Rhys can be a bit incomprehensible at times, with his head so full of old lore and literature. His way of dealing with being touched by the Sight the way he is, is all. It's nothing important, though...he lets Sam keep talking, hands stroking over fever-hot skin, trying to bring comfort by touch.
He's been doing this long enough that he can sort out the hunger from the urge to heal, and it's only the latter that he carefully lets free, tentatively working on the cramps, the pain, trying to work those painful knots loose as he listens. He's wearing himself down, slowly, and he knows it, but Sam's in too much pain for him to simply let it go, and he knows his own limits. A little fatigue later is a small price to pay for any relief he can give his friend now.
That defeated, hopeless whisper makes him go still, though, and just rest Sam's head against his shoulder, a long sigh escaping him. "So that's what you've been seeing." It explains earlier, Sam's panicked spill from the couch to the floor. "God, Sam. You..." he trails off, then, and tugs his friend closer against his body, as if there were any more distance they could close. Hell...what can he say to that?
The touch is comforting, and Sam makes a quiet sound as Rhys starts to work his healing magic on his aching body again. It doesn't banish the pain, but it makes it bearable, he can breathe around it for the moment and that helps.
Sam's voice is tired and dispirited. "Yeah. I don't.. I don't know how to stop this, Jared. I don't know if I can."
Finally, Sam admits the one thing that he's never admitted to Dean. "I'm afraid." Afraid that this is going to steal him away, that he escaped Hell and he's going to fall back into it all over again.
"We'll get through this first, Sam, get you back on your feet, then see what we can do," he promises, voice quiet and steady. He hopes to hell it's not a false promise, but...he'll try, and that at least Sam can be a hundred percent certain of. "If it's visions, there's ways to control it, to...filter it. If it's something else...I don't know, but we can work on it." I won't leave you alone with this.
Sam's warm and heavy in his arms, and it hurts to hear one of the bravest men he knows admit openly that he's scared. Rhys also knows that it's something Sam can't talk to Dean about, thanks to their upbringing...so Sam really is alone with this, and has been for however long it's been going on. So he just holds the bigger man close, laying his cheek against his shoulder and letting him know that he's not alone.
Rhys promises him that he'll try and Sam believes him. The past few years have gone a long way to shatter Sam's faith in damn near everything, but he still has faith in a few certain people. In Dean, in Ellen, and as always, in Rhys. If he says he'll find a way to try and help him, Sam knows that he will, knows it's no empty promise.
His eyes drift closed, shielded for at least a little while, in Rhys's arms. The sense of isolation and despair dims as Rhys runs warm hands down his back, easing some of the worst of his aches. Sam would give anything, anything at all if he could stay. Built something quiet and wonderful far away from monsters and the Devil and for once, just be happy.
The sleep isn't the sort of deep, restorative rest that he needs, but it's enough to ease some of his overall misery as he drowses in the mage's arms.
Rhys breathes, and reminds himself that Sam needs time. It will get better, he just needs some rest. Of course everything will be worse right now, wracked as he is with the pains of withdrawal, running on no sleep and his body tying him up in knots.
It's not the time to think about this. It's the time to recover, and then they can think about what they're going to do next. The big hunter slowly goes still, starts to doze, and Rhys closes his eyes too, takes measured breaths, focuses on quieting the chaos in his own head. He's done it countless times, and in spite of his worry, this is no different. Peace, calm, control.
He drifts on the edge of consciousness for a while, letting himself go, and soon meditation turns to something like sleep, curled up around Sam as he eventually lets his body relax to the bed behind the bigger man. Not perfect, but much-needed quiet, just for a little while.
And if it fills him with secret warmth the way Sam collapses so completely against him, that total trust and that knowledge that he's the only one besides maybe Ellen that Sam folds against like this, well, he's not thinking about that, because this is different, right now. This is Sam sick and needing him, and nothing more.
It’s why he’d called Rhys. To hear that quiet certainty in his voice, his faith that if there’s a way to fix things, they’ll find it. He’s the only person Sam trusts right now, the only one he can go to with this. Rhys understands, he knows what it’s like and Sam needs that right now.
He’s been Sam’s best friend for years, the one person he can go to with absolutely anything and Sam loves him for it. Kind and funny and utterly fearsome when he’s standing against something.
Sam loves him. He knew that long before he collapsed into his arms, but with the mess that his life is, never mind the mess that his sanity’s becoming, he isn’t sure that he can say anything, if he ever can. Right now, he can shut his eyes and try to relax into his arms. Rhys is his one refuge, the only place he feels safe right now.
