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
( ... )
Rhys puts the book quietly aside and just enjoys the calm when he's done, the feeling of being someplace else for a little while. For the moment, it's like being in a bubble, him and Sam, a little shelter defined by voice and warmth and care. He smiles at Sam, propped against him sleepily, feels the shift in him and the way the tension's gone, and breathes a soft sigh of relief, rubbing his back lightly.
Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book.
( ... )
If there’s one thing Sam knows, it’s needing to keep voices quiet. His addiction, the self-doubt that he’s fairly sure he’ll never be rid of. And then there was Hell. Everything that Death had kept back with that wall, Cas shattered in one moment of careless arrogance and Sam couldn’t stop the flood once it started. There was no one left to rebuild the wall. Dean couldn’t help, and they’d lost every other resource they’d had
( ... )
They're trying to fix things, that's what matters. And right now, Sam is relaxed, quiet, the lines of strain gone from his face, curled up and looking like he can actually get a little more badly-needed rest, and that's a good sign. Just a little at a time. A day at a time, hell, an hour at a time, at this point, Rhys is happy for
( ... )
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Better. For both of them. The stirring inside Rhys has gone quiet, too, nothing more than a faint flutter that's easily pushed away. In a little while, he'll get up, have something to eat, and he'll be okay.
And that small admission brings a surprising warmth to Rhys, that Sam's carrying a copy of Rhys's favorite around. He peers down at the bigger man curled against him, unable to keep the small flash of pleasure off his face. He's not sure why it makes him happy, just that it does. "Yeah. It's nice, something when you just need something to hang onto. Drown out the noise," he admits softly, glancing down at the now-closed book. ( ... )
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