Rhys sighs, and keeps rubbing Sam's hand. He didn't want to bring the elder Winchester brother up, and seeing Sam's reaction just makes him regret it. He didn't mean to throw it in Sam's face. Things have been tense between them and Dean has never been good at facing problems...things like Bobby's death. Dean's heavy drinking in times of trouble isn't exactly a secret, either.
It's just something that Rhys has a hard time with. The sibling bond is something he respects entirely too much at times. His sister was only eleven when he left, and he would have given anything to have been able to be her Big Brother for longer than he had.
Which is also why it pisses him off so much that Dean is so callous toward Sam, so judgmental. But even when he's being a stubborn, closed-off asshole, Rhys figures that Dean at least deserves to know that Sam is safe. Especially so soon after losing the closest thing the two of them had to a father figure.
But he can't take back the question, he can only try and smooth it over. He wasn't intending on telling Dean anything anyway, or even talking to him, for that matter. Texting was a brilliant thing sometimes. So Rhys just rubs his eye with his free hand...the bad one, the one that bothers him when he's tired. "He doesn't need to know, either, Sam. All I was figuring was leaving him a text to let him know you're okay...that's all. Far as I'm concerned? You needed a break. That's it."
Sam desperately misses when things were simpler. Long before Ruby, before Dean's deal, back when things were normal between all three of them. When his brother listened to him, when he was still so certain that Dean.. well. No sense in looking back, right?
Feverish and dizzy, Sam curls on his side, not quite ready to let go of the steadying influence of Rhys's hand. "Use my phone. Then turn it off. He'll try and use the GPS."
Dean was going to be pissed, and the last thing he needed right now was for his brother and his best friend to be fighting because of him. He just wanted to curl up and try to shut out the fire and the blood and the noise dancing at the periphery of his vision.
Rhys misses those times, too...when the worst they had to deal with was a rogue skinshifter or a gremlin infestation or maybe an aughisky, when getting the job done and cleaning up was so much simpler and they didn't spend all their time feeling lost, broken, and overwhelmed. It might not have been bliss, it was still a scary, dangerous, dirty as hell job, but at least they felt in control of things.
Rhys sighs quietly and folds his other hand around Sam's, too. He'll call soon, but not right now. Not with Sam looking so...lost, huddled up on the bed. He reaches over for the best of the pile of pillows and moves it over for Sam, helping him get more comfortable, and wipes his forehead and neck again with the damp facecloth before letting him settle back down. "I will in a few minutes. Not in a rush." He smiles down at Sam and tugs the blanket back up around his shoulder a little more tightly. "If you can't get back to sleep, just try an' relax, at least. If you do okay with the juice, we'll try some tea in a little while, but I'll be right here, 'kay?"
Those were good days, and it's odd to think that battles and the decompression in the crappy motel rooms with bad movies and beer and pizza were when things were simpler. Better. Poker games at Bobby's. Rhys baiting and screwing with Dean while Sam laughed. Ellen dragging them all back to the house for dinner.
"I can't.. can't talk to him. Not now." And he can't help but feel guilty about it, that he couldn't go to his brother, but Dean was lost in his own guilt and sorrow and.. Sam couldn't reach him. Shutting his eyes against an unexpected flood of tears, he squeezes his hand and gives a shaky nod.
"Might want to turn it off anyway." It had been vibrating and generally sounding in his pocket since he'd called Rhys. Likely Dean had woken up to find him gone.
"You got one thing to concentrate on right now, Sam, and that's getting better. Don't worry about Dean. Even if you do want to have this conversation...this isn't the time for it." His voice is gentle, but stern. Sam is exhausted, hurting, and reeling, and there's no way in hell Rhys would expect him to talk to his brother right now, to do anything but lay here and get his strength back. And Dean isn't in any shape to face things right now, either. Neither brother has ever been good at giving themselves the space to recover when they're down and right now? They're both down.
Rhys squeezes Sam's hands again, giving them another rub, then gets up, a little regretfully. Maybe when he gets back, he can crawl back in with Sam, and sleep a bit more. The bed's big enough, and the contact seems to soothe the big hunter...and Rhys feels better being right there. Right now, even the couch doesn't feel quite close enough, not when Rhys is this concerned. "Get it out of the way, then, eh?" Then maybe the two of them can try and get a little more rest.
