At this late hour, Rhys was sound asleep in bed, but he's used to wake-ups at strange hours. It's part of what he does- "Can you stitch a knife wound?" "Do you know anything about naga bites?" "What's the best way to get imps out of a basement crawlspace?" The calls come at oh-fuck-hundred in the morning, and killing curses and heavily bleeding injuries don't wait for you to get your full eight hours of rest. So he stirs when the phone rings, listening to see if the message is something urgent he needs to respond to.
And hearing the plea in Sam's voice, that just snaps him completely awake and makes him fumble for the phone by the bedside. There's a cascade of possibilities going through his head right now, mind playing back to the night Sam called and told him they needed him because Ellen might not survive, and his heart is already sinking as he takes in a deep breath and tries to make his voice sound stable. "Sam? M'here. What's wrong? What happened?"
His voice is warm. Solid and stable and it helps Sam focus beyond the jitter and jive of power making him edgy and nervous. "I, ah.." He bobbles the phone again, jamming his thumb into his palm so hard it sends a spike of pain up his forearm.
"There were demons, Rhys. Three of them."
The call is harder than he expects, but he has to tell someone. If he doesn't he's going to slip off into addiction again and this time, there wouldn't be anyone left to pull him back. No Dean, no Cas. No one.
"I.." Sam looks down at his blood smeared hands. "I slipped up Rhys. I.. the demon blood. I need help. I need someplace to.." A place to get clean. Someone to stop him. Anything.
Oh, Sam. Rhys takes a breath and lets it out slowly, focusing himself- just a moment, not too long because Sam needs his voice, needs his answer, and he knows exactly what he's going to say, anyway. He swings his bare legs over the side of the bed. This is bad, but he can deal with this. He has to, for Sam's sake, and that's reason enough to keep calm, keep it together.
It's not a surprise, not in the least. Bobby's gone, and the Winchester boys constantly on the run, constantly fighting...things falling apart. Rhys can see it in the way Sam keeps more and more from him, and yet seems to cling tighter every time they see each other. But he doesn't hold it against him, knowing what the Winchesters' life has become, and at times like now, when Sam needs him...Rhys just does his damnedest to be there to help. Especially at times like now, when there's no one else for Sam to turn to. Demon blood is toxic, potent, unpredictable stuff
( ... )
Everything is spiraling out of control and for just one moment, Sam needed that control back, he needed to feel like he was in control of something. Bobby was dead, Dean was lost in a bottle of whiskey every day, and he was slowly going insane. They’d even had to give up their home, the Impala. He’d been terrified, hurting, and he hated himself even as he brought the demon blood to his lips. It was control, and Sam was desperate for something, anything to make the pain stop, make the voice in his mind stop for just a few hours
( ... )
"Just be careful, okay, Sam? I'll be right here, I'll be waiting." Calm, yes, in control, yes, but even Rhys can't keep that note of worry out of his voice. Hearing Sam's voice break like that cuts through him like a knife, and when he hangs up, it takes Rhys another long moment to collect himself.
Then, he forces himself to let instinct take over. Just another call, Jared. You know how to handle this. He puts the stereo on low- music is good, it helps keep him from thinking too much- pulls on some clothes and turns up the space heater, because it's still pouring rain like a bastard out, and sets to work getting everything he might need ready. Coffee for himself, hot water for Sam. Blankets and towels. Rummaging through his shelves for the right herbs for the detox remedy. His big first aid bag, because he doesn't know if Sam is injured or not.
Automatic pilot, because this is what Rhys does, dammit. It's what he's good at, it's what people rely on him for. What Sam is relying on him for. So with everything set up and in place, he
( ... )
He drives too fast, too erratically and it's a damned miracle he doesn't get pulled over. The blood is giving him too much focus, but Sam knows that it's only a matter of time before that focus starts to shatter and the world explodes in bright, sharp edges again. But for just a few minutes, Lucifer is silent and it's the closest thing he's had to peace since he left Tuck's house.
It would be so easy. So easy to keep driving, to lose himself in the blood until it killed him.
