Normally when you did the puja for Diwali, Dean and Sam were out on a hunt for some monster from Hindu mythology that popped up out of nowhere— wonder why, hm? This time was different, Dean had stayed home while Sam was out, because he wanted to spend some time with his Desi girl on a day that’s supposed to be special.

Considerate, eh?

It surprised him when he came out from a shower, sweats low on his hips, bare chest — oh, oh, hello, there — to see you in full Indian glam and a sari. He’d never mentioned a sari before, for fear that he’d say it wrong, but oh, sweet hell, you looked so stunning— god, he was hypnotised easily by you.

He could’ve drooled right there and stayed frozen in time just watching you and your gorgeous self take out the earrings, diyas lit at the little makeshift temple you made, red lip, sari, all of it still on. Sure, you were sexy even in jeans and a bloodied shirt, or sweats plus a hoodie — but a sari?

“Holy shit, baby,” Dean breathed, dropping the towel he was previously using to dry his hair without even realising it, he just just too busy gaping at you. It was the first time he’d seen you in clothes from Desi culture, and he liked— loved it.

“Fuckin' hell.” He muttered, and yes, that’d sound derogatory, but he was actually reeling in his head because he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked. Like an actual goddess, it was so damn unreal, how you were so damn pretty and beautiful and stunning— he really needed to worship you.

Now.