His bedroom eyes that soften after a long day, lonely in the quiet of his one bedroom apartment, with nothing but a frozen dinner and reruns to keep him company. They stare at the ceiling, tired and restless, waiting for sleep that always slips away too fast because his sheets are way too cold.
His bedroom eyes that glaze over when he’s scrolling through his phone, swiping left and right. They drift, lost in the nothingness, until something catches his gaze. A profile with eyes that seem to understand him, someone who shares his hopes, his dreams, his wants. And suddenly, his bedroom eyes light up with a spark of something real, a quiet hope rekindled by your name glowing softly next to a red heart.
His bedroom eyes that turn brighter when he laughs at your jokes, when your presence fills the room and makes everything better. Even after a rough day, he refuses to close his eyes, because he can't stop looking for you, waiting, smiling. His bedroom eyes that deepen when you move closer, hand on his neck, lips on his lips, drawing him in, pulling him closer to where he belongs.
His bedroom eyes that are gentle and open before you, soft with vulnerability, shining with desire. Your bedroom eyes that match his, revealing everything you thought you'd never find, trust, longing, connection, pulling him in and making him feel whole. He closes his eyes slowly, leaving tender butterfly kisses on your cheeks, laying his weight on your hips, finally feeling at home in your warmth.
His bedroom eyes that search for you after a long day of loneliness. They find a leftover home cooked dinner, a dirty, handwritten post-it note on the placemat, things that remind him of what's been waiting for him. He quietly opens the bedroom door and finds you sound asleep, your eyes fluttered shut. And when he cuddles in behind you, your bedroom eyes flinch awake. Then soften, melting into his arms, a quiet moment of belonging, until his bedroom eyes gently close again in deep, peaceful sleep. His sheets aren't cold anymore.
i think in abo!supernatural jess would have been an omega too. sam just couldn’t be comfortable around alphas that weren’t his big brother, and jess made him feel safe, which is pretty monumental in sam winchester’s life. when dean comes to get him, he doesn’t bring it up, and sam is happy to avoid the topic. and after jess is gone, he has his big brother anyways. sam already has his alpha, so he doesn’t go out looking for anyone else, and they don’t talk about how sam was only with omegas for his entire college career. he has dean now, so what does something like that matter anyways?
i like to think that ppl come to farmer for comfort or jst to genuinely hangout... requesting sam coming to farmer's house in the middle of the night as he confides in them w hot chocolate / coffee / tea 👉🏻👈🏻
apple cider
pairing: sam x reader
wc: 1.6k
tags: MILD hurt/comfort, pre-relationship, they are friends here!!
synopsis: sticky summer nights always make you feel a little restless.
a/n: its been 2 months with no sam fic!!!! here is my sincere apology hehe. title from apple cider by beabadoobee. this ask is so cute anon mwa mwa
Nothing ever truly rests during the summer; not even during the night.
Fireflies flicker and fly, weaving through the sparse grass beds sprouting from under your porch. The dark is hardly dark, your eyes have adjusted to the sparse light emanating from your dingy porch light. Your cardigan is haphazardly thrown off, draped over the hand-carved trellis. Bare feet meet the grass; damp and cool against your heated skin.
Energy thrums through the air, electrifying it with the undercutting buzz that leaves you wide awake. The season leaves the nights tepid, leaving your skin sticky.
You can’t sleep; not one bit tuckered out after a whole day toiling the fields. Though your mind is blissfully blank, your hands are preoccupied with bringing your mug to your lips.
The cacophony of crickets chirping echo through the flat farmlands of your property. It’s quiet, peaceful. Yet you are wide-eyed and awake, sipping on herbal tea—a mixture of herbs from your crop beds—in the hopes you can knock yourself out.
You are hyper aware of your surroundings, unable to pull yourself into the sleepy state you want. You feel the sheen of sweat drying on your skin, the warm summer breeze tickling the nape of your neck, the sweet smell of almost-ripe melons growing on your farm. The rhythmic sound of trees swaying with the wind.
