gojo cannot handle spicy food. he just can't. when he has dinner at your parent's house for the first time, he's too embarrassed to ask for milk, so he just chokes it down, red-faced and teary-eyed. you couldn't handle watching that, so you got milk for 'yourself'. dryly, you asked him, 'would you like some, 'toru?' pfft. some. he guzzled the entire glass in two seconds flat. (and then three more after that.)
geto who loves spicy food. after a whole day of swallowing disgusting curses, the one thing he look forward to? flavor. jesus, he'll take anything. your parents love him for it. (you're also convinced his spice tolerance is higher than yours.)
nanami is okay with it. doesn't love it, doesn't hate it. if you ask him, pastries are more his thing, but he'd never waste food. his spice tolerance is in the middle. unlike gojo, he's man enough to confess to needing milk. his ego isn't easily bruised.
toji likes spicy food. (he'll also eat quite literally anything, but that's besides the point.)
choso doesn't take spice well. he'd eat whatever you made, (on the first date, you didn't take his spice tolerance in mind when you invited him over for dinner), just to please you. he's sweet like that. which is why you feel so bad for giggling whenever he's dying, you can't help that he's so cute. he'd definitely be begging for milk, no doubt.
sukuna is unbothered by spicy food. spicy food should be bothered by him.
Summary: You decided to change your hair and Sam is a big fan of it.
Warnings: very suggestive, comedy, swearing, somewhat cheesy, Sam is sweet then, well, more, and Dean doesn't wanna be there, no use of Y/n, no description of reader's facial features or body type
Rating: Mature/15+
Word Count: 600
A/n: I've never written a reader of a specific race before so I hope this is okay, any criticisms are more than welcome!
You'd been with the Winchesters for a while, hunting things, saving people, the whole deal, and you felt like a change. You and Dean were out on a supply run when he said he'd "be awhile" so he dropped you off in the middle of town. You were wondering around, trying to find something to do while Dean was, occupied, when you stumbled upon a salon. You decided to head in, feeling like you wanted to do something a bit different, and boy did you.
When Dean came back to pick you up, smile on his face, he saw red streaks flowing through your usual dark hair. His smile turned to shock instantly.
"You're um, red"
"I am"
"Like, really red"
"Well technically I could be more red but yeah, this is pretty red"
"Looks, nice"
You sighed, rolling your eyes "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing"
"Dean"
"Nothing!"
"Tell. Me"
"I just- I know Sam'll love it" He sighed, already predicting the afternoon ahead.
"Thank you? Damn, you're weird"
"Let's just go home, yeah?"
"Yeah"
You weren't sure why Dean reacted that way, you thought it looked great, the stylist thought you pulled it off, so why was Dean acting like you were wearing a huge carcass on your head?
But Dean knew. He knew just how much his brother would like your new look. At least, he thought he knew. He always did underestimate Sammy.
When you got back to the bunker, you and Dean carried the groceries in. Just as you were grabbing the last bag, Sam came up behind you. You could tell, because he covered up the sun. You were just about to turn around when you felt something honestly unnervingly familiar against the back of your head.
A gun.
"Don't move" He growled, like, growled, really?
"I-"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Dude!" Dean called out "What the fuck are you doing?!"
"She-"
"It's me, Sam!"
He recognized your voice of course, pocketing his gun again.
"Fuck, sorry I- you changed your hair"
"I did, is it that bad you wanna shoot me?"
"No! I- didn't- I thought you were intruder!"
"Because I changed my hair? I thought you went to Stanford"
"I did, I- it looks nice" He mumbled, almost shy, it was cute.
"It does?" You asked, absentmindedly running a hand through your hair.
"Yeah, red suits you" He smiled, stepping closer.
Dean rolled his eyes.
"Thanks" You grinned, just a little giddy at the compliment.
His hand came up, just shy of touching "May I?"
"Sure"
He ran gentle fingers through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear, cupping your face as he did so.
"You look, amazing"
You could feel your cheeks heat up a little before you saw the look in his eyes change, mixed hues eclipsed by black. He crowded your space just a little, his other hand finding your hip. His eyes shifted from your hair to your lips, blatantly, though you didn't really mind. At all.
In a blur, you felt his lips crash against yours, rough, bruising.
You barely heard Dean grumble something as he left. Turns out, he was right.
Both of Sam's hands drifted down, gripping your thighs as he held you up against him. In two long steps, you were against the wall, his mouth trailed down your neck, leaving hot kisses. He had to push your hair aside and it drove him wild. He carried you down the hallway, lips never leaving your skin.
When you got to his room and he laid you down on the bed, your hair splayed across the pillow and a low sound came from his chest. He hovered over you, hunger in his eyes when you spoke up, breathless.
a/n: this is request (here) by anon but omg, the amount of questions and research that went into this omgg so I hope you guys enjoy and that I didnât get anything wrong omg but literally I have like 5 Indian friends and like lots of friends around the world so I tried to ask them but all of them approved.
tags: ( batboys x Indian!reader)
DICK GRAYSON ââ .âŠ
Cultural Enthusiast: Dick loves learning about your culture and asks a million questions about the history and significance behind every tradition.
Loves Indian Food: He will absolutely insist on learning how to make your favorite dishes, though he might need a few tries to handle the spice levels. "Is this mild? Because it feels like lava."
