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
( ... )
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
He doesn't remember much of it, and that's probably for the best. The seizures while he was coming down off demon blood were the hardest, leaving his muscles in tortured cramps and knots. The seizure finally begins to taper off, his arms and legs twitching with lesser tremors until he falls limp.
What he wants to do is scream. Scream because he's tired of running, tired of fighting and he's sure as hell tired of hurting. But he doesn't, because if he started, he might not have it in him to stop again.
Panting, Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the sound of Rhys's voice. He's upset and afraid and he's not the only one. Finally, as his muscles begin to unlock, a tight sound of pain slips free. "Water?" He can barely rasp out the request.
Rhys lets his breath out...shit, it feels like he's been holding it forever, long enough for it to turn solid as stone in his chest, and it almost hurts to push out of his lungs. But he nods immediately, heads to the kitchen quickly to draw a cup of water for Sam and return with it. He slides onto the bed next to him and helps to prop him up enough to take a sip, feeling the tremble of those big muscles as Sam struggles to right himself. Once again, it's easier to all but pull the bigger man into his lap to support him, but Rhys doesn't mind, doesn't even notice...just does it, because it's the best thing to do right now, now that the fit has passed and it's safe to hold Sam again.
"Just take it slow." He's amazed his fingers are steady when he pushes the sweat-damp hair back from Sam's brow. "Take a few breaths, take it easy. You're okay, Sam, you're right here with me."
The water soothes his throat and eases his crashing headache a bit. Sam can barely keep himself up and he doesn't protest when Rhys pulls him in close. He's safe, steady, and Sam just wants to collapse into him and stay there. Forever. This fight, this hunt, it's taking everything and Sam isn't sure he's going to make it out of this one alive. If it's not the Leviathans, it's going to be Lucifer.
Either way, he won't have Rhys, and that only makes the ache in his chest worse.
Sam shuts his eyes, turning his face into the warm comfort of his shoulder. He's too exhausted to do anything but simply breathe. His body is too worn and in too much pain to allow any real rest. "'m so tired," he whispers. Tired of all of it. Tired of hunting, of running, of never being able to have what he wants.
Rhys rubs Sam's shoulders, letting him settle against him, and sighs softly as he feels the tension go out of him. "Ah, Sam. What the hell are you guys into?" he asks softly, not really expecting an answer. But it's destroying them, he can see that, and it hurts to the bone to watch. He's already thought he's lost Sam before, and that was agony, a quick, ragged hollow torn out of him. The idea of losing him slowly like this? That's even worse.
He can't give Sam forever here, but he can give him a few days. Enough time to get him back on his feet, moving again. Steady. Even if the Winchesters are keeping him out of all this (Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you very much, when has Rhys ever not come running the moment you needed him?), Rhys can be a rest stop when they need it. Long, graceful fingers trace through Sam's hair, down his neck and shoulders as he tries to soothe away the pain, and Rhys rocks him slowly, doing his best to ease the muscle aches, the headache, all the miseries that he can feel echoing off the big man
( ... )
Rhys has always been there. Always. Since Sam has known him, he’s been the one who drops absolutely everything and comes when they need him. Warm and wonderful and he’ll never be able to say thank you enough. Never be able to tell Rhys how much he loves him, not when he’s so wrecked.
And he’s too tired, too shattered to do much more than curl into Rhys’ arms and try to let his touch comfort him, just a bit.
They were trying to protect him, keep Rhys out of the fight to keep him alive because Sam needed him alive. He needed to know that Rhys would be there, that he’d be okay. Shutting his eyes, Sam answers. “Leviathans. Monsters out of Purgatory. Cas.. Cas brought them out with him before they killed him.” He chokes on a sob. “And Cas broke the wall. He broke the wall in my head Jared. I can’t.. I can’t..”
Large hands twist in his shirt, clutching at him as if Rhys can somehow protect him from the pain, shield him from the monsters like Dean used to when he was little. “I can’t stop him. He’s in my head and I can’t make him stop.”
