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
( ... )
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
( ... )
He doesn't know if they're dragons or not, but they're goddamn near unstoppable and they're fucking everywhere and Sam really doesn't know how they're going to pull this off and survive. Everything keeps getting bleaker and harder and even Winchester stubborn drive can only carry them so far before they come apart.
Sam buries his head against Rhys, trying to will his muscles to relax, to stop the shuddering cramps that keep locking up his limbs. He wants to tell Rhys, but Sam learned a long time ago that there's power in a name, and if he gives that to Lucifer, things will fall apart that much faster.
"The Devil, Jared. I hallucinate the Devil," he whispers bleakly.
Rhys can be a bit incomprehensible at times, with his head so full of old lore and literature. His way of dealing with being touched by the Sight the way he is, is all. It's nothing important, though...he lets Sam keep talking, hands stroking over fever-hot skin, trying to bring comfort by touch
( ... )
The touch is comforting, and Sam makes a quiet sound as Rhys starts to work his healing magic on his aching body again. It doesn't banish the pain, but it makes it bearable, he can breathe around it for the moment and that helps.
Sam's voice is tired and dispirited. "Yeah. I don't.. I don't know how to stop this, Jared. I don't know if I can."
Finally, Sam admits the one thing that he's never admitted to Dean. "I'm afraid." Afraid that this is going to steal him away, that he escaped Hell and he's going to fall back into it all over again.
"We'll get through this first, Sam, get you back on your feet, then see what we can do," he promises, voice quiet and steady. He hopes to hell it's not a false promise, but...he'll try, and that at least Sam can be a hundred percent certain of. "If it's visions, there's ways to control it, to...filter it. If it's something else...I don't know, but we can work on it." I won't leave you alone with this.
Sam's warm and heavy in his arms, and it hurts to hear one of the bravest men he knows admit openly that he's scared. Rhys also knows that it's something Sam can't talk to Dean about, thanks to their upbringing...so Sam really is alone with this, and has been for however long it's been going on. So he just holds the bigger man close, laying his cheek against his shoulder and letting him know that he's not alone.
Rhys promises him that he'll try and Sam believes him. The past few years have gone a long way to shatter Sam's faith in damn near everything, but he still has faith in a few certain people. In Dean, in Ellen, and as always, in Rhys. If he says he'll find a way to try and help him, Sam knows that he will, knows it's no empty promise.
His eyes drift closed, shielded for at least a little while, in Rhys's arms. The sense of isolation and despair dims as Rhys runs warm hands down his back, easing some of the worst of his aches. Sam would give anything, anything at all if he could stay. Built something quiet and wonderful far away from monsters and the Devil and for once, just be happy.
The sleep isn't the sort of deep, restorative rest that he needs, but it's enough to ease some of his overall misery as he drowses in the mage's arms.
Rhys breathes, and reminds himself that Sam needs time. It will get better, he just needs some rest. Of course everything will be worse right now, wracked as he is with the pains of withdrawal, running on no sleep and his body tying him up in knots.
It's not the time to think about this. It's the time to recover, and then they can think about what they're going to do next. The big hunter slowly goes still, starts to doze, and Rhys closes his eyes too, takes measured breaths, focuses on quieting the chaos in his own head. He's done it countless times, and in spite of his worry, this is no different. Peace, calm, controlHe drifts on the edge of consciousness for a while, letting himself go, and soon meditation turns to something like sleep, curled up around Sam as he eventually lets his body relax to the bed behind the bigger man. Not perfect, but much-needed quiet, just for a little while
( ... )
It’s why he’d called Rhys. To hear that quiet certainty in his voice, his faith that if there’s a way to fix things, they’ll find it. He’s the only person Sam trusts right now, the only one he can go to with this. Rhys understands, he knows what it’s like and Sam needs that right now
( ... )
It's a weird kind of no-man's-land that they walk, being such close friends, but never anything more. Sometimes it's simply a quietly accepted fact for Rhys, and sometimes it's a much deeper pain, but it doesn't change the fact that Sam is his best friend, and he'd do anything for the other man. Rhys is a healer, first and foremost, chose many years ago to take this...thing that he is and turn it to the cause of mending instead of stealing, fixing instead of destroying. But that goes doubly so for the few people in his life that he considers his, and Sam is at the top of that list, even if he doesn't feel quite the same way.
