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
( ... )
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
( ... )
All Sam wants to do is put his head down on his arms and breathe through the nausea, the pain, everything that makes him want to curl in Rhys's bed again and breathe in the lingering scent of his skin. He was the only thing keeping him anchored at the moment.
But he nods and watches Rhys go outside to talk to his brother.
Dean, for his part, is sick with worry. And when Dean is worried, blaming himself for Sam running off (again) and generally pissed off after Sam's text, he doesn't tend to think before he speaks.
"Where the hell is he? Is he with you? Look, if he just pulled up stakes because he couldn't freaking handle it, then fine. Least he could do was tell me rather than walking out again!"
Rhys stares at the bricks of the side of the building, and then swipes at his bad eye with the heel of his palm. He was pretty sure that he was going to be getting a worried, pissed, likely hung-over Dean, so it's not a surprise to get blasted as soon as he picks up. The text was half-assed and he knew it, and turning the phone off afterward was only inviting the worst, even if Sam desperately needed the quiet
( ... )
Dean is an utter wreck. He felt like utter hell and waking up without Sam there had sent him into a complete tailspin. Sam, who was walking around hallucinating Lucifer more often than not. But hearing that he went to Rhys? That he went to someone else?
"Wrecked? Of course he's freaking wrecked," he snarls. "You tell him that this isn't Flagstaff. He doesn't just get to leave. He doesn't get to walk away. There's a job that needs doing. Leviathans that need ganking and he doesn't just get to decide that now is time to take a break."
What he should be asking instead is how is Sam doing? Is he seeing Lucifer? How many times is he working that scar? But he can't. Doesn't. Because talking about how fast Sam is coming apart makes it too real. Too painful.
Rhys sits forward again, pressing his fingertips against his brow. His voice is still steady, but a little coil of frustration winds tighter in his gut. "No, Dean. I'm not piling that on him, not right now. Sam needs to be off the field for a little while right now, he made the call and I'm sticking with it. And it's probably not a bad idea for you, either, if things are going this bad." Because, face it, Dean, they are. Rhys doesn't have to bring up Bobby...none of them do, the pain is there like a spectre that never hovers further than a breath away
( ... )
"If they're going that bad? I've got news for you. It's that bad. It's worse. Not that you have the first fuckin clue what we're up against," Dean snarls. "What we're going up against? They took.. everything. Everything. Do you get that? You don't just walk away from a fight like that."
He's had it with this swami crap and instead of hanging up, Dean hauls off and throws his phone as hard as he can against the wall. He can't do this and he sure as hell can't do his by himself.
Rhys sucks in another breath through his teeth, biting down on a bitter answer. Frustration threatens to boil up into anger at Dean's accusatory tone, and Rhys is just starting to respond when the phone goes flying, filling his ear with the clatter. Real fucking mature, Dean.
Normally, he'd be calm. Normally, he'd be the rational one and not let Dean get him cranked up like this. But Sam is a few feet away in his bed, sick and exhausted and broken, Bobby is dead, Dean's falling apart, and Rhys feels helpless. It's not conducive to his normal calm approach, and his fist clenches and unclenches as he waits to see if Dean's going to pick up the phone again or not. He's giving it maybe fifty-fifty right now, if he hasn't busted the damn thing with his little tantrum.
After a few minutes, it's fairly clear that Dean isn't picking up the phone. It might be broken, it might not, but he knows he's sure as hell not talking about this anymore.
--
When Rhys comes back in after a few cigarettes and some time to settle himself down, he'll find Sam in the bathroom, wrapped around the toilet. He's already thrown up everything he's eaten since.. ever. The porcelain is cool and he's just hanging on until the room stops spinning.
Fuck. And now not only is he pissed, but there's a nagging ache in his gut that's woken up that Rhys does not want to have to deal with, thanks to all this stress. Thank you so much, Dean. It's been louder since the week at Tuck's, more effort than usual to keep under control since that emotional rollercoaster, and he doesn't appreciate the reminder, even if he's completely aware that it's only a 'want', not a 'need'.
