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
( ... )
Sam makes a quietly grateful noise as he sinks into the bed. It's warm and still smells faintly of Rhys, that vanilla-spice scent overlaid with the heady smell of his skin. His nerves are badly jangled and the simple, small gestures help start to smooth out the ragged edges. A soft pillow, a warm blanket, the familiar touch of a dear friend.
There are few people that can make Sam feel safe and protected; he's simply too big to shelter. But Dean, Ellen and Rhys are on a very short list of family members who Sam can feel safe with.
He does as he's told, shutting his eyes and trying to relax into the warmth and protection that Rhys was providing.
In the end, it doesn't take much. He's wrung out, exhausted beyond endurance, and he's safe. Rhys was there to catch him when he fell; he'd be there to protect him.
This time, with Sam cradled in his arms and no interruptions, Rhys can work freely, putting his powers to work on all the little hurts. It's not a cure-all, not a switch that makes everything all better, but Rhys has been doing this a long time and has a natural gift for it, so he thinks he can do at least something, take the edge off things. Rhys starts simple, focusing on soothing away the tension in those big muscles, and then concentrates on easing Sam down, a combination of gentle hands, big doses of natural sleep chemicals and a subtle psychic vibe until he feels Sam start to sag in his arms. Though the sheer amount of power Rhys pushes might result in a brief feeling of lightheadedness, like freefall, for the most part, it's a pleasant feeling...warm and spreading like bathwater, or a really good hit
( ... )
Sam may not be able to feel the power that Rhys is pouring into him, or the subtle changes he's making to help ease him through the worst of the withdrawal that will inevitably come, but he knows that he's there, that he's going to take care of him as best he can and that is what Sam needs more than anything. Understanding. Someone who's been there, who won't look at him with disappointment or anger
( ... )
Rhys sleeps for a while, drained by his wrestle with the sticky, toxic, tar-like influence of the demon blood, but he starts to stir when Sam grows restless. Rhys reflexively reaches down to stroke Sam's hair, trying to soothe him before he's fully awake and aware of what he's doing. Pain, sickness, bad dreams, hallucinations, Rhys just wants to be close to make it go away, and it's that part of him that responds first before he's even really aware of what he's doing. Then he actually is awake, feeling the weight of Sam's body on his and remembering everything, and he blinks and looks around, taking stock of the situation
( ... )
"Hey." He shifts directly off of his lap, curling up against his side, burrowing deeper into the quilt that had been tucked around him. The fever is burning him up, but he can't stop shivering. Rhys has taken the edge off of the withdrawal, but there were still side effects that he'd have to cope with. His body craving more of the blood, the last of the toxic stuff working its way out of his system.
The idea of drinking anything at all makes his stomach roil in protest, but he forces himself to nod. He needs fluids, he needs something to keep his body going.
Rhys nods. "Sure. Just take it slow." He gives Sam another minute huddled into the quilt, before he carefully gets up from the bed, stretches hard enough to feel his joints pop, and goes to the kitchen. He puts on tea for himself and makes a cup of apple juice mixed with cool water for Sam, closes the blackout blinds on the window, and dampens a cloth with warm water
( ... )
Closing the blackout blinds earns a soft groan of relief from the huddled mass on the bed. The dark is so much easier on his pounding head and burning eyes. He's freezing and burning up and as long as he holds still, his muscles won't start cramping viciously on him. He can hear Rhys moving in the kitchen and the simple sounds are reassuring. He's not alone, not locked up to suffer withdrawal without help.
The hand on his shoulder stirs him out of a semidoze and he slowly levers himself up to sip gratefully at the cool liquid.
As he drinks, Sam slides his hand around Rhys's wrist. He's not sure if holding his hand would be too much, but the physical contact helps keep him grounded. "Thank you."
One of Rhys's better investments, those blinds, because otherwise, working the night shift and trying to sleep during the day would be hell. In the dimness, he smiles, and turns his hand so that he can slip it into Sam's much bigger one. Apparently no, holding his hand isn't too much to ask, and Rhys's rubs the back of Sam's hand with his thumb as he sips slowly at the juice. Curling back up with Sam might be a bit stifling, considering he's fever-wracked right now, but if he asked him to, Rhys wouldn't hesitate at that, either- anything to keep Sam as comfortable as possible
( ... )
The hand sliding into his gets a faint smile from Sam and he squeezes his hand briefly, grateful for the comfort and the contact. He'd be happy to sit in the cool dark, holding Rhys's hand until he can lay down and rest a little while longer. Here he's safe, here he's able to let his guard down and allow himself to hurt.
Then Rhys mentions his brother and his hand twitches, his entire body going rigid with tension.
"No. No he doesn't know what happened. What I did."
And if it wasn't bad enough losing Bobby, Castiel and faced with what felt like a losing battle? Now he had to crawl out of a whiskey bottle and deal with this?
Grimacing, Sam sets the juice aside and moves to lie down again. "He was passed out when I left. Might not even notice I'm gone." And that's the part that hurt the most, the part that drove him over the edge. Dean was so mired in his own loss, his own pain, that he couldn't acknowledge what was going on around him. Like his little brother losing a battle with an unseen voice in his head.
Rhys sighs, and keeps rubbing Sam's hand. He didn't want to bring the elder Winchester brother up, and seeing Sam's reaction just makes him regret it. He didn't mean to throw it in Sam's face. Things have been tense between them and Dean has never been good at facing problems...things like Bobby's death. Dean's heavy drinking in times of trouble isn't exactly a secret, either
( ... )
Sam desperately misses when things were simpler. Long before Ruby, before Dean's deal, back when things were normal between all three of them. When his brother listened to him, when he was still so certain that Dean.. well. No sense in looking back, right?