Another brutal dig into his palm sends a cramp spiking up his forearm. No. No, he was going to Rhys's. He was going to get help and he was going to make it.
By the time he makes to to his apartment, it's nearly dawn. He's barely slept in two days and the power racing through him all but guarantees he won't go back down for awhile. Pale and sweating despite the cold, he knocks on the door, hating himself for being so weak.
Rhys has napped a little off and on since the phone call, knowing he's going to need his energy, but never more than a light doze. And even that is difficult, worried as he is- wondering if he should have told Sam to stay put, if he should have gone to him rather than letting him come here. He still doesn't know if Sam's injured, how bad it is, how bad Sam is, and when the knock comes, he's on his feet before he's registered that he's awakened, moving to unlock it. Relief floods him, at least one little worry resolved- that Sam's made it here okay.
Tears of remorse sting his eyes again as Sam all but collapses into the mage. He'd let him down, let everyone down in one moment of weakness. Rhys understands, but that doesn't make it any easier. Sam is soaked through, but he can't stop clinging, whispering broken apologies into his shoulder as Rhys steers him further inside.
The blood is still running high and hot in his veins, but it's not a high he can enjoy. Sam knows what comes next. Pain and hallucinations and everything else that comes with the horrific withdrawal.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have been stronger, should have been better.." Like all Winchesters, he holds himself to a standard that's all but impossible to achieve. A standard where weakness is unacceptable.
"Oh, Sam. Sam. Shhh." Sam's guilt and self-loathing are bitter and heartbreaking even through Rhys's mental shields, like a burnt and acrid taste on the back of his tongue, and he shifts to try and get as much of his shoulders under the bigger man as possible. Rhys is in decent shape, but Sam is a behemoth. He pays no mind to the fact that Sam is rainsoaked and freezing, steering him to the worn but overstuffed couch where he's already got extra blankets laid out, and guides him to sit
( ... )
There are very few places that feel like home to Sam. The Impala. Bobby's house. Rhys's loft, complete with the possessed bear downstairs. The loft might not be much by some standards, but to Sam it was perfect. Welcoming and warm and everything in it reminded him of Rhys, right down to the spicy scent in the air.
He hates himself for being so weak, for falling apart when everything else was already going sideways in his life. Numb and trembling he lets Rhys guide him over to the couch and strip off his bloody and soaking wet jacket. Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his wet hair.
"Two demons," he finally whispers. "'s gonna get bad."
Sam lays his head on Rhys's shoulder with a wounded sound. "I'm so goddamn sorry." Rhys knew. He'd been there, he knew how difficult it was to deal with addiction, which is why Sam came to him in the first place. But it's also why he feels like such a failure. Rhys was strong enough to resist; why wasn't he?
"S'okay. We'll get you through it, Sam. Promise." Rhys has a moment of wishing that Bobby were still alive to help him with this, give him an extra set of hands to get Sam through this hell, but Bobby's gone...a loss that Rhys doesn't feel as acutely as the Winchesters do, but still hurts nonetheless
( ... )
Sam had gotten used to the hunger, that quiet, nagging ache that used to keep him awake at night, staring at the ceiling while his skin itched and burned and crawled. Most nights he was so exhausted that he was able to sink into sleep before it caught hold. But there were still nights when he missed that power, that certainty. It was a lie, but as things spiraled out of control, Sam found himself wanting that lie, even for a little while.
Which is probably why he fell in the first place.
He'll always hate himself for failing, for slipping right when Dean needed him to be strong. But he was never as strong as Dean, or as strong as Rhys. Choking on a sob, he nods, trying to take a long, slow breath. The comforting and familiar smells of his apartment help soothe some of his initial upset as much as the warm, steady presence beside him does.
"Just.. just knocked around. 'm okay." Sam rubs at his eyes. He's so tired. God, he's so fucking tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid.
