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
( ... )
Rhys brings back the drinks and settles close to Sam again as he hands him the mug, making sympathetic noises at the faces he makes as he struggles with the tea. "Yeah, I know, it sucks, but it'll help. And if you're alright with it...I can try and magic you down a little bit."
Little things. Little improvements. It helps Rhys focus, helps make Sam as comfortable as possible as he starts to dry off, starts to relax and let his guard down a little bit. The space heater has warmed the apartment up, it's quiet, and Sam is safe here.
And, he hates to ask, but he needs to know. Rhys's voice is gentle and he lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck to check for fever and says softly, "How much was it, Sam? For how long?" He thumbs away some of Sam's shaggy hair, a careful gesture. "Just...need to know what I'm gonna be dealing with here, that's all."
If it was anyone else? Sam would have balked at the idea of any external magical influence. But this is Rhys. Sam trusts him, cares about him, and he manages a shaky nod around a grimace as he sips more of the tea. He needs to sleep while he can, his body is aching and screaming for rest.
Three demons. Three demons in the back of a bar. One heady dose of blood and the power lighting up in his veins. The rest was a blur of breaking bodies and the roar of his own dormant abilities.
Sam shudders, clinging to the mug. "I.. one demon. The others.. I used my power on. I was looking for another demon when I called you. It's been maybe twelve hours."
Not long now, Sammy.
The phantom voice makes him lurch and Sam drags his eyes back to his mug. Not now. Please. Not now.
Rhys knows full well how strong Sam's psychic defenses are. He's treated him for wounds before and used his healing abilities on him, and every time it's been...difficult at best. Rhys simply can't influence someone who's fighting him, even with his abilities being benign. The fact that Sam relaxes enough to let Rhys use his powers on him at all speaks volumes about how much the big hunter trusts him, and Rhys appreciates that.
One dose. That's...better than it could be, but twelve hours is a while. He has at least a rough idea of what kind of symptoms to expect, but he's winging this and he hates to admit it. Just...play it as it comes. React as he needs to, he's good at that. Rhys lets his breath out and rubs Sam's arm, but lifts his head again when he sees and feels the twitch, frowning. "...Sam?"
He screws his eyes shut, trying to will away the noise in his head.
We’ve already had this talk, Sam. Do we really need to do this again? I’m not going anywhere.
“It’s starting,” he grates out, stubbornly raising the tea to his lips again, draining the rest of it in one long swallow. “Hallucinations.” God, he didn’t want to do this. It was probably misguided as hell, but Sam had wanted to keep this from Rhys. He knew him, knew that Rhys would move heaven and earth to try and help him, to silence the voice in his head. But there was no hope. All he could try and do was maintain, and he wasn’t even able to do that anymore.
Despairing, Sam huddles close to Rhys. “I’ve been seeing things since I got out.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to mention from where.
“I don’t know how bad.. how bad this is gonna get.”
Once it's empty, Rhys takes the mug away so Sam can't hurt himself on it, puts it aside. He'd known there was a lot about...well, everything that Sam and Dean hadn't been telling him, Sam in particular, but he's not surprised. This job comes with a lot of resignation, he's found, and if there's a little hurt with it, it's only a little. Rhys knows what it's like, trying not to hurt friends with your pains. And...he's in no place to throw stones, anyway, not with his own secret coiled up inside, coursing through his own blood
( ... )
Sam lets Rhys manhandle him into a more comfortable position, shutting his eyes and laying his head against his chest as he's pulled in close. Calm. If he's calm he can normally keep a handle on the hallucinatons. Coming down off the demon blood isn't helping, but if he can focus.. slow easy breaths. One at a time. He can listen to Rhys's heartbeat and find some way to focus.
A sickly cracking of bone and flesh and the warm splash of blood on his cheek brings Sam instantly upright. Horror paints his features as he watches Lucifer slowly withdraw his hand from the bloody crater that had been Rhys's chest. The archangel shrugs and flicks a bit of flesh from his finger as Sam chokes on a scream, scrambling off the couch and away from the horrifying sight.
He buries his head in his forearms, trying to hide from the grisly image. It's not real. It's not. But that doesn't stop the upswell of horror and grief and guilt
For a minute or two, it works. Sam resting against his body, Rhys holding him close and just starting to get into the cadence of his aura, focusing on opening up his senses so he can start working him down into something like peaceful rest.
Then Rhys startles as Sam pulls away from him, shaken out of the start of his trance and following to his knees but uncertain, hesitating to reach out as Sam cowers at the other end of the couch. Particularly as the shock of horror hits him, an empathic jolt that he can't quite keep out.
"Sam? Sam?" Worry hits him, watching the sheer panic and sickness overtake the bigger man. "Come on, stay with me, man, it's Jared..."