Bollywood Drama Fan: He gets hooked on Bollywood movies. Expect him to belt out romantic Hindi songs after only watching the subtitles once. His favorite genre? Over-the-top romance.
Celebrates Everything: Dick will go all out for festivals like Diwali or Holi, decorating Wayne Manor and forcing Bruce to wear a kurta. ("C'mon, Bruce, itâs festive!")
Hyping Your Look: Anytime you wear a saree, lehenga, or traditional attire, heâs speechless, openly admiring you and saying, "How am I even real to have you?"
JASON TODD ââ .âŠ
Subtle Learner: Jason isnât the type to ask questions outright but will quietly research your culture on his own to better understand and appreciate it.
Obsessed with Snacks: Once he tries things like samosas, pani puri, or chaat, heâll never shut up about them and ask you to teach him how to make them. âIf I learn this, Iâll never go hungry again.
Festival Protectiveness: During Diwali, heâll hover around you to make sure youâre safe from fireworks and loud crackers. "Do you need earplugs? I donât trust this neighborhood."
Subtle Appreciation of Traditions: He loves when you tell stories of mythologies like the Mahabharata or Ramayana, quietly finding parallels with his own struggles.
Sassy Compliments: "You look like a goddess in that outfit, and Iâll fight anyone who disagrees."
TIM DRAKE ââ .âŠ
Loves the Details: Tim is absolutely fascinated by the intricate designs of your traditional clothing and the amount of work that goes into it. Heâll compliment every embroidery or bead.
Overthinks Gifting: For festivals or birthdays, heâll spend hours trying to find the perfect gift that honors your cultureâwhether itâs jewelry, sarees, or books on Indian philosophy.
Enjoys the Food Adventure: Tim has a terrible spice tolerance but will bravely try your cooking just to impress you, tearing up while saying, "This is delicious."
Cultural Festivals, Tech Edition: Heâll help set up fairy lights or use tech to create a synchronized light show for Diwali, because "plain candles are too simple."
Admires Your Strength: Tim secretly loves how strong your cultural identity is and feels inspired by your confidence in embracing your heritage.
DAMIAN WAYNE ââ .âŠ
Mutual Respect: Damian respects and admires the depth of Indian culture, especially its emphasis on family, art, and honor. Heâs intrigued by the philosophical aspects.
Desi Food Connoisseur: Out of all the Batboys, Damian handles spice the best and will genuinely enjoy dishes that others would find unbearably spicy. "This is not âtoo much.â Itâs perfect."
Loves Animals in Indian Mythology: Damian will listen intently when you explain the importance of animals like cows, elephants, or even Garuda in mythology, seeing them as sacred beings.
Precise Festival Preparations: Heâll research every aspect of your traditions to ensure he participates respectfully, whether itâs helping with rangoli or lighting diyas.
Secretly Protective: If someone mocks or misrepresents your culture, Damian will not hesitate to put them in their place. "You will show proper respect, or Iâll personally ensure you regret it."
BRUCE WAYNE ââ .âŠ
Tries His Best: Bruce doesnât know much about your culture at first but will make a genuine effort to learn, from attending festivals with you to eating spicy dishes without flinching even if it burns.
Helps with Family Relations: If your family is strict or protective, Bruceâs natural charm and respect will win them over. Heâll probably wear a sherwani to meet your parents.
Thoughtful Gestures: For Diwali, Bruce will make sure the Batcave and Wayne Manor are cleaned, organized, and decorated to your liking, even if it takes hours.
Admires Your Strength: Bruce will respect how deeply you hold onto your culture and traditions while navigating Gothamâs challenges, seeing it as a reflection of your inner strength.
in which . . . chris sturniolo's travels bring him to a marked place which he has never visited before. when he meets a perceptive young tour guide, he feels a change taking place. he's met someone who can see through his cold, carefully crafted veneer, and he's not sure if he likes it or not.
w.c. : 2.2k
one thing chris sturniolo never did was judge a country based on what he heard about it. other people's views were colored by their bias toward their own country, their pride, their love, their ego. chris sturniolo had none of those things, because he didn't have a country to call his own. he had felt at home in africa, in brazil, in australia, in thailand, in italy. he felt like he belonged everywhere - bungee jumping at victoria falls, hiking in the amazon, stargazing at the red center, watching muay thai fights, and exploring the colosseum. he enjoyed everything with all his heart, with his full focus, and full contentment. he never once thought about returning home, because the whole world was his home. and so, listening to other people complaining about africa's poverty, or whine about australia's heat made no sense to him. sure, those were problems a tourist might face, but the same people totally overlooked the problems america faced. and chris eventually learned that the only opinion he should trust was his own, and he made a promise to himself that he would never judge a place unless he had visited it.
that being said, one thing people said about india was absolutely correct: it was populated. chris felt amazed at the diversity he saw at the airport - hijabis, sages with sandalwood smeared on their foreheads, women with crying babies, men in business suits, old people, girls in short dresses. as he weaved his way through the crowd, he mentally outlined the travel plan he'd made in his mind. he'd already reached mumbai, where he would be staying for four days. then, he was heading to delhi for three days. calcutta was next, for five days. return flight to mumbai, for a simple two days, from where he would be going to america to visit his family. and he had a week-long trip to bali after that.