Feverish and dizzy, Sam curls on his side, not quite ready to let go of the steadying influence of Rhys's hand. "Use my phone. Then turn it off. He'll try and use the GPS."
Dean was going to be pissed, and the last thing he needed right now was for his brother and his best friend to be fighting because of him. He just wanted to curl up and try to shut out the fire and the blood and the noise dancing at the periphery of his vision.
Rhys misses those times, too...when the worst they had to deal with was a rogue skinshifter or a gremlin infestation or maybe an aughisky, when getting the job done and cleaning up was so much simpler and they didn't spend all their time feeling lost, broken, and overwhelmed. It might not have been bliss, it was still a scary, dangerous, dirty as hell job, but at least they felt in control of things
( ... )
Those were good days, and it's odd to think that battles and the decompression in the crappy motel rooms with bad movies and beer and pizza were when things were simpler. Better. Poker games at Bobby's. Rhys baiting and screwing with Dean while Sam laughed. Ellen dragging them all back to the house for dinner.
"I can't.. can't talk to him. Not now." And he can't help but feel guilty about it, that he couldn't go to his brother, but Dean was lost in his own guilt and sorrow and.. Sam couldn't reach him. Shutting his eyes against an unexpected flood of tears, he squeezes his hand and gives a shaky nod.
"Might want to turn it off anyway." It had been vibrating and generally sounding in his pocket since he'd called Rhys. Likely Dean had woken up to find him gone.
"You got one thing to concentrate on right now, Sam, and that's getting better. Don't worry about Dean. Even if you do want to have this conversation...this isn't the time for it." His voice is gentle, but stern. Sam is exhausted, hurting, and reeling, and there's no way in hell Rhys would expect him to talk to his brother right now, to do anything but lay here and get his strength back. And Dean isn't in any shape to face things right now, either. Neither brother has ever been good at giving themselves the space to recover when they're down and right now? They're both down
( ... )
Sam screws his eyes shut and nods, letting Rhys gently boss him around. Most of the time he balks at the idea of resting, of taking anything for himself. But Rhys is one of about three people who can order him to rest and he'll do so without argument. He winces when he hears his phone close, but it's for the best for now. Dean.. will have to cope on his own for a little while longer.
Dizzy and nauseous by the time Rhys returns to the bed, Sam shifts restlessly beside him. The big hunter's hand seeks out Rhys again. His skin itches and crawls and he's freezing and burning up all at once. The contact helps, gives him something else to focus on. It's not as simple and as focused as shoving his thumb against the scar on his hand, but he'll take whatever aid he can.
He's not sure he can sleep, but he can at least lay still so Rhys can. "'ve got cash in my wallet. Cover some of the expenses."
Because even in his wrecked state, Sam wants to help.
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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There are few people that can make Sam feel safe and protected; he's simply too big to shelter. But Dean, Ellen and Rhys are on a very short list of family members who Sam can feel safe with.
He does as he's told, shutting his eyes and trying to relax into the warmth and protection that Rhys was providing.
In the end, it doesn't take much. He's wrung out, exhausted beyond endurance, and he's safe. Rhys was there to catch him when he fell; he'd be there to protect him.
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The idea of drinking anything at all makes his stomach roil in protest, but he forces himself to nod. He needs fluids, he needs something to keep his body going.
"Yeah. Yeah, just a little?"
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The hand on his shoulder stirs him out of a semidoze and he slowly levers himself up to sip gratefully at the cool liquid.
As he drinks, Sam slides his hand around Rhys's wrist. He's not sure if holding his hand would be too much, but the physical contact helps keep him grounded. "Thank you."
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Then Rhys mentions his brother and his hand twitches, his entire body going rigid with tension.
"No. No he doesn't know what happened. What I did."
And if it wasn't bad enough losing Bobby, Castiel and faced with what felt like a losing battle? Now he had to crawl out of a whiskey bottle and deal with this?
Grimacing, Sam sets the juice aside and moves to lie down again. "He was passed out when I left. Might not even notice I'm gone." And that's the part that hurt the most, the part that drove him over the edge. Dean was so mired in his own loss, his own pain, that he couldn't acknowledge what was going on around him. Like his little brother losing a battle with an unseen voice in his head.
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Feverish and dizzy, Sam curls on his side, not quite ready to let go of the steadying influence of Rhys's hand. "Use my phone. Then turn it off. He'll try and use the GPS."
Dean was going to be pissed, and the last thing he needed right now was for his brother and his best friend to be fighting because of him. He just wanted to curl up and try to shut out the fire and the blood and the noise dancing at the periphery of his vision.
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"I can't.. can't talk to him. Not now." And he can't help but feel guilty about it, that he couldn't go to his brother, but Dean was lost in his own guilt and sorrow and.. Sam couldn't reach him. Shutting his eyes against an unexpected flood of tears, he squeezes his hand and gives a shaky nod.
"Might want to turn it off anyway." It had been vibrating and generally sounding in his pocket since he'd called Rhys. Likely Dean had woken up to find him gone.
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Dizzy and nauseous by the time Rhys returns to the bed, Sam shifts restlessly beside him. The big hunter's hand seeks out Rhys again. His skin itches and crawls and he's freezing and burning up all at once. The contact helps, gives him something else to focus on. It's not as simple and as focused as shoving his thumb against the scar on his hand, but he'll take whatever aid he can.
He's not sure he can sleep, but he can at least lay still so Rhys can. "'ve got cash in my wallet. Cover some of the expenses."
Because even in his wrecked state, Sam wants to help.
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