Run. Run. Everything in him is screaming to run, get away from the horrible grinning visage of Lucifer and his bloody forearm. Sam screws his eyes shut, pressing his thumb into his palm as hard as he can. His breath comes in short, terrified pants as he struggles for control. It’s not real. It’s not real. Dimly, over the terrified skitter of his own heartbeat, he can hear Rhys’s voice. Jared. A promise of safety and comfort.
It takes him longer than he’d like, but Sam stubbornly fights to regain control of his own mind. He’s not broken yet, he’s not ready to give up that fight. Rhys is just one more reminder of all of the good things in his life he’s still fighting for and Sam clings to that with all of his resolve, all of his flagging strength.
“’m okay,” he rasps out. Not okay, but he’s better. He’s beaten it back one more time and as long as Rhys is there, he’ll keep fighting.
Rhys keeps talking, encouragements to try and keep Sam grounded, keep him here, as he inches closer to rest a hand on Sam's shoulder. Careful, ready to pull away if he has to, but letting Sam know that he's right there with him and real. "You're right here, Sam, it's okay. Just breathe. Whatever it is, it's not real." He doesn't know what Sam's seeing, but it's got to be horrible. It's got to take a hell of a lot (no pun intended) to shake the big man like that.
So Rhys keeps up the soothing patter, voice raised just enough to have authority while still keeping a gentle tone. Giving Sam something else to concentrate on, and trying to talk him through breathing and focusing his way through whatever horrors his mind is throwing at him.
Sam clings to the sound of his voice like a lifeline, keeping his eyes screwed shut so he doesn't have to see the terrible damage done to Rhys's chest. He can smell the blood, thick and coppery in the air, hear it pattering on the floor as Rhys creeps closer to him.
Rhys was talking to him, his voice was gentle, which meant that what he was hearing, what he was seeing wasn't real.
The hand on his shoulder helps and Sam reaches out blindly until he finds Rhys's shoulder. The skin beneath his fingers was real and warm and solid. He wasn't dying. Lucifer hadn't taken him.
"Yeah, it's me, Sam. I'm right here. Everything's okay." He puts his hand over Sam's larger one on his shoulder, indicating that it's perfectly okay for Sam to touch and letting him feel for whatever it is he's looking for. The solidness of Rhys's body underneath, the gentle curve of collarbone, the well-worn fabric of t-shirt. No blood, no gore, just a strong smooth chest and a heartbeat only slightly quickened from worry.
The touch helps to anchor him and Sam slides his hand down his chest, fingers sliding along the curve of his collarbone, down across his chest, even feeling the nipple ring through the worn cotton. Whole. Alive. Safe.
His hand stops over his heart and for a moment Sam just breathes.
"I-okay. 'm okay." Slowly Sam opens his eyes and the tension melts out of his frame. It had stopped. The hallucination had stopped. He shifts close, wanting nothing more than to curl into his lap. "I'm so tired Rhys.. Christ I'm so tired."
God, Sam. My poor Sam. Once again, Rhys is struck by the overwhelming desire to just be able to bundle Sam up, take him away from all this. To just hold him and make this all go away. Sam's huge and powerful, far stronger than Rhys, and yet Rhys still feels perfectly at ease with the big man's hands on him, trusting completely that Sam won't hurt him. He watches the tension go out of him, and reaches over to brush away some stray hair, tracing his brow gently and feeling for the fever he's fully expecting to start soon. Kneels there with him, and lets him lean close and feel his heartbeat and breath, soak up the fact that Rhys is real and solid and unharmed.
And after a minute, when Sam's breath returns to something like normal, he says softly, "Do you want to try and sleep, or just rest a few minutes?"
No blood, no damage. Sam tilts into his touch, even as his skin itches and burns with need. He's warm, but he can't tell if that's from his sudden upset or just the withdrawal wreaking more havoc on his already overtaxed system.
"Sleep." It's not even something he'd debate. He's exhausted, nerves stretched high and tight, and if he doesn't find some way to ratchet down his body he's going to fly apart. "Please. I need you to try before.. before something else happens."
Even now, in his frazzled state, Sam has no hesitation in completely giving himself over to Rhys. He trusts him in everything, knows that Rhys will take care of him, help get him over this. "God I'm so tired." Tired of all of it.
"Shh. Okay. C'mon. Up you go." He gives Sam a moment to get himself together enough to get up, before maneuvering him to the bed. He won't take arguments: it's the easiest place for Rhys to work and Sam needs room to get comfortable and rest. Anyway, if Sam really wants to protest, it's a queen-sized bed with room for both of them. It's only been casually made after Rhys's middle-of-the-night waking, the rumpled covers pulled up in a hurry, but it's clean and there's plenty of room for Sam to stretch out, and Rhys gets him situated before pulling a couple of the extra pillows down from the headboard and getting himself propped up with Sam's head and shoulders in his lap
( ... )
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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Little things. Little improvements. It helps Rhys focus, helps make Sam as comfortable as possible as he starts to dry off, starts to relax and let his guard down a little bit. The space heater has warmed the apartment up, it's quiet, and Sam is safe here.