to anyone else, this pattern may seem tiring. but to chris, it was familiar, comfortable, regular. a stationary life was not one chris was used to. if anyone asked him about it, he would just say he liked to see the world, but deep down, he knew it was because he was a coward. he was scared of getting attached. sure, he'd visit one place many times, but he wouldn't stay there for more than three weeks. sure, he had favorites, but even those favorites were replaced almost monthly. the people marveling at his free life had no idea that this wasn't freedom - it was obligation. he was forced to leave, or he'd be forced to stay.
but that was the farthest thing from his mind right now. no, right now, he was focused on getting his suitcase from the luggage belt and booking an uber as soon as possible. he sent a quick text on the family groupchat, informing them that he had landed, before slipping his phone in his pocket, and making his way to luggage belt number 9. he bumped into a few people, apologizing instantly. he was either ignored, or a matching 'sorry' was tossed back at him. he made his way to the front of the crowd gathered around the belt, as if it was an a-list celebrity. chris craned his head to see farther, trying to spot his black suitcase among the sea of similar bags. it wasn't difficult to notice his bag, though. in fact, it attracted the attention of many other tourists, as it was covered in stickers from the various places chris had stopped by. he proudly picked up the bag from the luggage belt, his movements smooth and practiced, before walking to the exit gate, and booking an uber.
about fifteen minutes later, chris was seated in a comfortable sedan, the temperature cranked low, and an old hindi song playing from the radio. a dark, middle aged man sat in the driver's seat, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel as the car stood still at a red light. a slouching old woman tapped at the glass window of the car, begging for alms, and was waved off by the driver, but chris instantly rolled down his window and handed her a hundred-rupee note. the driver raised his brows at chris's generosity, but didn't comment on it.
chris was soon at his hotel, the tall modern structure exuding wealth and comfort. he paid the driver, tipping him lavishly, before making his way inside. the woman at the front desk smiled easily, her crimson lips parting to reveal perfectly white teeth. her pin-straight black hair was pulled in a bun, and her fair skin was dusted with blush. she handed chris his keycard, and requested him to leave his bags in the lobby, promising to get it transported to his room by one of the hotel porters. chris complied, and made his way to the elevator.
he reached his room - number 208 - and pressed his keycard to the sensor of the door. the door beeped, and a light blinked yellow. he pushed the handle down, and made his way inside. his room was spacious, with all the basic necessities. as promised, his bags stood neatly in a corner of the room. chris took off his shoes, and threw himself on the bed. it had been a long flight, and his seat was extremely uncomfortable. the soft white sheets provided great comfort to his aching body. he checked his travel plan. he had a guided tour to the gateway of india. his travel guide's number was at the end of the almost 15-page long pdf, with the name 'misty' under it. he contemplated it, before sending her a quick text, asking for the time he had to report to the site where the bus would arrive. she responded in mere seconds, requesting him to come at 5pm. chris checked the time. 2pm. he decided to skip lunch and take a nap before he left.
5pm rolled by faster than he expected. chris ran his fingers through his hair, brushed his teeth, pulled on a less wrinkled t-shirt, and made his way to the hotel lobby. a few other people were lounging on the couches, and the hotel staff was busy transporting bags, showing guests inside, and typing away on the computers near the reception. chris booked an uber to the location where he was supposed to meet misty and the team of tourists.
at 5:04, he reached the taj hotel. a group of twenty-something people already stood there. at the forefront was a young woman with a clipboard and a click pen, who was checking off names of the tourists. she was dressed in a white sleeveless kurti, with loose light blue jeans and flat sandals. an id card with her basic details hung around her neck from a blue lanyard.
she looked up and chris closed the door of the uber and made his way to the group of people. she smiled, wide and free, and chris grinned right back. "hey, are you here for the gateway of india tour?" she asked. "i am," chris confirmed. "you're misty, right?" she nodded. "and you must be chris?" he looked at her, clearly confused. "how'd you know?" "you're the only person left." he winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "sorry about that. i'm not exactly the most punctual." she waved his apologies aside. "it's fine. i'm usually late myself, so i can't blame you." misty assured, as she put on her headset mic.
she tested it a few times, and was finally satisfied. she turned to the other tourists who were conversing among themselves. they weren't all foreigners, chris noticed. there were women in tiny denim shorts, and men with polo shirts. misty clapped once to get their attention. "alright, everyone. first of all, welcome to mumbai!" she paused, grinning, as everyone cheered. "okay, so you first destination, aka the gateway of india, is just on the other side of this road, so everyone, let's form a cluster and cross together, cool?"
when the group agreed, and no car was in sight, misty crossed the road as if done a hundred times, which she had. and chris could now see the gateway. as they made their way through, misty kept talking. "the gateway of india was built in 1924 to serve as a reminder for king george v and queen mary's visit. it is constructed in yellow basalt, which is a kind of rock, and stands about 26 meters high. the last british troops departed from this gate in 1948." chris looked around, his trusty camera hanging around his neck. while others focused on taking pictures of the gateway itself, he focused on taking pictures of the life around the gateway - vendors selling magnets and keychains, pigeons bunched on the ground, pecking at grains some kind soul had thrown for them, dogs living on biscuits tourists fed them. capturing life around historical monuments was what made chris's pictures special, and was the reason why so many people were eager to have his work printed in magazines.