Rhys would ask how long it's been since Sam slept, but the answer is already clear: entirely too damn long. His eyes have that unhealthy, feral shine of a high gone bad, yet still shadowed with dark circles, and Rhys can see him starting to crumble right here on his couch. He'll have to get up soon and start getting some remedies into him, concoctions to counteract some of the hell that's coming when Sam starts coming down, but for now, he doesn't want to let go, can't stand the thought of leaving Sam...stranded again for even a moment
( ... )
"I'm so tired," he chokes out, shutting his eyes and letting Rhys's warmth chase away the chill of the rain. "Haven't been right since.. since Cas got me out. 's all wrong and I can't keep pretending it's not."
Sam looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. His fingernails have left little half moon indentations in his palms. He's broken. On some fundamental level, he's broken and he's not sure he's ever going to make it back. "I'm all wrong."
He doesn't want Rhys to leave, he doesn't want to be alone for an instant. When Rhys is close, things are quiet, calmer and Sam knows it's only going to get worse.
Rhys doesn't know the angel well enough to figure out his involvement in all this. Their only meetings have been extremely brief and stilted, given how...awkward Castiel is, and it's not much surprise to him that Cas hasn't been a lot of help with all this.
"Hell, Sam. Wouldn't have told you to come if I didn't mean it," Rhys says quietly, and he leans just enough so that his head rests against the bigger man's. Not leaving just yet, because Sam needs him to stay a little longer, and he can do that. This isn't about relationships or wanting or any of the other nebulous, uncertain things that have passed between them in the years they've known each other. This is about Sam hurting, and Rhys doing his best to stop the hurt, that's all. Simple, basic human affection to soothe Sam's pain...something that Sam has had far too little of, in Rhys's experience. "It needs to go somewhere, Sam. You needed to go somewhere. You know I'm here for whatever you need, you just gotta ask. Whether it's stitches or a place to crash or whatever. I said
( ... )
No. No, it's not going to be okay. He's going to go insane, or the job is going to kill him. But it means something to hear that honesty rather than he standard Winchester denial of 'shut up everything's fine and keep going'. It's okay to be broken. It's okay to hurt and he can't stop the tears now, clinging to Rhys like a lifeline while he sobs raggedly into his shoulder.
Sam wants this. He wants this quiet life with Rhys, away from hunting and fear and pain. He wants it and he's afraid to want it, because anything he wants is taken away and he's not sure he could survive Rhys being taken away. The mage was his dearest friend, closest ally and possibly more, even if he'd never screwed up his courage to say anything about it.
So he clings to Rhys. He clings and he finally lets himself fall apart.
One the storm starts, it doesn't last long. He's too exhausted, too drained, and coming down from the high leaves him limp and weary on the couch while Rhys moves to warm something for him to drink.
And hearing the plea in Sam's voice, that just snaps him completely awake and makes him fumble for the phone by the bedside. There's a cascade of possibilities going through his head right now, mind playing back to the night Sam called and told him they needed him because Ellen might not survive, and his heart is already sinking as he takes in a deep breath and tries to make his voice sound stable. "Sam? M'here. What's wrong? What happened?"
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"There were demons, Rhys. Three of them."
The call is harder than he expects, but he has to tell someone. If he doesn't he's going to slip off into addiction again and this time, there wouldn't be anyone left to pull him back. No Dean, no Cas. No one.
"I.." Sam looks down at his blood smeared hands. "I slipped up Rhys. I.. the demon blood. I need help. I need someplace to.." A place to get clean. Someone to stop him. Anything.
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It's not a surprise, not in the least. Bobby's gone, and the Winchester boys constantly on the run, constantly fighting...things falling apart. Rhys can see it in the way Sam keeps more and more from him, and yet seems to cling tighter every time they see each other. But he doesn't hold it against him, knowing what the Winchesters' life has become, and at times like now, when Sam needs him...Rhys just does his damnedest to be there to help. Especially at times like now, when there's no one else for Sam to turn to. Demon blood is toxic, potent, unpredictable stuff ( ... )
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Then, he forces himself to let instinct take over. Just another call, Jared. You know how to handle this. He puts the stereo on low- music is good, it helps keep him from thinking too much- pulls on some clothes and turns up the space heater, because it's still pouring rain like a bastard out, and sets to work getting everything he might need ready. Coffee for himself, hot water for Sam. Blankets and towels. Rummaging through his shelves for the right herbs for the detox remedy. His big first aid bag, because he doesn't know if Sam is injured or not.