Sam's jacket is hanging up, where Rhys put it out of the way the last time he got up, and it only takes Rhys a minute to retrieve the cell phone, flip it open, and tap out a quick text before snapping it shut again and powering it down. "I'm safe, taking a break. Will be in touch soon." He feels a little shitty about such a sparse message, but it covers what Dean needs to know and Rhys doesn't particularly feel like going into the details, either. He slides the phone back into the jacket pocket, feeling better for having passed the message on...especially seeing the backlog of unanswered messages already on the phone.
That done, he pours himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge and chugs it, fills a bottle with water for Sam for the bedside, and returns to his friend's side with a small, hopefully reassuring smile. "See? That's all." He pauses, watching Sam quietly for a few seconds, then slides back onto the bed next to Sam, hands finding his shoulders again to try and soothe a little more of the pain away.
Sam screws his eyes shut and nods, letting Rhys gently boss him around. Most of the time he balks at the idea of resting, of taking anything for himself. But Rhys is one of about three people who can order him to rest and he'll do so without argument. He winces when he hears his phone close, but it's for the best for now. Dean.. will have to cope on his own for a little while longer.
Dizzy and nauseous by the time Rhys returns to the bed, Sam shifts restlessly beside him. The big hunter's hand seeks out Rhys again. His skin itches and crawls and he's freezing and burning up all at once. The contact helps, gives him something else to focus on. It's not as simple and as focused as shoving his thumb against the scar on his hand, but he'll take whatever aid he can.
He's not sure he can sleep, but he can at least lay still so Rhys can. "'ve got cash in my wallet. Cover some of the expenses."
Because even in his wrecked state, Sam wants to help.
Sam is also so close to simply falling down that Rhys doesn't think his body's giving him much choice in the matter, which makes his job as the healer that much easier. But it's nice that Sam listens to him. Not that Rhys is afraid to bully Sam a bit when he doesn't, of course, but the less Sam fights right now, the more energy he's putting toward recovering.
Back on the bed, laying close by, Rhys wraps his hands around Sam's again and holds it. Pain can be a good distraction at times, but gentler is better when it can be managed. And he smiles a little at the offer of cash...unsurprised that Sam is still trying to cover his share. "I'll keep it in mind. We can hold the fort for a day or two. See if you can manage to eat something soon, but as long as you're drinking, that's more important, and I've got enough detox and treatment herbs on hand."
He probably won't doze more than lightly, with Sam restless and keeping watch over him, but Rhys feels better being close, and before he does sleep, he can try a little more magic on Sam, soothe away just a bit more of the pain and bolster his resources. He's worried, and he won't rest well until Sam does...it's as simple as that.
There's only so long Sam can fight sleep. It doesn't matter how uncomfortable he is, that he's hot and aching and the noise in the back of his mind is a nearly constant roar of fire and blood and pain. After a time, his body simply shuts down on him. Not the best way to sleep, but it's the only way that's reliably worked since that hunt a few weeks ago.
He murmurs a sleepy acknowledgement before his world fades out and he sinks gratefully into darkness. The nightmares still come, they always do, but he stirs and mutters through them, never once pulling himself fully awake.
Six hours. He sleeps solidly for six wonderful hours.
The bed is warm and soft and the presence beside him is a reassurance that yes, he's safe. Sam opens his eyes with a groan and instantly regrets it. The moment he allows himself to wake up, his body decides to make it's displeasure known, seizing his muscles with cramps as it works the last of the toxic blood out and craves more. Just a little more to make the pain go away.
It's a lie and Sam knows it, but it doesn't make the sudden pain any easier to bear. He simply shuts his eyes against it and tries to ride it out.
Rhys drifts off into sleep too, for a while, waking now and then to check on Sam beside him. It's restless sleep at times, but it's still sleep, and when Sam starts to shift and mutter, Rhys can't help but reach over and smooth his brow with a cool hand or pull the blanket up a little more.