of course, that didn't mean he didn't take photos of the gateway itself. after all, it was why he came to colaba. he snapped detailed pictures, capturing the intricate carvings and the intimidating height. misty let them right under the arch, providing a sanctuary from the sun burning their necks, and the hot ground. misty allowed the tourists half an hour of exploration, as long as they all promised to meet up under the arch on time.
she stood there, checking her phone, as people moved around, chattering excitedly. chris looked back at her once. "aren't you gonna come out, too?" he asked. she looked up and smiled. "i've been seeing this place once a week, every week for a whole two years. the view gets boring if you look at it so often." chris's brows furrowed. he didn't like the idea of misty staying alone while everyone else enjoyed with their families, even if it was part of her routine. "well...if not for your sake, then for mine. come out with me? i'll get lonely if you don't." he added the last sentence in a teasing tone, which made her laugh. "i can't have one of my tourists getting lonely, now, can i?" she said, her eyes sparkling, as she made her way to the promenade with him.
they leaned on the promenade, chris capturing pictures of the calm waves and seagulls swooping low in the water. he was busy adjusting some settings in the camera, when he felt something cold and wet touch the back of his knees through his jeans. he jumped and peered down, and a brown stray dog looked up at him with pleading eyes. he looked at misty inquiringly. "they're super common here. if you want, you can buy biscuits from that vendor over there," she gestured to a man selling biscuits with her chin, "but they eat a lot throughout the day. they've gotten used to begging for food from visitors." she said, glaring mockingly at the dog.
still, chris bought a packet of biscuits - parle g or something - and fed the dog a few. in mere minutes, a whole pack of dogs was gathered around him, some eating right from his hands. when the biscuits were finished, he crumpled up the wrapper and tossed it in a basket. misty, who had been watching this whole interaction with a smile on her face, was now studying him carefully. "what?" chris asked, his tone slightly defensive. "you're a strange one." she noted. "how do you mean?"
"i mean, first of all, you fed stray dogs. most tourists just kick them away or get super scared." "well, maybe i just don't like seeing dogs starve to death." he argued. misty snorted. "oh, trust me, they are nowhere close to starving." her eyes were fixed on the same dog who begged chris for food go up to a white couple with its tail wagging. chris shrugged. "i felt bad, that's all." "and secondly, while most people took photos of the arch, you took photos of the street vendors, and pigeons, and dogs. why is that?" misty asked, her gaze curious. chris shrugged. "i always take photos like that. people glamorize the exterior, but they don't show the behind the scenes. they don't show the other good parts. if i took pictures like all the other tourists, my pictures would be like theirs. forgotten in an old album somewhere. taking pictures which focus on reality is what makes them stand out, what makes photography my profession. that's what makes people fight to have my pictures in their magazines."
misty hummed. "you're pretty cocky, huh?" chris laughed. "it's the truth. of course, there's better photographers than me, i'm mature enough to know that. but i also know that i'm a better photographer than the average person. and that's only because the average person doesn't care about the real things happening."
"you're really...straightforward." "i try my best. sugarcoating things has never been my strong suit." chris said, gazing out in the ocean, watching a seagull swoop down near the rocks.
misty hummed again. "well, for what it's worth, i think you're right. you're making a difference, chris. even if you do it in the glossy pages of some shitty magazine." she said, before moving away.
chris contemplated her words, before he understood the implication underneath him, and whirled around. "hey!" but she was walking away, turning around just to laugh at his mock-offended expression.
chris finally met his match.
a/n : please lmk if this is ass, this is my first time writing a series, and i've lowkey never read one, so...
Pairing: Theodore Nott x Fem! Indian! reader
WARNINGS: extreme cuteness, fluff and domestic bliss
Summary: You and Theodore Nott- and Indian and Italian together, loving each other in your own languages but somehow understanding each other perfectly. Flour fights and food HEAVEN (I mean come on, italian and indian food??? HEAVEN.)
Here you go lovelies <3
Sunday mornings at your flat had long since stopped being lazy. With you and Theo, they were loud. Chaotic. Delicious.
When he wasn't eating you, he was cooking you food.
There was flour on your nose and tomato sauce on his shirt. You were barefoot, hair tied up in a bun that was falling apart, and he was rolling dough with all the seriousness of a wizard crafting a love potion. The air smelled like garlic, ghee, basil, and cardamom all at once. You were making masala chai. He was making fresh gnocchi.
There was music playing, your playlist, naturally, and when a Hindi love song came on, you swayed in the kitchen just a little. Theo watches you from the counter, eyes soft. "Pagal ho tum," he murmurs, sounding hesitant and clumsy. Pronunciation completely wrong- he completely butchered the words- but the heart was there. You glance at him over your shoulder. "Excuse me?" you gasp, mockingly affronted, pouting.
"I said you're insane," he grins, adorably proud of himself, chest puffed out in pride. "Absolutely unhinged. Who sings while stirring hot milk?" he adds, instantly following it up with a soft kiss to your lips to shut you up before you can even start.
You toss a spoonful of flour at him anyway. He gasps like a pageant queen and throws a basil leaf back, smug.
Later, when you sit down to eat, you have two plates overflowing with fusion madness: gnocchi in pesto, masala chai and ginger, lasagna and naan. He rests his head on your shoulder and said softly, "Ti amo."