His sleep is fitful, cramps and fever and overall aches causing him to sometimes stir against Rhys. He doesn’t want to wake him, not with everything that he’s been pouring into him to ease the agony of withdrawal.
He’s parched. After being violently ill for a good part of the night and sweating out most of the fever, dehydration is a real risk and with shaky hands, Sam reaches for the water on the nightstand. A bit of it spills onto Rhys and he hates that he can barely control his hands to get something as simple as a glass of water.
It's a weird kind of no-man's-land that they walk, being such close friends, but never anything more. Sometimes it's simply a quietly accepted fact for Rhys, and sometimes it's a much deeper pain, but it doesn't change the fact that Sam is his best friend, and he'd do anything for the other man. Rhys is a healer, first and foremost, chose many years ago to take this...thing that he is and turn it to the cause of mending instead of stealing, fixing instead of destroying. But that goes doubly so for the few people in his life that he considers his, and Sam is at the top of that list, even if he doesn't feel quite the same way.
If nothing else, Sam at least knows that Rhys is safe for him, and that...that's what's most important.
Rhys sleeps lightly, too, gentle hands easing Sam's restlessness when he starts to shift, even half in between doze and waking the reflex to calm and comfort coming automatically. With the small, cold splash of water, though, he blinks awake, startled, before he registers it's just Sam next to him and licks his own dry lips. "Hey. You okay?"
'Okay' might be a stretch, but he's pretty sure Sam knows what he means.
Okay is a loaded question, but Sam understands what he means, tries not to think about what the real answer might be. That he’s not okay, not anywhere even in the vicinity of okay, not since Castiel broke the wall in his head. He’s living on borrowed time and the longer it goes on, the more certain Sam is that the mess in his psyche is what’s going to finally kill him.
He’d give anything, walk to the nearest crossroads and gladly sign everything away if he could have ten years of peace with Rhys. Ten years with no noise in his head. Ten years to finally feel free enough to show him how much he cares, how much he really does need him.
But Rhys would never forgive him for that, for buying peace with his soul.
“Sorry.” Sam shifts to cradle the glass with both hands, taking a slow careful sip. “A little better,” he whispers. The muscle spasms were slowly tapering off, and the gentle pass of Rhys’s fingers helped soothe his general restlessness and discomfort.
It wouldn't be bought peace, only rented, and the price would be so much more pain for both of them later. No, it would gut Rhys if Sam did something like that, leave him hollow for the rest of his years. Rhys has coped with a lot of loss in his life, but that would undo him.
Rhys nods, watching Sam drink. "Going on a couple days now. Should start easing off a little...if not now, then soon. See about tea and maybe some more juice..." Definitely dehydration is on Rhys's mind, and sugar to help offset the tremors if Sam's stomach is starting to settle down. He's not as worried about solid food, not after just a couple of days, just fluids.
And once Sam seems to be on the mend, through the worst of the wracking misery, he can help him wash up and change, change the bedclothes, and let him get some real rest, the deep, healing kind he'll need.
And...talk about things, because it still feels like there's so damn much, hovering like a cloud over Sam. Rhys knows, just watching the other man drink, that Sam's just...too damn broken right now for him to leave yet. Even once his body's healed from this, there's still far too much behind Sam's pained eyes for Rhys to let him walk out that door and still be able to call himself any kind of friend.
Sam needed that as much as he needed the rest. Overcoming the pain of withdrawal was one thing, but he needed more than a safe place to ride out the agony. What he needed was refuge; someone to take care of him while he was sick and listened to him when he could speak without his skull feeling like it was going to fly apart with the slightest jolt.
And Rhys - Jared - was the only person Sam trusted right now to listen and to understand.
Everything was coming apart around Sam so fast, to have a quiet place to simply stop, to give himself time, meant the world to him. Carefully setting down the water, Sam rests his head on his chest and tries to breathe. Focus on his heartbeat, listen to his friend as he shifted on the bed and held him near.
"I don't know how we're gonna stop this. Or if we can."
Rhys sighs. It's tearing them both up, and while Dean's confrontational attitude makes it harder to be sympathetic toward him, Rhys still hates to see what it's doing to both of them. They should be taking time to mourn, putting their lives back together, not throwing themselves headlong into a fight that's eating them alive.
