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.
Rhys sucks in another breath through his teeth, biting down on a bitter answer. Frustration threatens to boil up into anger at Dean's accusatory tone, and Rhys is just starting to respond when the phone goes flying, filling his ear with the clatter. Real fucking mature, Dean.
Normally, he'd be calm. Normally, he'd be the rational one and not let Dean get him cranked up like this. But Sam is a few feet away in his bed, sick and exhausted and broken, Bobby is dead, Dean's falling apart, and Rhys feels helpless. It's not conducive to his normal calm approach, and his fist clenches and unclenches as he waits to see if Dean's going to pick up the phone again or not. He's giving it maybe fifty-fifty right now, if he hasn't busted the damn thing with his little tantrum.
After a few minutes, it's fairly clear that Dean isn't picking up the phone. It might be broken, it might not, but he knows he's sure as hell not talking about this anymore.
--
When Rhys comes back in after a few cigarettes and some time to settle himself down, he'll find Sam in the bathroom, wrapped around the toilet. He's already thrown up everything he's eaten since.. ever. The porcelain is cool and he's just hanging on until the room stops spinning.
Fuck. And now not only is he pissed, but there's a nagging ache in his gut that's woken up that Rhys does not want to have to deal with, thanks to all this stress. Thank you so much, Dean. It's been louder since the week at Tuck's, more effort than usual to keep under control since that emotional rollercoaster, and he doesn't appreciate the reminder, even if he's completely aware that it's only a 'want', not a 'need'.
Eventually, Rhys gives up, puts the phone away, lights a cigarette and alternates cold air with drags of hot smoke, trying to settle himself. Everything he wanted to say to Dean eventually evaporates, the trapped anger seething for a while and then gone, leaving Rhys just tired again, the ache in his chest nothing more than the same worry for Sam that's been there all along, edged with a dull craving for chemical comfort.
Rhys knows addiction entirely too well- His is in his blood. It's probably why he understands Sam's so well, between his brush with black magic and this...this. But smoking and the calm, cold air quiets it down to something manageable, and eventually, he's got it under control again.
-=-=-
Once he's collected himself, he makes a quick check in the mirror to make sure his eyes are normal, then grabs Sam's clothes from the car and returns to the apartment. Finding Sam in the bathroom isn't a surprise, and with a small sigh of worry, he puts the bag aside and heads in to check on him.
"Hey, yeah, Sam. I'm here. Sorry. It's...taken care of. You okay?" Rhys isn't a good liar, but Sam is wrecked, and there isn't much else to say about it anyway. Sam is Rhys's first priority right now, and anything that's going to happen with Dean can happen later.
The warm, large hand on his back soothes him and he groans quietly at the touch. His chest hurts, and he's pretty sure there's nothing left for him to throw up. The warm smell of vanilla and spice was usually a comforting scent, a reminder of Rhys, but right now it's only making his head ache worse.
Pale and sweating, he rests his forehead on his arm and flushes again, wincing at the noise. "You mean he's furious," he translates bleakly.
"I.. I need to lay down." The world was lurching dizzily beneath him and shutting his eyes against the tilt and spin only made it worse. He doesn't want to pass out on the floor. Rhys would never be able to get him up if he did.
"Don't worry about it. He'll cool off," Rhys says softly, retrieving a facecloth, wetting it at the sink, and leaning down to wipe Sam's brow and neck with it. He's still angry, but it's banked for now, even if he's a little amazed at just how quiet and even his voice comes out. If Dean wants to come here and take it up with Rhys face to face, he'll have a fight on his hands, otherwise he can sit and chill. Rhys is...done with it, that's it, and he's not going to upset Sam with it.
He puts aside the cloth, and offers Sam an arm to try and get him back up. The idea of having to leave him on the floor is worrying. "C'mon. Back into bed, then you can lay down as long as you want." He'll move the plastic wastebasket by the bed and get Sam some more water once he's there, but first things first, getting the big man to the bed while he can still help move himself.
Sam chokes on a groan as Rhys helps him up. The more he moves, the worse he feels and he knows that if they don’t get him to the bed soon he’s going to black out. His world is going red and grey around the edges and fire dances just behind his eyes. Determined, he tries to keep his feet beneath him, tries to help Rhys.
Dean is furious at him. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell him how far he’d fallen, why he’d even run to Rhys in the first place.
Dizzy, he raises his eyes to the bed. Almost there. Until he sees who’s reclining comfortably there, patting the pillows. Come on, Sammy. Get cozy.
With that, Sam’s collapses into Rhys, lost in an agonizing seizure. It’s like the wall collapsing all over again, when all he can feel is pain and all he can see is fire and blood and all he hears is Lucifer laughing.