When he wakes up, he's bleary and carpet-mouthed, but the ache in his head has mostly gone away, and when Sam stirs, Rhys has wolfed down a bowl of cereal and is waiting with another cup of tea for him. More remedy for him to try and keep down, and some fresh, mildly sweet-smelling incense lit to try and help with the headache and air out the closeness of the room. It's been quite a few hours now, and Rhys is starting to worry about the serious symptoms...he's pretty sure he can handle most of them, but seizures worry him the most. Sam's a lot bigger than Rhys is, and keeping Sam from hurting himself might be difficult.
Still, he's watching closely and doing what he can, and at least Sam doesn't have to be alone through this. Being sick and miserable is bad enough, never mind the weight of his backslide on him. Rhys knows what that shame feels like, and being able to be the voice of reason for Sam, to tell him that it's okay, that he's not a bad person...fuck, that's got to count for something.
"Hey. How you holding up?" Rhys says quietly when he sees Sam moving around.
The fresh incense helps clear his head a bit, but does nothing to alleviate the crashing headache or the general feeling of complete and utter hell that accompanies waking up. He's achy, nauseous and can't help but hate himself. It was his fault that he was in this situation to begin with.
"Hey." Wearily, he drags a hand across his face. "I'm.." He's not okay. Not even close to okay. "Better."
Wrapping his hands around the offered mug he offers Rhys a wan smile. Sam isn't sure he'll be able to keep much down, but he's going to try. He's going to soldier through this as best he can because that's what he always does as a Winchester.
Rhys nods, watching Sam try to drink with a sad, sympathetic look. "Yeah, sucks, I know. But it should help. If you want to try and wash up a little in a few, too, we can-"
Rhys has half a hope that the phone ringing is a work call, but he knows better, and when he flips the phone open, he's not surprised in the least to see Dean's number flashing at him from the screen.
Not surprised, just dismayed. He had been hoping it would take the elder Winchester brother a little longer to think of calling here, but it had been a thin hope, really. Dean knows his brother, and he knows Rhys. Rhys does his best to hide his grimace, and glances over at Sam. "I'll step out for a smoke and take this," he says quietly, after silencing the ringer. If Dean's calm, he won't mind waiting a minute for Rhys to pick up, and if he's pissed, well, he can still wait a minute. "And grab your clothes out of the car while I'm at it, okay?"
He grabs his case of cigarettes and his old steel lighter, tugs a jacket on, and slips out to the landing to the chair he keeps out there for times like this. It's stopped raining sometime during the last few hours, but it's still chilly and damp out, and Rhys takes a couple of deep breaths before he sits and flips the phone open. The air's cold enough to bring back the start of a headache, but clean, and it helps a little.
"Hi, Dean," he says, sounding just this side of resigned.
All Sam wants to do is put his head down on his arms and breathe through the nausea, the pain, everything that makes him want to curl in Rhys's bed again and breathe in the lingering scent of his skin. He was the only thing keeping him anchored at the moment.
But he nods and watches Rhys go outside to talk to his brother.
Dean, for his part, is sick with worry. And when Dean is worried, blaming himself for Sam running off (again) and generally pissed off after Sam's text, he doesn't tend to think before he speaks.
"Where the hell is he? Is he with you? Look, if he just pulled up stakes because he couldn't freaking handle it, then fine. Least he could do was tell me rather than walking out again!"
Rhys stares at the bricks of the side of the building, and then swipes at his bad eye with the heel of his palm. He was pretty sure that he was going to be getting a worried, pissed, likely hung-over Dean, so it's not a surprise to get blasted as soon as he picks up. The text was half-assed and he knew it, and turning the phone off afterward was only inviting the worst, even if Sam desperately needed the quiet.
Silently, he reminds himself that Dean's a wreck, too. Bobby's dead, everything's a mess, and Dean's only brother is falling apart on him. Dean's not exactly the superstar of healthy coping mechanisms, either, and Rhys is doing his best to smooth things over between the brothers as best he can. If nothing else, for Sam's sake, but all things aside, he does like Dean, too, even as abrasive as the older man can be. The least Rhys can do is try and be mature and keep this civil.
So he slumps against the wrought iron bars of the landing as Dean splutters out his demands, and then says, "Yeah, he's with me. He's taking a break, Dean. He's wrecked and needs a little time."
He's keeping his word to Sam. Whether Dean finds out about the demon blood or not? That's up to Sam, but Rhys isn't going to say anything beyond 'Sam needs some time'. Dean can press all he wants, but Rhys is far from intimidated by the big hunter.