Rhys feels another curl of frustrated anger at why them, why just them, before he takes a slow breath, clinging to that hard-won quiet inside. Won't help anything to start slipping again. "Y'know I'll help with whatever I can do. Especially...without Bobby, now." He lets out his breath slowly, cheek against Sam's hair. Implied there that if it's what they need, he'll stay in the background where it's safe, do research, make charms and spells. Support them that way, where they don't have to worry about him. "You guys have to see this through, I get that, but...doesn't mean you have to do it alone, either."
Dean doesn't mean to. But he's never been able to cope with things quite as well as Sam, and even his coping mechanisms are largely shot straight to hell.
He makes a hard, choked sound at the offer, clinging to Rhys a little tighter. They need the help, need the support. Maybe hearing Rhys's voice on the phone a little more often might help him think, might help him hang on a little longer. Sure it's selfish and potentially dangerous, but he needs something stable to cling to. Dean's been his emotional touchstone since they were kids, but even he was crumbling under the pressure of this job.
"You always do. Always have." Sam doesn't even have the words to express his gratitude for that, for always being there for them, dropping everything when they called.
"I.. I need to keep him quiet, Rhys. Shut him down so I can sleep."
I'm Henry the Eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door, she's been married seven times before..
Rhys has his own shadow-whispers to deal with, cajoling in his own voice. Quieted, yes, but not quite gone, temptation trying to pass itself off as helpful. You can make him sleep, you know. He trusts you, he probably wouldn't even fight, and then you could both get some rest.
I could make him sleep by holding the pillow over his face, too, and it would be just about as healthy for both of us. He gives a silent scowl as he pushes the thoughts away, because he knows better, and just thumbs away a little more of Sam's hair. He lets his breath out, then gives Sam a small nod...damning Castiel yet again for his carelessness. "We'll figure out what's going on, and get it fixed. Work something out, however we can." He pauses for a moment longer, just pressed against Sam's bigger body with his arms still around him, before slowly easing away to slide free and get up. Partly for a moment to catch his breath, and partly for something that's occurred to him that might do them both some good.
It only takes him a minute to fill a glass for himself with iced tea and chug it, and another with the last of the apple juice and a little water for Sam. And on his way back to the bed, he retrieves a small book from the shelf after only a little searching, well-worn and read, to bring back to the bed with him. Something to quiet both their demons for a while, as he slides back onto the bed with Sam and offers him the glass to drink from.
Sam knows that book. It isn't the first late night-slash-early morning that they've spent with it. When Rhys slides out of bed, he hauls himself up into a seated position, dragging his hands through his hair despite the crashing headache that makes itself known with the movement.
Taking the glass, the smile Sam offers is a genuine, if wearied one. The book, reading quietly in the early morning, it was a quiet moment that they both badly needed. Peaceful.
"Thanks," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of the juice, relieved that it was staying down and his system wasn't rebelling.
Maybe.. maybe he'd be okay. At least for a little while.
Rhys doesn't know if Sam is picking up on his agitation, but this is good for both of them, something soothing. From as long as he could remember, it's been good for him to get himself back in order, the cadence of poetry. Especially these old favorites of his. Rhys has always soothed himself with ritual, from the comforting rite of smoking to the rhythm of familiar words on paper, poems and books he's read countless times by now.
He lets Sam sip his juice until he's had as much as he wants, before he slides back onto the bed with him and pulls pillows close again to get them both comfortable. Because this is something Rhys thinks they both need to get their minds off things. He lets Sam settle back against him and props himself up so that he can read, and gives the bigger man a small smile as he starts through the book. Rhys is normally soft-spoken, never raising his voice, but when reciting, or on the occasional karaoke night, it's a surprisingly strong, warm tenor, and Coleridge deserves nothing less than a proper dramatic reading, after all.
"It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?"
Sam.. may have saved a voicemail from Rhys once or twice in the past, just so he could hear his voice when he needed to. But a quick reminder to bring a few books by the next time he was in town didn't compare to listening to him read. His inflection and cadence are always perfect and he echoes Rhys's faint smile, sipping at the juice and letting his voice carry his mind away.
By the time he's done, Sam has gone still against his side. He's not asleep, but he's calm, relaxed. His breathing is slow and even, and given a little bit, he may even be able to drop completely off to sleep.
"I picked up my own copy a few weeks ago," he admits quietly. "Keep it with my research books. I read it sometimes when.. when things get loud."
