with Sam asleep, Rhys keeps working for...he's not sure how long, it's a big job. He can take energy, but he can also give it back, and he concentrates on sifting out the toxins of demon blood from Sam's body and spirit, focusing his body's natural resources on fighting the withdrawal. A lot of small, subtle shifts and changes to ease the pain and help him rest, difficult, delicate work that keeps Rhys trancing for a couple of hours after Sam actually drops off. Long enough that when he feels like he's done all he can, he lets out a deep sigh, rubs his brow, and with Sam still unconscious on his legs, flops back, one hand on the bigger man's shoulder, and closes his eyes for a minute to get himself back together. Just a minute, really, just to make sure that Sam's responding well to the treatment and staying asleep...then Rhys will move to the couch, if he can figure out how to wriggle out from under Sam without disturbing him.
Of course, 'just a minute' is never just a minute, and Rhys is asleep before he realizes it, sprawled in the pillows he used to support his back with Sam still on his lap.
Sam may not be able to feel the power that Rhys is pouring into him, or the subtle changes he's making to help ease him through the worst of the withdrawal that will inevitably come, but he knows that he's there, that he's going to take care of him as best he can and that is what Sam needs more than anything. Understanding. Someone who's been there, who won't look at him with disappointment or anger.
His sleep is hard and sound in Rhys's arms, sheltered, if only for a little while, against the horrors that he knows he can't escape.
While his body may need sleep, it also starts to wake Sam as the withdrawal begins to set in. The magic has dulled the worst of it, but Sam wakes with a crashing headache and a fever that's just hot enough to keep him uncomfortably awake.
Rubbing blearily at his eyes he blinks up at Rhys. Even asleep he's keeping watch over him and it makes something warm rise up in his chest. Something he wants, even if he can never have it. Sam tries to shut his eyes against the pain and relax into his arms again, but it's not much use. He's awake again and his body is not happy about this.
Rhys sleeps for a while, drained by his wrestle with the sticky, toxic, tar-like influence of the demon blood, but he starts to stir when Sam grows restless. Rhys reflexively reaches down to stroke Sam's hair, trying to soothe him before he's fully awake and aware of what he's doing. Pain, sickness, bad dreams, hallucinations, Rhys just wants to be close to make it go away, and it's that part of him that responds first before he's even really aware of what he's doing. Then he actually is awake, feeling the weight of Sam's body on his and remembering everything, and he blinks and looks around, taking stock of the situation.
It wasn't as much rest for Sam as Rhys had hoped for, glancing at the bedside clock and listening to his own mildly throbbing head, but it was some, at least, and he grimaces faintly. His legs feel like lead, and Sam looks flushed and miserable. "Hey." Voice soft in the dim light of the loft, he rubs Sam's shoulder lightly, as much to reassure him as to get a sense of his state. He doesn't want to move just yet, and he's pretty sure that Sam's feeling awful enough that he doesn't want to, either, so he just stays there, letting Sam stay crashed against him. "You think you feel up to trying something to drink in a few minutes? Promise it'll be better than the last one."
"Hey." He shifts directly off of his lap, curling up against his side, burrowing deeper into the quilt that had been tucked around him. The fever is burning him up, but he can't stop shivering. Rhys has taken the edge off of the withdrawal, but there were still side effects that he'd have to cope with. His body craving more of the blood, the last of the toxic stuff working its way out of his system.
The idea of drinking anything at all makes his stomach roil in protest, but he forces himself to nod. He needs fluids, he needs something to keep his body going.
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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And after a minute, when Sam's breath returns to something like normal, he says softly, "Do you want to try and sleep, or just rest a few minutes?"
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"Sleep." It's not even something he'd debate. He's exhausted, nerves stretched high and tight, and if he doesn't find some way to ratchet down his body he's going to fly apart. "Please. I need you to try before.. before something else happens."
Even now, in his frazzled state, Sam has no hesitation in completely giving himself over to Rhys. He trusts him in everything, knows that Rhys will take care of him, help get him over this. "God I'm so tired." Tired of all of it.
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Rhys knows that you can start hallucinating with as little as 24 hours without sleep: Sam's pushed way past that, and that can only be making things worse. So he lets Sam get comfortable, pulling the worn quilt over him and smoothing his hands over his back and shoulders as Sam curls up against him. It quiets something in Rhys's restless, pain-filled heart to be able to physically shelter Sam like this, because right at this moment, he doesn't feel huge and powerful and intimidating...he just feels hurting and fragile, and Rhys wants so badly to fix that.
"Think y'know the drill. Just try and relax, get comfortable, and I'm right here," Rhys says softly as he starts to concentrate on finding his focus, letting his senses shift into that mixed state between aura and physical where he needs to be to do this kind of work. "I got ya, Sam. It'll be alright."
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There are few people that can make Sam feel safe and protected; he's simply too big to shelter. But Dean, Ellen and Rhys are on a very short list of family members who Sam can feel safe with.
He does as he's told, shutting his eyes and trying to relax into the warmth and protection that Rhys was providing.
In the end, it doesn't take much. He's wrung out, exhausted beyond endurance, and he's safe. Rhys was there to catch him when he fell; he'd be there to protect him.
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Even with Sam asleep, Rhys keeps working for...he's not sure how long, it's a big job. He can take energy, but he can also give it back, and he concentrates on sifting out the toxins of demon blood from Sam's body and spirit, focusing his body's natural resources on fighting the withdrawal. A lot of small, subtle shifts and changes to ease the pain and help him rest, difficult, delicate work that keeps Rhys trancing for a couple of hours after Sam actually drops off. Long enough that when he feels like he's done all he can, he lets out a deep sigh, rubs his brow, and with Sam still unconscious on his legs, flops back, one hand on the bigger man's shoulder, and closes his eyes for a minute to get himself back together. Just a minute, really, just to make sure that Sam's responding well to the treatment and staying asleep...then Rhys will move to the couch, if he can figure out how to wriggle out from under Sam without disturbing him.
Of course, 'just a minute' is never just a minute, and Rhys is asleep before he realizes it, sprawled in the pillows he used to support his back with Sam still on his lap.
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His sleep is hard and sound in Rhys's arms, sheltered, if only for a little while, against the horrors that he knows he can't escape.
While his body may need sleep, it also starts to wake Sam as the withdrawal begins to set in. The magic has dulled the worst of it, but Sam wakes with a crashing headache and a fever that's just hot enough to keep him uncomfortably awake.
Rubbing blearily at his eyes he blinks up at Rhys. Even asleep he's keeping watch over him and it makes something warm rise up in his chest. Something he wants, even if he can never have it. Sam tries to shut his eyes against the pain and relax into his arms again, but it's not much use. He's awake again and his body is not happy about this.
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It wasn't as much rest for Sam as Rhys had hoped for, glancing at the bedside clock and listening to his own mildly throbbing head, but it was some, at least, and he grimaces faintly. His legs feel like lead, and Sam looks flushed and miserable. "Hey." Voice soft in the dim light of the loft, he rubs Sam's shoulder lightly, as much to reassure him as to get a sense of his state. He doesn't want to move just yet, and he's pretty sure that Sam's feeling awful enough that he doesn't want to, either, so he just stays there, letting Sam stay crashed against him. "You think you feel up to trying something to drink in a few minutes? Promise it'll be better than the last one."
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The idea of drinking anything at all makes his stomach roil in protest, but he forces himself to nod. He needs fluids, he needs something to keep his body going.
"Yeah. Yeah, just a little?"
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