Dean is an utter wreck. He felt like utter hell and waking up without Sam there had sent him into a complete tailspin. Sam, who was walking around hallucinating Lucifer more often than not. But hearing that he went to Rhys? That he went to someone else?
"Wrecked? Of course he's freaking wrecked," he snarls. "You tell him that this isn't Flagstaff. He doesn't just get to leave. He doesn't get to walk away. There's a job that needs doing. Leviathans that need ganking and he doesn't just get to decide that now is time to take a break."
What he should be asking instead is how is Sam doing? Is he seeing Lucifer? How many times is he working that scar? But he can't. Doesn't. Because talking about how fast Sam is coming apart makes it too real. Too painful.
Rhys sits forward again, pressing his fingertips against his brow. His voice is still steady, but a little coil of frustration winds tighter in his gut. "No, Dean. I'm not piling that on him, not right now. Sam needs to be off the field for a little while right now, he made the call and I'm sticking with it. And it's probably not a bad idea for you, either, if things are going this bad." Because, face it, Dean, they are. Rhys doesn't have to bring up Bobby...none of them do, the pain is there like a spectre that never hovers further than a breath away.
And he doesn't know everything, but he knows enough to know that things have gotten serious. The Winchesters have gotten fidgety, secretive, Sam increasingly guarded every time the job came up unless it was some run-of-the-mill hunt. They move around more, talk less, and Bobby died on something big. Both Sam and Dean are wearing themselves down, and if they don't slow down, it just might take them, too.
That scares Rhys. He never had many people close to start with, none that he could spare, and while he's not talking about it, not intruding on the brothers' much greater grief, Bobby was a loss for him, too. He's worried, and the stress on Sam is a reminder that there's so damn many ways to lose people in this business. "I'm not trying to get in your face, man. But this isn't gonna get shit done, so just...let it go for a couple days, alright? Take a breather, and come back to it."
"If they're going that bad? I've got news for you. It's that bad. It's worse. Not that you have the first fuckin clue what we're up against," Dean snarls. "What we're going up against? They took.. everything. Everything. Do you get that? You don't just walk away from a fight like that."
He's had it with this swami crap and instead of hanging up, Dean hauls off and throws his phone as hard as he can against the wall. He can't do this and he sure as hell can't do his by himself.
It's just something that Rhys has a hard time with. The sibling bond is something he respects entirely too much at times. His sister was only eleven when he left, and he would have given anything to have been able to be her Big Brother for longer than he had.
Which is also why it pisses him off so much that Dean is so callous toward Sam, so judgmental. But even when he's being a stubborn, closed-off asshole, Rhys figures that Dean at least deserves to know that Sam is safe. Especially so soon after losing the closest thing the two of them had to a father figure.
But he can't take back the question, he can only try and smooth it over. He wasn't intending on telling Dean anything anyway, or even talking to him, for that matter. Texting was a brilliant thing sometimes. So Rhys just rubs his eye with his free hand...the bad one, the one that bothers him when he's tired. "He doesn't need to know, either, Sam. All I was figuring was leaving him a text to let him know you're okay...that's all. Far as I'm concerned? You needed a break. That's it."
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Feverish and dizzy, Sam curls on his side, not quite ready to let go of the steadying influence of Rhys's hand. "Use my phone. Then turn it off. He'll try and use the GPS."
Dean was going to be pissed, and the last thing he needed right now was for his brother and his best friend to be fighting because of him. He just wanted to curl up and try to shut out the fire and the blood and the noise dancing at the periphery of his vision.
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Rhys sighs quietly and folds his other hand around Sam's, too. He'll call soon, but not right now. Not with Sam looking so...lost, huddled up on the bed. He reaches over for the best of the pile of pillows and moves it over for Sam, helping him get more comfortable, and wipes his forehead and neck again with the damp facecloth before letting him settle back down. "I will in a few minutes. Not in a rush." He smiles down at Sam and tugs the blanket back up around his shoulder a little more tightly. "If you can't get back to sleep, just try an' relax, at least. If you do okay with the juice, we'll try some tea in a little while, but I'll be right here, 'kay?"
