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."
Rhys puts the book quietly aside and just enjoys the calm when he's done, the feeling of being someplace else for a little while. For the moment, it's like being in a bubble, him and Sam, a little shelter defined by voice and warmth and care. He smiles at Sam, propped against him sleepily, feels the shift in him and the way the tension's gone, and breathes a soft sigh of relief, rubbing his back lightly.
Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book. No, Sam doesn't know about Rhys's 'other' blood (in spite of the times that Rhys has been tempted, so tempted to confess), but...sometimes, everyone needs some quiet in their head.
If there’s one thing Sam knows, it’s needing to keep voices quiet. His addiction, the self-doubt that he’s fairly sure he’ll never be rid of. And then there was Hell. Everything that Death had kept back with that wall, Cas shattered in one moment of careless arrogance and Sam couldn’t stop the flood once it started. There was no one left to rebuild the wall. Dean couldn’t help, and they’d lost every other resource they’d had.
He should have come to Rhys sooner. Hell, the moment the wall fell, Dean should have brought him to Rhys.
But if there’s one thing Winchesters did well it was Make Bad Decisions.
None of that mattered now. Not when he was laying close to Rhys, reveling in the warm tones of his voice, the slow track of his hand along his shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of miss that quiet.”
They’ll talk about Lucifer soon enough, but not now. Sam offers a faint smile. “I think I can sleep now.” He’ll be okay. As long as Rhys is there, he’ll be okay. With a heavy sigh, he shuts his eyes and burrows in a little deeper. Sam doesn’t have the words to thank Rhys for everything he’s done, everything he’s meant to him. So he reaches out and simply threads their fingers together. “The one bright spot in my life, y’know?”
They're trying to fix things, that's what matters. And right now, Sam is relaxed, quiet, the lines of strain gone from his face, curled up and looking like he can actually get a little more badly-needed rest, and that's a good sign. Just a little at a time. A day at a time, hell, an hour at a time, at this point, Rhys is happy for.
He leans his head against Sam's shoulder as he rubs the bigger man's back. Still warm, but it feels like the fever might be coming down a bit. And when Sam offers his hand, laces his fingers with Rhys's, the mage accepts it without question, liking the way Sam's bigger hand engulfs his entirely too much, he thinks. Even if it reminds him how strange it is for him to be protecting Sam like this, when it always feels like it should be the other way around.
But it feels good, it feels like his hand belongs there, and he squeezes gently where their fingers wind together. "S'okay. Happy to be here, y'know," he says softly. "You should have good things, Sam. You deserve 'em." It's almost an afterthought, and the words are laced with sadness, but they're honest. Sam is probably the strongest, kindest, bravest man Rhys has ever known. He deserves so much better than this, and Rhys would give it to him if he could. But this...this is the best he can do, so this is what he does.
"Go ahead and get some sleep, Sam. Feels like your fever's coming down some." He feels less like death, and while he's still got to be miserable, Sam's calmer, less stressed, hopefully in less pain and past the terrifying seizures.
"I'll be right here if you need anything." I'll always be right here.
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.
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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.
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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?"
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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."
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Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book. No, Sam doesn't know about Rhys's 'other' blood (in spite of the times that Rhys has been tempted, so tempted to confess), but...sometimes, everyone needs some quiet in their head.
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He should have come to Rhys sooner. Hell, the moment the wall fell, Dean should have brought him to Rhys.
But if there’s one thing Winchesters did well it was Make Bad Decisions.
None of that mattered now. Not when he was laying close to Rhys, reveling in the warm tones of his voice, the slow track of his hand along his shoulder. “Yeah. Kind of miss that quiet.”
They’ll talk about Lucifer soon enough, but not now. Sam offers a faint smile. “I think I can sleep now.” He’ll be okay. As long as Rhys is there, he’ll be okay. With a heavy sigh, he shuts his eyes and burrows in a little deeper. Sam doesn’t have the words to thank Rhys for everything he’s done, everything he’s meant to him. So he reaches out and simply threads their fingers together. “The one bright spot in my life, y’know?”
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He leans his head against Sam's shoulder as he rubs the bigger man's back. Still warm, but it feels like the fever might be coming down a bit. And when Sam offers his hand, laces his fingers with Rhys's, the mage accepts it without question, liking the way Sam's bigger hand engulfs his entirely too much, he thinks. Even if it reminds him how strange it is for him to be protecting Sam like this, when it always feels like it should be the other way around.
But it feels good, it feels like his hand belongs there, and he squeezes gently where their fingers wind together. "S'okay. Happy to be here, y'know," he says softly. "You should have good things, Sam. You deserve 'em." It's almost an afterthought, and the words are laced with sadness, but they're honest. Sam is probably the strongest, kindest, bravest man Rhys has ever known. He deserves so much better than this, and Rhys would give it to him if he could. But this...this is the best he can do, so this is what he does.
"Go ahead and get some sleep, Sam. Feels like your fever's coming down some." He feels less like death, and while he's still got to be miserable, Sam's calmer, less stressed, hopefully in less pain and past the terrifying seizures.
"I'll be right here if you need anything." I'll always be right here.
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