It's less carrying Sam and more a controlled fall when Rhys feels his friend start to buckle and go down. Sam is just too heavy for Rhys to support by himself, and he only barely manages to heave him the last couple of feet to the safety of the bed.
This was what he was worried about, and his stomach drops as he watches the tremors rack Sam, then moves to turn him on his side. Standard procedure. The knowledge of how to treat a seizure is one thing, but watching it? That's something else, and Rhys finds himself babbling, as much for his own benefit as for Sam's, just to do something besides just stand there and stare anxiously until it's over.
"S'okay, Sam, I'm right here. It's okay, you're alright. We'll get through this..."
He hates how desperate his voice sounds, how he feels like he's getting the words out through a wire noose. And it strikes him, yet again, how unfair this all is, for Sam to be suffering like this after all the good he's tried to do. But he waits, watching with his heart like a lead weight until the fit passes.
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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Normally, he'd be calm. Normally, he'd be the rational one and not let Dean get him cranked up like this. But Sam is a few feet away in his bed, sick and exhausted and broken, Bobby is dead, Dean's falling apart, and Rhys feels helpless. It's not conducive to his normal calm approach, and his fist clenches and unclenches as he waits to see if Dean's going to pick up the phone again or not. He's giving it maybe fifty-fifty right now, if he hasn't busted the damn thing with his little tantrum.
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--
When Rhys comes back in after a few cigarettes and some time to settle himself down, he'll find Sam in the bathroom, wrapped around the toilet. He's already thrown up everything he's eaten since.. ever. The porcelain is cool and he's just hanging on until the room stops spinning.
"Hnn. Rhys?" His voice is muzzy.
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Eventually, Rhys gives up, puts the phone away, lights a cigarette and alternates cold air with drags of hot smoke, trying to settle himself. Everything he wanted to say to Dean eventually evaporates, the trapped anger seething for a while and then gone, leaving Rhys just tired again, the ache in his chest nothing more than the same worry for Sam that's been there all along, edged with a dull craving for chemical comfort.
Rhys knows addiction entirely too well- His is in his blood. It's probably why he understands Sam's so well, between his brush with black magic and this...this. But smoking and the calm, cold air quiets it down to something manageable, and eventually, he's got it under control again.
-=-=-
Once he's collected himself, he makes a quick check in the mirror to make sure his eyes are normal, then grabs Sam's clothes from the car and returns to the apartment. Finding Sam in the bathroom isn't a surprise, and with a small sigh of worry, he puts the bag aside and heads in to check on him.
"Hey, yeah, Sam. I'm here. Sorry. It's...taken care of. You okay?" Rhys isn't a good liar, but Sam is wrecked, and there isn't much else to say about it anyway. Sam is Rhys's first priority right now, and anything that's going to happen with Dean can happen later.
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Pale and sweating, he rests his forehead on his arm and flushes again, wincing at the noise. "You mean he's furious," he translates bleakly.
"I.. I need to lay down." The world was lurching dizzily beneath him and shutting his eyes against the tilt and spin only made it worse. He doesn't want to pass out on the floor. Rhys would never be able to get him up if he did.
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He puts aside the cloth, and offers Sam an arm to try and get him back up. The idea of having to leave him on the floor is worrying. "C'mon. Back into bed, then you can lay down as long as you want." He'll move the plastic wastebasket by the bed and get Sam some more water once he's there, but first things first, getting the big man to the bed while he can still help move himself.
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Dean is furious at him. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell him how far he’d fallen, why he’d even run to Rhys in the first place.
Dizzy, he raises his eyes to the bed. Almost there. Until he sees who’s reclining comfortably there, patting the pillows. Come on, Sammy. Get cozy.
With that, Sam’s collapses into Rhys, lost in an agonizing seizure. It’s like the wall collapsing all over again, when all he can feel is pain and all he can see is fire and blood and all he hears is Lucifer laughing.
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This was what he was worried about, and his stomach drops as he watches the tremors rack Sam, then moves to turn him on his side. Standard procedure. The knowledge of how to treat a seizure is one thing, but watching it? That's something else, and Rhys finds himself babbling, as much for his own benefit as for Sam's, just to do something besides just stand there and stare anxiously until it's over.
"S'okay, Sam, I'm right here. It's okay, you're alright. We'll get through this..."
He hates how desperate his voice sounds, how he feels like he's getting the words out through a wire noose. And it strikes him, yet again, how unfair this all is, for Sam to be suffering like this after all the good he's tried to do. But he waits, watching with his heart like a lead weight until the fit passes.
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