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"I can't.. can't talk to him. Not now." And he can't help but feel guilty about it, that he couldn't go to his brother, but Dean was lost in his own guilt and sorrow and.. Sam couldn't reach him. Shutting his eyes against an unexpected flood of tears, he squeezes his hand and gives a shaky nod.
"Might want to turn it off anyway." It had been vibrating and generally sounding in his pocket since he'd called Rhys. Likely Dean had woken up to find him gone.
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Rhys squeezes Sam's hands again, giving them another rub, then gets up, a little regretfully. Maybe when he gets back, he can crawl back in with Sam, and sleep a bit more. The bed's big enough, and the contact seems to soothe the big hunter...and Rhys feels better being right there. Right now, even the couch doesn't feel quite close enough, not when Rhys is this concerned. "Get it out of the way, then, eh?" Then maybe the two of them can try and get a little more rest.
Sam's jacket is hanging up, where Rhys put it out of the way the last time he got up, and it only takes Rhys a minute to retrieve the cell phone, flip it open, and tap out a quick text before snapping it shut again and powering it down.
"I'm safe, taking a break. Will be in touch soon." He feels a little shitty about such a sparse message, but it covers what Dean needs to know and Rhys doesn't particularly feel like going into the details, either. He slides the phone back into the jacket pocket, feeling better for having passed the message on...especially seeing the backlog of unanswered messages already on the phone.
That done, he pours himself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the fridge and chugs it, fills a bottle with water for Sam for the bedside, and returns to his friend's side with a small, hopefully reassuring smile. "See? That's all." He pauses, watching Sam quietly for a few seconds, then slides back onto the bed next to Sam, hands finding his shoulders again to try and soothe a little more of the pain away.
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Dizzy and nauseous by the time Rhys returns to the bed, Sam shifts restlessly beside him. The big hunter's hand seeks out Rhys again. His skin itches and crawls and he's freezing and burning up all at once. The contact helps, gives him something else to focus on. It's not as simple and as focused as shoving his thumb against the scar on his hand, but he'll take whatever aid he can.
He's not sure he can sleep, but he can at least lay still so Rhys can. "'ve got cash in my wallet. Cover some of the expenses."
Because even in his wrecked state, Sam wants to help.
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Back on the bed, laying close by, Rhys wraps his hands around Sam's again and holds it. Pain can be a good distraction at times, but gentler is better when it can be managed. And he smiles a little at the offer of cash...unsurprised that Sam is still trying to cover his share. "I'll keep it in mind. We can hold the fort for a day or two. See if you can manage to eat something soon, but as long as you're drinking, that's more important, and I've got enough detox and treatment herbs on hand."
He probably won't doze more than lightly, with Sam restless and keeping watch over him, but Rhys feels better being close, and before he does sleep, he can try a little more magic on Sam, soothe away just a bit more of the pain and bolster his resources. He's worried, and he won't rest well until Sam does...it's as simple as that.
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He murmurs a sleepy acknowledgement before his world fades out and he sinks gratefully into darkness. The nightmares still come, they always do, but he stirs and mutters through them, never once pulling himself fully awake.
Six hours. He sleeps solidly for six wonderful hours.
The bed is warm and soft and the presence beside him is a reassurance that yes, he's safe. Sam opens his eyes with a groan and instantly regrets it. The moment he allows himself to wake up, his body decides to make it's displeasure known, seizing his muscles with cramps as it works the last of the toxic blood out and craves more. Just a little more to make the pain go away.
It's a lie and Sam knows it, but it doesn't make the sudden pain any easier to bear. He simply shuts his eyes against it and tries to ride it out.
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When he wakes up, he's bleary and carpet-mouthed, but the ache in his head has mostly gone away, and when Sam stirs, Rhys has wolfed down a bowl of cereal and is waiting with another cup of tea for him. More remedy for him to try and keep down, and some fresh, mildly sweet-smelling incense lit to try and help with the headache and air out the closeness of the room. It's been quite a few hours now, and Rhys is starting to worry about the serious symptoms...he's pretty sure he can handle most of them, but seizures worry him the most. Sam's a lot bigger than Rhys is, and keeping Sam from hurting himself might be difficult.
Still, he's watching closely and doing what he can, and at least Sam doesn't have to be alone through this. Being sick and miserable is bad enough, never mind the weight of his backslide on him. Rhys knows what that shame feels like, and being able to be the voice of reason for Sam, to tell him that it's okay, that he's not a bad person...fuck, that's got to count for something.