It's rare to see him relaxed like this- no pressure of the world, his family, those around him. It's even rarer to hear 'I love you' out of his mouth- and when you do, it's almost always hidden in his italian tongue. You know he loves you anyway.
You smile, warm and quiet. "Main bhi tumse pyaar karti hoon." You whisper, like it's some secret and not painfully obvious in the way you look at him with pure adoration.
Comfortable silence envelopes the two of you as you sip the hot tea.
"Meri jaan," you murmur after a beat, brushing your fingers through his curls, just because you can, as his face nuzzles into your neck until you laugh softly. "Mia vita," he said, voice muffled by your hoodie. "My life."
You laugh. "Hey, that's my line."
"No," he says sleepily, "you stole it."
You gasp. "I did not steal it. I called you that when you called me moglie in front of your parents. Wife, if you remember. Respect your wife."
"I've been calling you wife for the last year, baby." He protests, pressing sleepy kisses to your neck. "Ever since you wore that ugly sweater to our date just because I liked it."
"Hey now-"
"It was very ugly. I fell in love immediately." He says matter-of-factly, eyes dropping shut.
You push him off your shoulder and he dramatically collapses onto the floor like a fainting prince, tugging on your arm until you tumble down on top of him, arms wrapping around your middle like a band.
"Uth ja, shaitaan," you groan. "Up, you devil." He rolls over, blinking up at you. "You know I only understand half of what you say, right? But I feel all of it." You roll your eyes and help him up. He tugs you close again, like he can't stand not touching you, arms slipping around your waist. "Mia regina," he whispers. "My queen."
"Mere dil ka raja," you mock back. "Now shut up and eat before the cheese turns to rubber." He grins, kissing your cheek. "Yes, meri sherni."
You blink.
"You did not just-"
"I did." He says smugly. "Your mum taught me last time we visited."
You groan into your hands. He kisses the top of your head, then your cheek, then your jaw.
"Also," he adds, voice low, "I know how to say meri pyaari si ladki."
You freeze, cheeks flushing.
"My sweet little girl? Are you-" you turn to face him, squinting. "Are you trying to baby girl me in Hindi right now?" He raises an eyebrow, smug. "I'm trying. Am I doing it right?" You burst out laughing. "You're ridiculous."
"Mhm," He mumbles, face pressed into the crook of your neck, pressing a languid kiss to your collarbone.
"Teddy," you sigh fondly. "Pagal, sundar, shaitaan teddy." He smiles against your skin.
Song Inspiration and Lyrics: Love Story by Taylor Swift (mentioned in bold and italics)
A/N: This one's close to my heart đ. My dear friend, Hepza from Wattpad, had this challenge with me two years ago. She wrote about Indian Arranged Marriages, and I wrote about the Love Marriage version. These were my prompts: "I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse", Love Story by Taylor Swift, and any two Indian wedding traditions of my choice (they're explained in the chapter). If you want to give Hepza's version a go, you can find her on Wattpad - her version's amazing â€ïžâ€ïž.
Disclaimer: NOT ALL Indian parents are like how I've shown in this fic down here. Some are kind, supportive, and progressive. However, a few of these situations are derived from the real lives of a few other people I know: this is for them: I hope you all find your Deans, lovelies.
{ Dean Winchester Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }
Love Story King.
We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes and the flashback starts
I'm standing there
On a balcony, in summer air
You trode lightly on the gravel road that hugged the Bunker from the outside. The early summer sun shone on the black rocks like an aesthetic come true. Slight summer heat licked up your neck and spiraled down your spine as you stretched languidly. Closing your eyes, you spread your arms as if waiting for the morning gorgeousness of the backwoods to douse you like the wrapping ribbons of the wind. The snow was melting, and so were you. Your melanin-plus body was appreciative of the dying winter even if you were having an internal meltdown.
You spent November through January dodging the outdoors, telling Dean you didn't want to catch a cold. The poor man, alternatively, with his brother, braved the frost to go on supply runs. You repaid them with warm meals for their tummies, tummies that had been homesick for most of their lives.
Today, a slice of your home was joining you. You couldn't decide if you were more anxiously nauseous or anxiously happy to be seeing them after two years.
But it wasn't your mom's nagging calls that had finally dogged you into an agreement. Your parents wanted to meet their future son-in-law. You'd finally broken down and told them about him - your conscious couldn't let you marry Dean without at least their approval. You owed them a meet-and-greet because Indian or not, they'd helped take care of you all your life.
Right up until Dean came along and plucked you from the crowd.
You'd always been a hunter, so that kind of introduction to Supernatural 101 hadn't really been necessary in your case. And much to both yours and Dean's surprise, you two had clicked. You had just moved out of your parents' sheltered scrutiny when you bumped into Dean on a case - one thing led to another, and you ended up in each other's company so often that one day you two decided not to part.
'Good morning,' a tastefully gruff voice met your ear; it was a warning before two arms wrapped possessively around you.
You let out an indignant huff on being interrupted during Nature Time, but you turned into a puddle in his embrace - where you felt the safest. Accepted, loved, and at home. Before Dean, you didn't think of those words as synonymous.Â
'Fill up on all that affection,' you mumbled, resting your head back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the side of your hair before lowering his head into your neck so that the scraggly scruff of his cheek tickled your skin ever-so-lightly. He brushed his lips to the juncture where your neck and collarbone met as he hummed, making a shiver run down your spine.