If nothing else, Sam at least knows that Rhys is safe for him, and that...that's what's most important
( ... )
Okay is a loaded question, but Sam understands what he means, tries not to think about what the real answer might be. That he’s not okay, not anywhere even in the vicinity of okay, not since Castiel broke the wall in his head. He’s living on borrowed time and the longer it goes on, the more certain Sam is that the mess in his psyche is what’s going to finally kill him.
He’d give anything, walk to the nearest crossroads and gladly sign everything away if he could have ten years of peace with Rhys. Ten years with no noise in his head. Ten years to finally feel free enough to show him how much he cares, how much he really does need him.
But Rhys would never forgive him for that, for buying peace with his soul.
“Sorry.” Sam shifts to cradle the glass with both hands, taking a slow careful sip. “A little better,” he whispers. The muscle spasms were slowly tapering off, and the gentle pass of Rhys’s fingers helped soothe his general restlessness and discomfort.
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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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Sam buries his head against Rhys, trying to will his muscles to relax, to stop the shuddering cramps that keep locking up his limbs. He wants to tell Rhys, but Sam learned a long time ago that there's power in a name, and if he gives that to Lucifer, things will fall apart that much faster.
"The Devil, Jared. I hallucinate the Devil," he whispers bleakly.
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Sam's voice is tired and dispirited. "Yeah. I don't.. I don't know how to stop this, Jared. I don't know if I can."
Finally, Sam admits the one thing that he's never admitted to Dean. "I'm afraid." Afraid that this is going to steal him away, that he escaped Hell and he's going to fall back into it all over again.
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Sam's warm and heavy in his arms, and it hurts to hear one of the bravest men he knows admit openly that he's scared. Rhys also knows that it's something Sam can't talk to Dean about, thanks to their upbringing...so Sam really is alone with this, and has been for however long it's been going on. So he just holds the bigger man close, laying his cheek against his shoulder and letting him know that he's not alone.
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His eyes drift closed, shielded for at least a little while, in Rhys's arms. The sense of isolation and despair dims as Rhys runs warm hands down his back, easing some of the worst of his aches. Sam would give anything, anything at all if he could stay. Built something quiet and wonderful far away from monsters and the Devil and for once, just be happy.
The sleep isn't the sort of deep, restorative rest that he needs, but it's enough to ease some of his overall misery as he drowses in the mage's arms.
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It's not the time to think about this. It's the time to recover, and then they can think about what they're going to do next. The big hunter slowly goes still, starts to doze, and Rhys closes his eyes too, takes measured breaths, focuses on quieting the chaos in his own head. He's done it countless times, and in spite of his worry, this is no different. Peace, calm, controlHe drifts on the edge of consciousness for a while, letting himself go, and soon meditation turns to something like sleep, curled up around Sam as he eventually lets his body relax to the bed behind the bigger man. Not perfect, but much-needed quiet, just for a little while ( ... )
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If nothing else, Sam at least knows that Rhys is safe for him, and that...that's what's most important ( ... )
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He’d give anything, walk to the nearest crossroads and gladly sign everything away if he could have ten years of peace with Rhys. Ten years with no noise in his head. Ten years to finally feel free enough to show him how much he cares, how much he really does need him.
But Rhys would never forgive him for that, for buying peace with his soul.
“Sorry.” Sam shifts to cradle the glass with both hands, taking a slow careful sip. “A little better,” he whispers. The muscle spasms were slowly tapering off, and the gentle pass of Rhys’s fingers helped soothe his general restlessness and discomfort.
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