"Hey. How you holding up?" Rhys says quietly when he sees Sam moving around.
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"Hey." Wearily, he drags a hand across his face. "I'm.." He's not okay. Not even close to okay. "Better."
Wrapping his hands around the offered mug he offers Rhys a wan smile. Sam isn't sure he'll be able to keep much down, but he's going to try. He's going to soldier through this as best he can because that's what he always does as a Winchester.
The phone rings and he winces at the noise.
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Rhys has half a hope that the phone ringing is a work call, but he knows better, and when he flips the phone open, he's not surprised in the least to see Dean's number flashing at him from the screen.
Not surprised, just dismayed. He had been hoping it would take the elder Winchester brother a little longer to think of calling here, but it had been a thin hope, really. Dean knows his brother, and he knows Rhys. Rhys does his best to hide his grimace, and glances over at Sam. "I'll step out for a smoke and take this," he says quietly, after silencing the ringer. If Dean's calm, he won't mind waiting a minute for Rhys to pick up, and if he's pissed, well, he can still wait a minute. "And grab your clothes out of the car while I'm at it, okay?"
He grabs his case of cigarettes and his old steel lighter, tugs a jacket on, and slips out to the landing to the chair he keeps out there for times like this. It's stopped raining sometime during the last few hours, but it's still chilly and damp out, and Rhys takes a couple of deep breaths before he sits and flips the phone open. The air's cold enough to bring back the start of a headache, but clean, and it helps a little.
"Hi, Dean," he says, sounding just this side of resigned.
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But he nods and watches Rhys go outside to talk to his brother.
Dean, for his part, is sick with worry. And when Dean is worried, blaming himself for Sam running off (again) and generally pissed off after Sam's text, he doesn't tend to think before he speaks.
"Where the hell is he? Is he with you? Look, if he just pulled up stakes because he couldn't freaking handle it, then fine. Least he could do was tell me rather than walking out again!"
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Silently, he reminds himself that Dean's a wreck, too. Bobby's dead, everything's a mess, and Dean's only brother is falling apart on him. Dean's not exactly the superstar of healthy coping mechanisms, either, and Rhys is doing his best to smooth things over between the brothers as best he can. If nothing else, for Sam's sake, but all things aside, he does like Dean, too, even as abrasive as the older man can be. The least Rhys can do is try and be mature and keep this civil.
So he slumps against the wrought iron bars of the landing as Dean splutters out his demands, and then says, "Yeah, he's with me. He's taking a break, Dean. He's wrecked and needs a little time."
He's keeping his word to Sam. Whether Dean finds out about the demon blood or not? That's up to Sam, but Rhys isn't going to say anything beyond 'Sam needs some time'. Dean can press all he wants, but Rhys is far from intimidated by the big hunter.
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"Wrecked? Of course he's freaking wrecked," he snarls. "You tell him that this isn't Flagstaff. He doesn't just get to leave. He doesn't get to walk away. There's a job that needs doing. Leviathans that need ganking and he doesn't just get to decide that now is time to take a break."
What he should be asking instead is how is Sam doing? Is he seeing Lucifer? How many times is he working that scar? But he can't. Doesn't. Because talking about how fast Sam is coming apart makes it too real. Too painful.
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And he doesn't know everything, but he knows enough to know that things have gotten serious. The Winchesters have gotten fidgety, secretive, Sam increasingly guarded every time the job came up unless it was some run-of-the-mill hunt. They move around more, talk less, and Bobby died on something big. Both Sam and Dean are wearing themselves down, and if they don't slow down, it just might take them, too.
That scares Rhys. He never had many people close to start with, none that he could spare, and while he's not talking about it, not intruding on the brothers' much greater grief, Bobby was a loss for him, too. He's worried, and the stress on Sam is a reminder that there's so damn many ways to lose people in this business. "I'm not trying to get in your face, man. But this isn't gonna get shit done, so just...let it go for a couple days, alright? Take a breather, and come back to it."
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He's had it with this swami crap and instead of hanging up, Dean hauls off and throws his phone as hard as he can against the wall. He can't do this and he sure as hell can't do his by himself.
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