Rhys does his best to gather Sam into his arms, to wrap around him as much as he can and just...shelter him, shield him the way he so desperately needs.
He knows they've been protecting him, and he's let them. He's never pushed, only quietly waited in the background to do as much as he could. When the world was ending, he stayed and kept Ellen safe, waited for them to need him, because that was what they needed him to do. And that's what he's doing now...he understands that, even if he doesn't always like it. He's not a fighter like them, he's a healer, and this is where he does the most good...No matter what ugly aspersions Dean wants to throw at him about it.
And he listens now, Sam cradled in his lap as he talks. "Dragons in the earth," he murmurs quietly in response, remembering all the old lore. Leviathan. Crawling chaos. Then shakes his head in dismay. Shit, Cas, what have you done?
Speak no ill of the dead, his Uncle Joe used to say. Rhys always used to mentally tack on 'because you never know when they might be listening
( ... )
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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.
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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.
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--
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.
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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 ( ... )
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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What he wants to do is scream. Scream because he's tired of running, tired of fighting and he's sure as hell tired of hurting. But he doesn't, because if he started, he might not have it in him to stop again.
Panting, Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the sound of Rhys's voice. He's upset and afraid and he's not the only one. Finally, as his muscles begin to unlock, a tight sound of pain slips free. "Water?" He can barely rasp out the request.
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"Just take it slow." He's amazed his fingers are steady when he pushes the sweat-damp hair back from Sam's brow. "Take a few breaths, take it easy. You're okay, Sam, you're right here with me."
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Either way, he won't have Rhys, and that only makes the ache in his chest worse.
Sam shuts his eyes, turning his face into the warm comfort of his shoulder. He's too exhausted to do anything but simply breathe. His body is too worn and in too much pain to allow any real rest. "'m so tired," he whispers. Tired of all of it. Tired of hunting, of running, of never being able to have what he wants.
He just wants it all to stop.
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He can't give Sam forever here, but he can give him a few days. Enough time to get him back on his feet, moving again. Steady. Even if the Winchesters are keeping him out of all this (Fuck you, Dean. Fuck you very much, when has Rhys ever not come running the moment you needed him?), Rhys can be a rest stop when they need it. Long, graceful fingers trace through Sam's hair, down his neck and shoulders as he tries to soothe away the pain, and Rhys rocks him slowly, doing his best to ease the muscle aches, the headache, all the miseries that he can feel echoing off the big man ( ... )
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And he’s too tired, too shattered to do much more than curl into Rhys’ arms and try to let his touch comfort him, just a bit.
They were trying to protect him, keep Rhys out of the fight to keep him alive because Sam needed him alive. He needed to know that Rhys would be there, that he’d be okay. Shutting his eyes, Sam answers. “Leviathans. Monsters out of Purgatory. Cas.. Cas brought them out with him before they killed him.” He chokes on a sob. “And Cas broke the wall. He broke the wall in my head Jared. I can’t.. I can’t..”
Large hands twist in his shirt, clutching at him as if Rhys can somehow protect him from the pain, shield him from the monsters like Dean used to when he was little. “I can’t stop him. He’s in my head and I can’t make him stop.”
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He knows they've been protecting him, and he's let them. He's never pushed, only quietly waited in the background to do as much as he could. When the world was ending, he stayed and kept Ellen safe, waited for them to need him, because that was what they needed him to do. And that's what he's doing now...he understands that, even if he doesn't always like it. He's not a fighter like them, he's a healer, and this is where he does the most good...No matter what ugly aspersions Dean wants to throw at him about it.
And he listens now, Sam cradled in his lap as he talks. "Dragons in the earth," he murmurs quietly in response, remembering all the old lore. Leviathan. Crawling chaos. Then shakes his head in dismay. Shit, Cas, what have you done?
Speak no ill of the dead, his Uncle Joe used to say. Rhys always used to mentally tack on 'because you never know when they might be listening ( ... )
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