'Tell me why again?'
He laid a series of kisses on your shoulder, trying to make you forget your dumb rules. You also saw the tint of nervousness in his voice, through the relaxed gait he'd forced onto his body.
You smiled sadly. 'It's not allowed - hugging, or even holding hands before marriage. Much less kissing, or . . . sex.'
When you broke that news to Dean two weeks ago, you didn't know who had been more annoyed about it: him or Sam; mostly because Dean constantly complained about it, much to your amusement and Sam's horror. Dean had also been "making up" for the lost time about to happen, once again, to Sam's absolute misery.
Not that you had been exclusively and actively seeking out that "act" before meeting Dean - in fact, he'd been your first - but you did like . . . canoodling with him. You were the more one-man-woman kinda person - literally in everything. And you'd known that when you had given yourself to Dean, he would be it for you. Meanwhile, that was still unacceptable to your family. So, this visit was essentially going to be "fake it till you can make it" kinda altercation.
'I know it's supposed to be honourable,' he commented, placing another kiss up your neck. 'I just think it's stupid. I mean, what if you marry a person and you have no chemistry?'
You smirked. 'You're just upset about no sex for a week with me.'
'Of course. That, too. You're downright edible.'
It elicited a stuttering giggle from you. He turned you in his arms to see you for himself, and you snaked yours around his neck.
His freckles shone in the sun, like red polka dots for handsome faces. His cupid's bow dipped his upper lip downward, which you really hoped your kids would inherit one day. Some days you it was a tough decision to consider: what's more adorable about Dean - his dimples when he was smiling with his heart on his sleeve, or his glittering forest gems that highlighted between his crow's feet when he looked down at you as if you'd hung the moon.
He was giving you that look now. It prompted a shy, bashful smile of your own.
'I've told you before: chemistry doesn't matter,' you responded to his question. 'You aren't marrying them because of their . . . "skills", but more because you're promising them the rest of your life - despite anything.'
Once upon a time, he would have teased you for your inability to say the word "sex" so casually - one of his favourite pastimes was poking you out of your shell - and what he loved even more was that you often ventured out . . . only for him. He knew what a special pedestal he'd been put on in your heart, and it meant the world to him.
However, today he didn't have it in him to lure you out with sweet nothings. He nodded absent-mindedly, still recalibrating his mind around the fact that he won't be able to say that word for the next week either if he didn't want to be rejected.
If your five-year-long relationship had been anything to go by, you two have a multitude of differences that set you both seas apart, literally. It's evident you two've been a product of generations that belong to different continents altogether, but why should that stop love from blooming? If only Dean could get that across, everything would be all right.
'I'm having flashbacks,' you whispered.
'Of?'
'Our relationship,' you admitted.
He frowned. 'Why?'
'There are thirty-seven things in the Bunker right now that they can disapprove of.'
'That's specific,' he chuckled.
'I'm serious,' you chided. 'Sam has long hair, we have guns taped under the dining table, and don't even get me started on the torture chamber behind the archives. If my snooping mother finds it, you can say goodbye to all our dreams and hopes.'
Dean tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He knew you wouldn't leave hi,m and he also knew how painful it would be for you to marry him without your parents' blessing. Your relationship with them was complicated; it reminded Dean of his own relationship with his father. Family can rip you apart, but you still want to keep it together; Dean didn't want it on his conscience that he didn't even try to support you through it.
He tugged your chin up and gazed into you with a seriousness that the man reserved for special occasions. 'You know I love you. By the end of this week, they'll know no man, or woman, will love you more than I can.'
You strained on a smile and forced yourself to revel in his optimism. You kissed his palm softly.
'Yeah, they're humans, after all - they'll see it,' you hoped. 'And I love you, too. So damn much.' It was your habit to say it back; you couldn't not.
See the lights, see the party. the ball gowns
See you make your way through the crowd
And say, "Hello"
Little did I know
That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles
You welcomed your parents into the Bunker with a huge smiles. It was nice to see them after such a long time. Greetings were passed around, and Dean and Sam had gone as far as to lean down and touch your parents' feet.
It was an Indian thing to touch your elders' feet to seek their blessings, and you were simply surprised that they even remembered it was a thing. You were fighting tears of joy and sheer overwhelming by the time your Mom happily hugged them like her own kids. At least they'd won her heart just a smidge. While the boys backed away to take their bags, you had started leading them down, subtly fanning your face to stem the tears right where they were.
Your parents levied one question after another on you - mostly catching up about hunting (they were hunters, too - it was a family business), then they asked how America was treating you, and you questioned them about their flight before they finally steered the conversation to the reason they were here.
A few days back, Dean had proposed - he'd gone and done the whole nine yards, the champagne, a classy restaurant, beautiful music in the background, and the most breathtaking ring you'd probably ever seen in your entire life. Or maybe, it was just the man who'd been holding it.Â
But you hadn't been able to say yes.
It led to one of the largest fights the two of you had had, but it ended with Dean demanding you reveal everything to your parents if it was such a bone of contention for you. Your paralysing fear had only been swayed when Dean later confessed that it felt like you were ashamed of him. You decided the world could screw itself, but you wouldn't let him feel that for a single second more.Â
That had been four days ago. Now your parents were here, in your space.Â
'So, you live here all alone, Y/N?' your father said with a slight edge to it.