The odd sound of a twig snapping is enough to pull you out of your reverie.
Your gaze snaps to the side, past your mailbox and to the dark path leading to town. Eyes adjusted to the dark, you see vague impressions of familiar surroundings. You drag your eyes to and fro, scanning.
A head of blond hair flashes through the otherwise dark veil of night, lamplight catching the brilliant golden hues of it. Doubting your eyes you furrow your brow; squinting your eyes, shifting on the porch steps, aiming to get a clearer look. Your mug is forgotten on your lap.
The figure shifts, tilting their head upwards and towards your direction. Then blue eyes lock with yours, the warm light of your porch lantern illuminating his expression. Recognition dawns on your face—
“Sam?”
Sam stops mid-step, face contorting into shock that outdoes your own. He flails, struggling with his words as to why in the world he’s caught on your farm in the wee hours of the night.
Both of you freeze, staring at each other in silence. Your fingers tighten then loosen around your mug. A tight line is made out of your lips.
“What are you doing?” you ask, tilting your head in confusion.
“It’s not what you think!” he holds his hands up in immediate surrender. “I was walking, and—and, my mind was blank. I just followed the path, I swear.”
You blink, once then twice. “Sam—”
“And–and,” he blabbers, “I guess… your farm was the best bet… The safest.”
That eases the nervous pitter-patter of your heart. It’s rare you get anyone on the farm aside from Lewis this late. You’re relieved, perplexed by his skittish behavior. It goes against what you already know about him.
Your eyes crinkle whilst you squint up at him, giving him a once-over. Like this, he reminds you of a teenager caught red-handed, eyes practically bulging out of his head with anxiousness.
An amused chuckle slips past your lips before you register it, smiling. “Sam. Can I speak?”
Sam turns back to face you, finally still. It gives you a clearer look at his appearance. Wild flaxen locks are tapered down by the beanie shoved over his head. His shirt is inside out, hanging awkwardly on his frame. He looks like he just rolled out of bed.
“Oh—oh yeah… my bad.”
A hand goes to pick back up your mug. “You’re good.” You take a sip of your tea. “Plus, I’m not bothered.”
“Oh…” Relief lets his shoulders go lax with a puffed breath. Then he looks back at you, conflicted on his face. “Hang on...You think me walking into your private property is—nothing?”
You snort. “You’re the last person I’d think would be worried about that.”
Sam paces, rocking back and forth on his heels, sporting a grim frown on his face. His gaze drops back down to the path, kicking at the pebbles. You wince internally; he doesn’t seem in good enough shape for jokes. It tugs at your heartstrings, a deep sigh pulled from your mouth and out into the humid air.
“Kidding. But it’s really no biggie.” you wave off. “Come by whenever. I’m always restless during the summer.”
He stares, breathing uneven and nervous. “Seriously?”
You nod, unusually calm in the face of his supposed trespassing. “It’s a me problem. It’s too humid to sleep comfortably. I even get more tired once I wake—”
“No, I mean,” he interjects, eyes wide. “I can come over? Anytime?”
“Yeah,” you shrug, rolling the muscles in your shoulders. “I’d love your company.”
“But what if you’re busy?”
“You’ll have to help me in the fields, then.” you tease, eyes crinkling. “You’ve got good legs for it already.”
A grin cuts through the grim lines of his face, “Are you 100% sure?”
You nod, eagerly. “Mhm.”
“Ah,” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “That’s good. Super good. I wanted… well, I was kinda hoping to see you too.”
“Well now you’ve seen me.”
“Yeah, I’m glad. But ugh—I dunno, I guess my head’s a little messed up right now.” He runs a hand over his face, a frustrated groan along with it.
You watch him. There is never a part of him that keeps still, even now.
Maybe that’s why the words seem to come out so naturally when you’re with Sam. The restlessness—always grasping, bouncing, and shifting. “D’ya wanna come inside? Maybe it could help.”