Automatic pilot, because this is what Rhys does, dammit. It's what he's good at, it's what people rely on him for. What Sam is relying on him for. So with everything set up and in place, he ( ... )
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It would be so easy. So easy to keep driving, to lose himself in the blood until it killed him.
Another brutal dig into his palm sends a cramp spiking up his forearm. No. No, he was going to Rhys's. He was going to get help and he was going to make it.
By the time he makes to to his apartment, it's nearly dawn. He's barely slept in two days and the power racing through him all but guarantees he won't go back down for awhile. Pale and sweating despite the cold, he knocks on the door, hating himself for being so weak.
"Rhys?"
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"Hey. Hey, I'm right here."
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The blood is still running high and hot in his veins, but it's not a high he can enjoy. Sam knows what comes next. Pain and hallucinations and everything else that comes with the horrific withdrawal.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have been stronger, should have been better.." Like all Winchesters, he holds himself to a standard that's all but impossible to achieve. A standard where weakness is unacceptable.
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He hates himself for being so weak, for falling apart when everything else was already going sideways in his life. Numb and trembling he lets Rhys guide him over to the couch and strip off his bloody and soaking wet jacket. Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his wet hair.
"Two demons," he finally whispers. "'s gonna get bad."
Sam lays his head on Rhys's shoulder with a wounded sound. "I'm so goddamn sorry." Rhys knew. He'd been there, he knew how difficult it was to deal with addiction, which is why Sam came to him in the first place. But it's also why he feels like such a failure. Rhys was strong enough to resist; why wasn't he?
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Which is probably why he fell in the first place.
He'll always hate himself for failing, for slipping right when Dean needed him to be strong. But he was never as strong as Dean, or as strong as Rhys. Choking on a sob, he nods, trying to take a long, slow breath. The comforting and familiar smells of his apartment help soothe some of his initial upset as much as the warm, steady presence beside him does.
"Just.. just knocked around. 'm okay." Sam rubs at his eyes. He's so tired. God, he's so fucking tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid.
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Sam looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers. His fingernails have left little half moon indentations in his palms. He's broken. On some fundamental level, he's broken and he's not sure he's ever going to make it back. "I'm all wrong."
He doesn't want Rhys to leave, he doesn't want to be alone for an instant. When Rhys is close, things are quiet, calmer and Sam knows it's only going to get worse.
"'m sorry. Shouldn't have dumped this on you."
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"Hell, Sam. Wouldn't have told you to come if I didn't mean it," Rhys says quietly, and he leans just enough so that his head rests against the bigger man's. Not leaving just yet, because Sam needs him to stay a little longer, and he can do that. This isn't about relationships or wanting or any of the other nebulous, uncertain things that have passed between them in the years they've known each other. This is about Sam hurting, and Rhys doing his best to stop the hurt, that's all. Simple, basic human affection to soothe Sam's pain...something that Sam has had far too little of, in Rhys's experience. "It needs to go somewhere, Sam. You needed to go somewhere. You know I'm here for whatever you need, you just gotta ask. Whether it's stitches or a place to crash or whatever. I said ( ... )
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Sam wants this. He wants this quiet life with Rhys, away from hunting and fear and pain. He wants it and he's afraid to want it, because anything he wants is taken away and he's not sure he could survive Rhys being taken away. The mage was his dearest friend, closest ally and possibly more, even if he'd never screwed up his courage to say anything about it.
So he clings to Rhys. He clings and he finally lets himself fall apart.
One the storm starts, it doesn't last long. He's too exhausted, too drained, and coming down from the high leaves him limp and weary on the couch while Rhys moves to warm something for him to drink.
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