He's been doing this long enough that he can sort out the hunger from the urge to heal, and it's only the latter that he carefully lets free, tentatively working on the cramps, the pain, trying to work those painful knots loose as he listens. He's wearing himself down, slowly, and he knows it, but Sam's in too much pain for him to simply let it go, and he knows his own limits. A little fatigue later is a small price to pay for any relief he can give his friend now.
That defeated, hopeless whisper makes him go still, though, and just rest Sam's head against his shoulder, a long sigh escaping him. "So that's what you've been seeing." It explains earlier, Sam's panicked spill from the couch to the floor. "God, Sam. You..." he trails off, then, and tugs his friend closer against his body, as if there were any more distance they could close. Hell...what can he say to that?
Reply
Sam's voice is tired and dispirited. "Yeah. I don't.. I don't know how to stop this, Jared. I don't know if I can."
Finally, Sam admits the one thing that he's never admitted to Dean. "I'm afraid." Afraid that this is going to steal him away, that he escaped Hell and he's going to fall back into it all over again.
Reply
Sam's warm and heavy in his arms, and it hurts to hear one of the bravest men he knows admit openly that he's scared. Rhys also knows that it's something Sam can't talk to Dean about, thanks to their upbringing...so Sam really is alone with this, and has been for however long it's been going on. So he just holds the bigger man close, laying his cheek against his shoulder and letting him know that he's not alone.
Reply
His eyes drift closed, shielded for at least a little while, in Rhys's arms. The sense of isolation and despair dims as Rhys runs warm hands down his back, easing some of the worst of his aches. Sam would give anything, anything at all if he could stay. Built something quiet and wonderful far away from monsters and the Devil and for once, just be happy.
The sleep isn't the sort of deep, restorative rest that he needs, but it's enough to ease some of his overall misery as he drowses in the mage's arms.
Reply
It's not the time to think about this. It's the time to recover, and then they can think about what they're going to do next. The big hunter slowly goes still, starts to doze, and Rhys closes his eyes too, takes measured breaths, focuses on quieting the chaos in his own head. He's done it countless times, and in spite of his worry, this is no different. Peace, calm, control.
He drifts on the edge of consciousness for a while, letting himself go, and soon meditation turns to something like sleep, curled up around Sam as he eventually lets his body relax to the bed behind the bigger man. Not perfect, but much-needed quiet, just for a little while.
And if it fills him with secret warmth the way Sam collapses so completely against him, that total trust and that knowledge that he's the only one besides maybe Ellen that Sam folds against like this, well, he's not thinking about that, because this is different, right now. This is Sam sick and needing him, and nothing more.
Reply
He’s been Sam’s best friend for years, the one person he can go to with absolutely anything and Sam loves him for it. Kind and funny and utterly fearsome when he’s standing against something.
Sam loves him. He knew that long before he collapsed into his arms, but with the mess that his life is, never mind the mess that his sanity’s becoming, he isn’t sure that he can say anything, if he ever can. Right now, he can shut his eyes and try to relax into his arms. Rhys is his one refuge, the only place he feels safe right now.
His sleep is fitful, cramps and fever and overall aches causing him to sometimes stir against Rhys. He doesn’t want to wake him, not with everything that he’s been pouring into him to ease the agony of withdrawal.
He’s parched. After being violently ill for a good part of the night and sweating out most of the fever, dehydration is a real risk and with shaky hands, Sam reaches for the water on the nightstand. A bit of it spills onto Rhys and he hates that he can barely control his hands to get something as simple as a glass of water.
Reply
If nothing else, Sam at least knows that Rhys is safe for him, and that...that's what's most important.
Rhys sleeps lightly, too, gentle hands easing Sam's restlessness when he starts to shift, even half in between doze and waking the reflex to calm and comfort coming automatically. With the small, cold splash of water, though, he blinks awake, startled, before he registers it's just Sam next to him and licks his own dry lips. "Hey. You okay?"
'Okay' might be a stretch, but he's pretty sure Sam knows what he means.
Reply
He’d give anything, walk to the nearest crossroads and gladly sign everything away if he could have ten years of peace with Rhys. Ten years with no noise in his head. Ten years to finally feel free enough to show him how much he cares, how much he really does need him.
But Rhys would never forgive him for that, for buying peace with his soul.
“Sorry.” Sam shifts to cradle the glass with both hands, taking a slow careful sip. “A little better,” he whispers. The muscle spasms were slowly tapering off, and the gentle pass of Rhys’s fingers helped soothe his general restlessness and discomfort.