“Yes, yeah. I want to.” he replies, instantly but then he double takes, checking in with you. “Can I?”
“I invited you too,” you laugh, pulling yourself up. “Calm down Sam, you’re fine.”
“Come in,” you call, pushing open your door. You do not turn and wait for him, traveling through the dark with the familiarity one has only in their own home.
You hear him pulling off his shoes by the doorway, then the padding of his feet trailing after yours.
Humming, you switch on your lamplight, propping it up on your kitchen table, pulling the chair back for Sam to sit in. You set your mug down on the opposite side.
The cabinet creaks when you swing it open, revealing your countless containers of seasonings and spices collected over the seasons. The rich smell of all of it mingling together wafts through your nose.
A pack of apple cider bottles stands by the cinnamon sticks, a welcome gift from months ago you haven’t gotten into yet.
You tilt your head back to glance at him, finding him sitting statue-still in your chair, then turn back to your cabinet.
“I have some apple cider, you want some?”
His eyes snap to yours, “Oh, yeah.”
Nodding, you tiptoe, grasping the glass bottle by the neck from the far end of the cabinet.
You sit the bottle down on the counter, popping off the cap with the flat edge of a knife. The cider fizzes, bubbling up until the neck then reducing. The sharp fruity scent of carbonation and apple mingles with the humid air. Sam takes it from your outstretched hand with a murmured ‘thanks’.
You sit opposite him. With your legs pulled up to your chest, you wiggle in your seat, leaning your cheek against your knees. Your eyes low as you cradle your own drink in your hands. Sam takes slow sips of the cider, the bubbles painting the edges of his lips then fizzing away.
It feels natural to watch him like this, like all normal neighborly decorum has flown out the window, making room for this—whatever this silent companionship may bring.
Curious, you break the veil of silence. “So what brings you here?”
Sam runs his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the stray drop of apple cider by the corner. His gaze goes faraway, eyebrows furrowing automatically without him aware. He’s silent as he thinks over your question, face contorting.
“Just—something at home, I guess. I wanted a breather.”
You swirl the string of your teabag, looking up from under your lashes. “Family stuff?”
“...Yeah, family stuff.”
You hum, voice low. You have a faint idea on what he’s talking about. Sam’s father, Kent, has been having a difficult time adjusting back to civilian life after being discharged—you heard.
Your eyes track over his form, his shoulder hunched and lower than you’ve ever seen them. Under the low light of your kitchen table, you pinpoint the signs of weariness marking his face—eye bags under his eyes and a perpetual wrinkle in his brow deep enough you see the shadow of it under his mess of hair.
“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel like it,” you simply say.
You look out the windows, eyes tracking the swirling the flickering lights of lightning bugs outside. Gaze low as you stew in silence. Your fingers tap idly at the table. You feel calmer, sleepier. That persistent buzzing under your skin dissipating into the boneless way you sit.
There will be more sticky summer nights like these, you’re sure. Maybe he’ll share what’s on his mind then but right now, you’re quite content with the silence. It cradles you like a refreshingly cool gust of air, tapering the heated expanse of your skin.
“Maybe next time,” Sam murmurs, staring into the steaming cup. “When I come over again.”
A smile unfurls on your lips when he raises his head to look at you. “When you come over again.”
Its very important to me that you share who your favorite driver is (or drivers I won't complain) and then yap about them <3
I always want to learn more about like pre 2000s f1 but that's also fifty years worth of information so it's nice (for me at least) to learn about what other people found interesting or have latched onto :))
hiya! i have a LOT of favorite drivers but the current is probably jody scheckter! the only ever f1 champion from the african continent (he raced for south africa), he won the 1979 title then proceeded to only score two points in 1980. he raced throughout the 70s, and actually witnessed françois cevert’s fatal crash at watkins glen. jody said later that seeing the aftermath is what caused the really sudden change in his driving style to be way more cautious!