And, he hates to ask, but he needs to know. Rhys's voice is gentle and he lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck to check for fever and says softly, "How much was it, Sam? For how long?" He thumbs away some of Sam's shaggy hair, a careful gesture. "Just...need to know what I'm gonna be dealing with here, that's all."
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Three demons. Three demons in the back of a bar. One heady dose of blood and the power lighting up in his veins. The rest was a blur of breaking bodies and the roar of his own dormant abilities.
Sam shudders, clinging to the mug. "I.. one demon. The others.. I used my power on. I was looking for another demon when I called you. It's been maybe twelve hours."
Not long now, Sammy.
The phantom voice makes him lurch and Sam drags his eyes back to his mug. Not now. Please. Not now.
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One dose. That's...better than it could be, but twelve hours is a while. He has at least a rough idea of what kind of symptoms to expect, but he's winging this and he hates to admit it. Just...play it as it comes. React as he needs to, he's good at that. Rhys lets his breath out and rubs Sam's arm, but lifts his head again when he sees and feels the twitch, frowning. "...Sam?"
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We’ve already had this talk, Sam. Do we really need to do this again? I’m not going anywhere.
“It’s starting,” he grates out, stubbornly raising the tea to his lips again, draining the rest of it in one long swallow. “Hallucinations.” God, he didn’t want to do this. It was probably misguided as hell, but Sam had wanted to keep this from Rhys. He knew him, knew that Rhys would move heaven and earth to try and help him, to silence the voice in his head. But there was no hope. All he could try and do was maintain, and he wasn’t even able to do that anymore.
Despairing, Sam huddles close to Rhys. “I’ve been seeing things since I got out.” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to mention from where.
“I don’t know how bad.. how bad this is gonna get.”
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A sickly cracking of bone and flesh and the warm splash of blood on his cheek brings Sam instantly upright. Horror paints his features as he watches Lucifer slowly withdraw his hand from the bloody crater that had been Rhys's chest. The archangel shrugs and flicks a bit of flesh from his finger as Sam chokes on a scream, scrambling off the couch and away from the horrifying sight.
He buries his head in his forearms, trying to hide from the grisly image. It's not real. It's not. But that doesn't stop the upswell of horror and grief and guilt
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Then Rhys startles as Sam pulls away from him, shaken out of the start of his trance and following to his knees but uncertain, hesitating to reach out as Sam cowers at the other end of the couch. Particularly as the shock of horror hits him, an empathic jolt that he can't quite keep out.
"Sam? Sam?" Worry hits him, watching the sheer panic and sickness overtake the bigger man. "Come on, stay with me, man, it's Jared..."
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It takes him longer than he’d like, but Sam stubbornly fights to regain control of his own mind. He’s not broken yet, he’s not ready to give up that fight. Rhys is just one more reminder of all of the good things in his life he’s still fighting for and Sam clings to that with all of his resolve, all of his flagging strength.
“’m okay,” he rasps out. Not okay, but he’s better. He’s beaten it back one more time and as long as Rhys is there, he’ll keep fighting.
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So Rhys keeps up the soothing patter, voice raised just enough to have authority while still keeping a gentle tone. Giving Sam something else to concentrate on, and trying to talk him through breathing and focusing his way through whatever horrors his mind is throwing at him.
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Rhys was talking to him, his voice was gentle, which meant that what he was hearing, what he was seeing wasn't real.
The hand on his shoulder helps and Sam reaches out blindly until he finds Rhys's shoulder. The skin beneath his fingers was real and warm and solid. He wasn't dying. Lucifer hadn't taken him.
"J-Jared?"
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His hand stops over his heart and for a moment Sam just breathes.
"I-okay. 'm okay." Slowly Sam opens his eyes and the tension melts out of his frame. It had stopped. The hallucination had stopped. He shifts close, wanting nothing more than to curl into his lap. "I'm so tired Rhys.. Christ I'm so tired."
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And after a minute, when Sam's breath returns to something like normal, he says softly, "Do you want to try and sleep, or just rest a few minutes?"
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"Sleep." It's not even something he'd debate. He's exhausted, nerves stretched high and tight, and if he doesn't find some way to ratchet down his body he's going to fly apart. "Please. I need you to try before.. before something else happens."
Even now, in his frazzled state, Sam has no hesitation in completely giving himself over to Rhys. He trusts him in everything, knows that Rhys will take care of him, help get him over this. "God I'm so tired." Tired of all of it.
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