"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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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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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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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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