Tread carefully, all the alarms in your head screamed at you - for this was where the beginning of the end started.
'Oh, no. This is, uh, Sam and Dean's place.'
Another look was exchanged between your parents. Oh, how you hated that look! You stuttered to dispel their worries. 'I just . . . you guys were coming over, and my house couldn't have held us all, so Dean offered . . . while you were here.'
You were a grown-up woman, for God's sakes, that lied for a profession - you should have been able to say it better than that, right?
Right.
Luckily, you'd cleared all the lies with boys beforehand, so they knew what to do in case you weren't able to hold your own.
So, even if you'd lived at the Bunker practically ever since you left your parents', they really didn't need to know that. Because forget handholding - living in close quarters with a man before marriage was a sin, and these were two strong, bulky-ass men who could manhandle you around even on their worst days (you bet this was what your father was thinking). If they found out the truth, they would declare you dead to all your family, friends, and relatives.
Dean swooped in when it seemed like you'd jammed. 'We have a lot of rooms here. I wanted you guys to be comfortable. Especially now that we're going to be a family.' He stepped up beside you and was going to put his arm around you, but the way you stiffened reminded him to keep his hands to himself, so he tucked them awkwardly in his pockets, shooting them a charming smile as a replacement.
Your Mom shot him an uncomfortable smile. 'Oh, dear, that's sweet of you. But you didn't have to go to such trouble.'
'Nonsense! Please, you're welcome here.'
Your parents didn't look convinced.
They had evolved barely to welcome the different societal norms of the culture Dean was a part of, but the idea of a love marriage was a new level even for them - heck, they were just getting used to the fact that women could drive cars.
'We should eat!' You clapped your hands and smacked your lips.Â
'Yeah, good idea,' Dean breathed out, taking a lead as he often did. 'Why don't you show them the restrooms, sweetheart, and their rooms? I'll get the food; Sammy'll set the table.'
Before you could glare at your boyfriend for the very suggestion, your Mom was already protesting. 'Absolutely not!'
The ever-active brothers who were already in motion froze in their places with confusion and slight fear. The kitchen was the one place where your mother's voice rose - it was sad she'd rearranged her life around that one room, not that you had any say in that. You also realised that the boys lost all the little respect they'd gained in your mother's eyes. With your father, they went negative.
'Why would you work in a kitchen, Dean?'
Dean looked sincerely befuddled. 'Ex-Excuse me?'
Your mom looked at you as if she was waiting for you to yell "Buzinga" or something to prove this a joke - you half wished you could. You may not have gone over this with the brothers, but you were an Indian daughter, and you'd be remiss if you didn't have a suitable lie ready for it.
'Well, the boys have lived alone for most of their lives,' you were quick to supply. 'They're used to working for themselves, Maa.'
Both the Winchesters shot you a look of incredulity at that explanation.Â
'Papa, Maa, why don't you take the boys with you, and relax, huh? I'll handle everything.'
That brought a smile to their faces, and they loosened the muscles slightly. Your father patted your mother's shoulder (they weren't even too affectionate after so thirty years of marriage) while Sam followed them with slight reluctance.
Dean doubled back to follow you into the kitchen, where he hissed in a lowered decibel. 'What is this?'
You sighed. 'Indian men are the breadwinners, women work the households - sometimes even the women who work, actually.'
'That's just stupid,' he was quick to aide.
You couldn't even begin to count how many times Dean had said that about the Indian way of doing things. You loved him for it, actually - he hated all the regressive things you did, but he was a willing participant in the traditions that made your culture beautiful - he happily walked the balance for you, like the little girl in you had wanted your partner to.Â
'Look, just, work with me here,' you begged. 'I haven't been able to cover everything with you guys, okay? And this is just for a couple of days.'
'But that's a couple of days of you working alone,' Dean said with upset - you know how he took sharing everything with you to heart, and you adored him for that. It was a relief to be with him after the kinds of marriages you'd seen in your household, but you needed to do this if you wanted approval.
You smiled ruefully at him as you brought out dishes. Dean's hand came out to pick up the cutlery before you slapped it away, and he glared at you.
You retorted with: 'Go, Dean. I'll be fine. Trust me - for my parents doing all the household work alone is almost as important as having a college education.'
You could see he was struggling with that new information.
'Now leave, or they'll think you're helping me.'
'Oh, God forbid, you're actually taken care of,' the sarcasm was real.
You smirked before something occurred to you, and your expression turned to one of reprimand. 'Oh! And we're lucky my parents didn't notice it, but don't call me "sweetheart".'
'What, now, they have a problem with nicknames?!'
You could already see this week being too much, but you decided to inhale before you calmly explained. 'Well, yes. It's weird to call a woman with any nickname before marriage, unless of course it's a legal nickname.'
'That's justâ'
'âStupid,' you completed. 'I know.'
He seemed genuinely nettled, so you cut him some slack: 'You can say it to me when we're alone? Just . . . watch everything you do in front of them, okay? It's like fighting a monster - you must watch your every move lest you want yourself to be vulnerable to their attacks. They are vicious when they want to be - nearly as bad as sorority girls, I suppose,' you said, trying an expression more suitable to his understanding.
'Seriously?'
You smiled at him pleadingly, and Dean left with a huff, muttering under his breath.
