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
( ... )
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.
Sam is also so close to simply falling down that Rhys doesn't think his body's giving him much choice in the matter, which makes his job as the healer that much easier. But it's nice that Sam listens to him. Not that Rhys is afraid to bully Sam a bit when he doesn't, of course, but the less Sam fights right now, the more energy he's putting toward recovering
( ... )
There's only so long Sam can fight sleep. It doesn't matter how uncomfortable he is, that he's hot and aching and the noise in the back of his mind is a nearly constant roar of fire and blood and pain. After a time, his body simply shuts down on him. Not the best way to sleep, but it's the only way that's reliably worked since that hunt a few weeks ago
( ... )
Rhys drifts off into sleep too, for a while, waking now and then to check on Sam beside him. It's restless sleep at times, but it's still sleep, and when Sam starts to shift and mutter, Rhys can't help but reach over and smooth his brow with a cool hand or pull the blanket up a little more.
When he wakes up, he's bleary and carpet-mouthed, but the ache in his head has mostly gone away, and when Sam stirs, Rhys has wolfed down a bowl of cereal and is waiting with another cup of tea for him. More remedy for him to try and keep down, and some fresh, mildly sweet-smelling incense lit to try and help with the headache and air out the closeness of the room. It's been quite a few hours now, and Rhys is starting to worry about the serious symptoms...he's pretty sure he can handle most of them, but seizures worry him the most. Sam's a lot bigger than Rhys is, and keeping Sam from hurting himself might be difficult
( ... )
The fresh incense helps clear his head a bit, but does nothing to alleviate the crashing headache or the general feeling of complete and utter hell that accompanies waking up. He's achy, nauseous and can't help but hate himself. It was his fault that he was in this situation to begin with.
"Hey." Wearily, he drags a hand across his face. "I'm.." He's not okay. Not even close to okay. "Better."
Wrapping his hands around the offered mug he offers Rhys a wan smile. Sam isn't sure he'll be able to keep much down, but he's going to try. He's going to soldier through this as best he can because that's what he always does as a Winchester.
Rhys nods, watching Sam try to drink with a sad, sympathetic look. "Yeah, sucks, I know. But it should help. If you want to try and wash up a little in a few, too, we can
( ... )
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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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When he wakes up, he's bleary and carpet-mouthed, but the ache in his head has mostly gone away, and when Sam stirs, Rhys has wolfed down a bowl of cereal and is waiting with another cup of tea for him. More remedy for him to try and keep down, and some fresh, mildly sweet-smelling incense lit to try and help with the headache and air out the closeness of the room. It's been quite a few hours now, and Rhys is starting to worry about the serious symptoms...he's pretty sure he can handle most of them, but seizures worry him the most. Sam's a lot bigger than Rhys is, and keeping Sam from hurting himself might be difficult ( ... )
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"Hey." Wearily, he drags a hand across his face. "I'm.." He's not okay. Not even close to okay. "Better."
Wrapping his hands around the offered mug he offers Rhys a wan smile. Sam isn't sure he'll be able to keep much down, but he's going to try. He's going to soldier through this as best he can because that's what he always does as a Winchester.
The phone rings and he winces at the noise.
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