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