Eventually, Rhys gives up, puts the phone away, lights a cigarette and alternates cold air with drags of hot smoke, trying to settle himself. Everything he wanted to say to Dean eventually evaporates, the trapped anger seething for a while and then gone, leaving Rhys just tired again, the ache in his chest nothing more than the same worry for Sam that's been there all along, edged with a dull craving for chemical comfort.
Rhys knows addiction entirely too well- His is in his blood. It's probably why he understands Sam's so well, between his brush with black magic and this...this. But smoking and the calm, cold air
( ... )
The warm, large hand on his back soothes him and he groans quietly at the touch. His chest hurts, and he's pretty sure there's nothing left for him to throw up. The warm smell of vanilla and spice was usually a comforting scent, a reminder of Rhys, but right now it's only making his head ache worse.
Pale and sweating, he rests his forehead on his arm and flushes again, wincing at the noise. "You mean he's furious," he translates bleakly.
"I.. I need to lay down." The world was lurching dizzily beneath him and shutting his eyes against the tilt and spin only made it worse. He doesn't want to pass out on the floor. Rhys would never be able to get him up if he did.
"Don't worry about it. He'll cool off," Rhys says softly, retrieving a facecloth, wetting it at the sink, and leaning down to wipe Sam's brow and neck with it. He's still angry, but it's banked for now, even if he's a little amazed at just how quiet and even his voice comes out. If Dean wants to come here and take it up with Rhys face to face, he'll have a fight on his hands, otherwise he can sit and chill. Rhys is...done with it, that's it, and he's not going to upset Sam with it.
He puts aside the cloth, and offers Sam an arm to try and get him back up. The idea of having to leave him on the floor is worrying. "C'mon. Back into bed, then you can lay down as long as you want." He'll move the plastic wastebasket by the bed and get Sam some more water once he's there, but first things first, getting the big man to the bed while he can still help move himself.
Sam chokes on a groan as Rhys helps him up. The more he moves, the worse he feels and he knows that if they don’t get him to the bed soon he’s going to black out. His world is going red and grey around the edges and fire dances just behind his eyes. Determined, he tries to keep his feet beneath him, tries to help Rhys.
Dean is furious at him. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell him how far he’d fallen, why he’d even run to Rhys in the first place.
Dizzy, he raises his eyes to the bed. Almost there. Until he sees who’s reclining comfortably there, patting the pillows. Come on, Sammy. Get cozy.
With that, Sam’s collapses into Rhys, lost in an agonizing seizure. It’s like the wall collapsing all over again, when all he can feel is pain and all he can see is fire and blood and all he hears is Lucifer laughing.
It's less carrying Sam and more a controlled fall when Rhys feels his friend start to buckle and go down. Sam is just too heavy for Rhys to support by himself, and he only barely manages to heave him the last couple of feet to the safety of the bed.
This was what he was worried about, and his stomach drops as he watches the tremors rack Sam, then moves to turn him on his side. Standard procedure. The knowledge of how to treat a seizure is one thing, but watching it? That's something else, and Rhys finds himself babbling, as much for his own benefit as for Sam's, just to do something besides just stand there and stare anxiously until it's over.
"S'okay, Sam, I'm right here. It's okay, you're alright. We'll get through this..."
He hates how desperate his voice sounds, how he feels like he's getting the words out through a wire noose. And it strikes him, yet again, how unfair this all is, for Sam to be suffering like this after all the good he's tried to do. But he waits, watching with his heart like a lead weight until the fit
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
"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.
Reply
Reply
But he nods and watches Rhys go outside to talk to his brother.
Dean, for his part, is sick with worry. And when Dean is worried, blaming himself for Sam running off (again) and generally pissed off after Sam's text, he doesn't tend to think before he speaks.