Reply
Rhys nods, watching Sam drink. "Going on a couple days now. Should start easing off a little...if not now, then soon. See about tea and maybe some more juice..." Definitely dehydration is on Rhys's mind, and sugar to help offset the tremors if Sam's stomach is starting to settle down. He's not as worried about solid food, not after just a couple of days, just fluids.
And once Sam seems to be on the mend, through the worst of the wracking misery, he can help him wash up and change, change the bedclothes, and let him get some real rest, the deep, healing kind he'll need.
And...talk about things, because it still feels like there's so damn much, hovering like a cloud over Sam. Rhys knows, just watching the other man drink, that Sam's just...too damn broken right now for him to leave yet. Even once his body's healed from this, there's still far too much behind Sam's pained eyes for Rhys to let him walk out that door and still be able to call himself any kind of friend.
Reply
And Rhys - Jared - was the only person Sam trusted right now to listen and to understand.
Everything was coming apart around Sam so fast, to have a quiet place to simply stop, to give himself time, meant the world to him. Carefully setting down the water, Sam rests his head on his chest and tries to breathe. Focus on his heartbeat, listen to his friend as he shifted on the bed and held him near.
"I don't know how we're gonna stop this. Or if we can."
Reply
Rhys feels another curl of frustrated anger at why them, why just them, before he takes a slow breath, clinging to that hard-won quiet inside. Won't help anything to start slipping again. "Y'know I'll help with whatever I can do. Especially...without Bobby, now." He lets out his breath slowly, cheek against Sam's hair. Implied there that if it's what they need, he'll stay in the background where it's safe, do research, make charms and spells. Support them that way, where they don't have to worry about him. "You guys have to see this through, I get that, but...doesn't mean you have to do it alone, either."
Reply
He makes a hard, choked sound at the offer, clinging to Rhys a little tighter. They need the help, need the support. Maybe hearing Rhys's voice on the phone a little more often might help him think, might help him hang on a little longer. Sure it's selfish and potentially dangerous, but he needs something stable to cling to. Dean's been his emotional touchstone since they were kids, but even he was crumbling under the pressure of this job.
"You always do. Always have." Sam doesn't even have the words to express his gratitude for that, for always being there for them, dropping everything when they called.
"I.. I need to keep him quiet, Rhys. Shut him down so I can sleep."
I'm Henry the Eighth I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door, she's been married seven times before..
Reply
I could make him sleep by holding the pillow over his face, too, and it would be just about as healthy for both of us. He gives a silent scowl as he pushes the thoughts away, because he knows better, and just thumbs away a little more of Sam's hair. He lets his breath out, then gives Sam a small nod...damning Castiel yet again for his carelessness. "We'll figure out what's going on, and get it fixed. Work something out, however we can." He pauses for a moment longer, just pressed against Sam's bigger body with his arms still around him, before slowly easing away to slide free and get up. Partly for a moment to catch his breath, and partly for something that's occurred to him that might do them both some good.
It only takes him a minute to fill a glass for himself with iced tea and chug it, and another with the last of the apple juice and a little water for Sam. And on his way back to the bed, he retrieves a small book from the shelf after only a little searching, well-worn and read, to bring back to the bed with him. Something to quiet both their demons for a while, as he slides back onto the bed with Sam and offers him the glass to drink from.
Reply
Taking the glass, the smile Sam offers is a genuine, if wearied one. The book, reading quietly in the early morning, it was a quiet moment that they both badly needed. Peaceful.
"Thanks," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of the juice, relieved that it was staying down and his system wasn't rebelling.
Maybe.. maybe he'd be okay. At least for a little while.
Reply
He lets Sam sip his juice until he's had as much as he wants, before he slides back onto the bed with him and pulls pillows close again to get them both comfortable. Because this is something Rhys thinks they both need to get their minds off things. He lets Sam settle back against him and props himself up so that he can read, and gives the bigger man a small smile as he starts through the book. Rhys is normally soft-spoken, never raising his voice, but when reciting, or on the occasional karaoke night, it's a surprisingly strong, warm tenor, and Coleridge deserves nothing less than a proper dramatic reading, after all.
"It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?"
Reply
By the time he's done, Sam has gone still against his side. He's not asleep, but he's calm, relaxed. His breathing is slow and even, and given a little bit, he may even be able to drop completely off to sleep.
"I picked up my own copy a few weeks ago," he admits quietly. "Keep it with my research books. I read it sometimes when.. when things get loud."
Reply
Leave a comment