"Where the hell is he? Is he with you? Look, if he just pulled up stakes because he couldn't freaking handle it, then fine. Least he could do was tell me rather than walking out again!"
Reply
Reply
"Wrecked? Of course he's freaking wrecked," he snarls. "You tell him that this isn't Flagstaff. He doesn't just get to leave. He doesn't get to walk away. There's a job that needs doing. Leviathans that need ganking and he doesn't just get to decide that now is time to take a break."
What he should be asking instead is how is Sam doing? Is he seeing Lucifer? How many times is he working that scar? But he can't. Doesn't. Because talking about how fast Sam is coming apart makes it too real. Too painful.
Reply
Reply
He's had it with this swami crap and instead of hanging up, Dean hauls off and throws his phone as hard as he can against the wall. He can't do this and he sure as hell can't do his by himself.
Reply
Normally, he'd be calm. Normally, he'd be the rational one and not let Dean get him cranked up like this. But Sam is a few feet away in his bed, sick and exhausted and broken, Bobby is dead, Dean's falling apart, and Rhys feels helpless. It's not conducive to his normal calm approach, and his fist clenches and unclenches as he waits to see if Dean's going to pick up the phone again or not. He's giving it maybe fifty-fifty right now, if he hasn't busted the damn thing with his little tantrum.
Reply
--
When Rhys comes back in after a few cigarettes and some time to settle himself down, he'll find Sam in the bathroom, wrapped around the toilet. He's already thrown up everything he's eaten since.. ever. The porcelain is cool and he's just hanging on until the room stops spinning.
"Hnn. Rhys?" His voice is muzzy.
Reply
Eventually, Rhys gives up, puts the phone away, lights a cigarette and alternates cold air with drags of hot smoke, trying to settle himself. Everything he wanted to say to Dean eventually evaporates, the trapped anger seething for a while and then gone, leaving Rhys just tired again, the ache in his chest nothing more than the same worry for Sam that's been there all along, edged with a dull craving for chemical comfort.
Rhys knows addiction entirely too well- His is in his blood. It's probably why he understands Sam's so well, between his brush with black magic and this...this. But smoking and the calm, cold air ( ... )
Reply
Pale and sweating, he rests his forehead on his arm and flushes again, wincing at the noise. "You mean he's furious," he translates bleakly.
"I.. I need to lay down." The world was lurching dizzily beneath him and shutting his eyes against the tilt and spin only made it worse. He doesn't want to pass out on the floor. Rhys would never be able to get him up if he did.
Reply
He puts aside the cloth, and offers Sam an arm to try and get him back up. The idea of having to leave him on the floor is worrying. "C'mon. Back into bed, then you can lay down as long as you want." He'll move the plastic wastebasket by the bed and get Sam some more water once he's there, but first things first, getting the big man to the bed while he can still help move himself.
Reply
Dean is furious at him. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell him how far he’d fallen, why he’d even run to Rhys in the first place.
Dizzy, he raises his eyes to the bed. Almost there. Until he sees who’s reclining comfortably there, patting the pillows. Come on, Sammy. Get cozy.
With that, Sam’s collapses into Rhys, lost in an agonizing seizure. It’s like the wall collapsing all over again, when all he can feel is pain and all he can see is fire and blood and all he hears is Lucifer laughing.
Reply
This was what he was worried about, and his stomach drops as he watches the tremors rack Sam, then moves to turn him on his side. Standard procedure. The knowledge of how to treat a seizure is one thing, but watching it? That's something else, and Rhys finds himself babbling, as much for his own benefit as for Sam's, just to do something besides just stand there and stare anxiously until it's over.
"S'okay, Sam, I'm right here. It's okay, you're alright. We'll get through this..."
He hates how desperate his voice sounds, how he feels like he's getting the words out through a wire noose. And it strikes him, yet again, how unfair this all is, for Sam to be suffering like this after all the good he's tried to do. But he waits, watching with his heart like a lead weight until the fit
Reply
Leave a comment