But you appreciated him going the effort. Dean is a wonderful man, and once you passed through this week, you were sure the rest of your lives were going to be amazing.
And my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet"
But you were everything to me
I was begging you, "Please don't go"
A knock on the door pulled you from your reverie. You put down your reading glasses to see your mother push it in before you could allow the person inside. Frankly, you were just grateful she knocked before barging in. Getting that habit instilled in your parents was equivalent to getting a child potty-trained.
You smiled softly at your mother and the warm grace she seemed to pull into the room. You felt a nostalgia towards her; you'd missed her, even if it was only a little.Â
'Hey, Maa. You and Papa settling in okay?'
'Oh, yes. I unpacked everything. Your father caught on that new show,' she said with a tint of bitterness. Yet if you pointed out, you'd be the bad guy, so you didn't. 'You?' She came to sit beside you on the bed, and you staved off the annoyance that came with the invasion of personal space, making room for her.
'Yep. So. What are you doing here?'
'Oh, I just, we haven't had the opportunity to talk in the longest time . . . And now you're getting married!'
You forced a smile. 'Uh huh. Yeah. Thanks for giving Dean a chance, by the way. It means a lot to both of us.'
'Oh, sure. Sure,' she waived it off, and you felt a tingle of discomfort go down your spine. 'You two crazy kids must be in love if he's willing to put up with your extra curves.'
The last few years with Dean had taught you to take offense at things like that. He cured what he'd called your "sorry syndrome" - it was so bad that when a person told you not to apologise so much, you apologised for apologising so much. A trait of your mother's and a gift of your childhood. However, it had been five years.Â
So, instead of shrinking down in shame, which would have been your old self's go-to, you actually scoffed, 'Pardon?'
'Oh, you know,' she said sweetly, casually, looking down at your body in distaste. 'It's almost like you're already married - you seemed to have stopped watching your weight.' She had the audacity to laugh in the end. Her own hands were clutching her stomach as if she were trying to hide her own bulge.Â
Embarrassment colored your cheeks beet red. 'Mom,' your voice took a sharpness that made even Dean grimace most of the time - but your mother remained obliviously uncaring of your feelings and happiness.
'Oh, honey, don't look at me like that,' she chided as if you were the one who had it all wrong.
Sure, you may have gained a couple of pounds, but you were still well within the weight range that a person of your height should be at. Just because you didn't have a flat stomach didn't make you unlovable. . . .
'I don't want to talk about this,' you reeled in your emotions to stop them from disrupting your steadfast voice.
If you want to insult someone to death diplomatically, your Mom would be a good teacher.
'Oh, there's no shame in talking about weight; isn't that what girlfriends do?' she nudged.Â
It was pathetic that she thought that that was what being your kid's friend meant. What was even more pathetic was that it stemmed somewhere from her need to be young, more than being a supporting star in your life.
The most pathetic thing, you ask? That you actually thought you missed her.
You cringed. 'There's nothing to talk about. Dean loves me for who I am.'
She gave you a sceptical look. 'Are you sure, sweetie? Look, Y/N, he's a man of . . . Western Culture,' she said it as if that were a despicable status to have.Â
'We've been talking about that,' you gritted. 'Not all Western Culture is British - not that all the Britishers are wrong.'
'Oh, now you're going to teach me, are you?' her eyes flashed. 'How old do you think you are? I'm your mother. Who do you think is more intelligent here? My parents were in the Dandi March that Gandhi led to get something as simple as salt for his countrymen! And you think you know how the British were, better than me . . . ?'
You tuned her out for a bit. There was only so much you could listen to as she used Gandhi, a brilliant man, by the way, who became one of the original topics of conversation between you and Sam, for her own means. Parents used stories to control their children, at least in your household.Â
'And that's not even the point!' she spat, bringing you out of your reverie onto a point that isn't her bragging about being wiser simply because she's older.Â
'Dean's . . . an orphan. He didn't have the hand of his elders over his head. And I'm pretty sure he's had sex way before you. I mean, has he even agreed to wait? For you?'
You were so flustered by the point of sex - the first time you'd heard your mother use the word - that you couldn't address how her "orphan" point bothered you, like a knife in your back might.
'Yes!' you lied. Well, partially lied. The part about Dean waiting for you, as soon as he knew you both had feelings for each other, was true. But it was your decision and yours alone when you told him you were ready for the next level. 'Dean's a gentleman, Maa,' you punctuated - this part was a hundred percent true though.
Your mother was yet to be convinced. She pulled out from the pockets of her fully unrevealing nightgown, a few photos, and nausea seemed to climb up your food-pipe the second you realised what that could possibly be.
Your eyes widened in betrayal as she confirmed your suspicions. 'These are a few Indian men your father and I have been talking to, sweetie-'
'No,' you shot out of your bed in revulsion at even the thought. 'What the . . . I love Dean!' You choked on the word "hell" there in the middle. 'You came here to give him a chance!'
'Be that as it may, you're still a kid, Y/N! You don't have the experience of the world - listen to me, just go through them.' She pushed them in your face.
You blinked back your predictable swell of frustrated tears because you didn't want to give her another reason to insult you. 'Why are you doing this?' your voice wavered. 'I don't want another man. I'm in love with Dean. You told me you'd get to know him-'
She sighed (cutting you off) as if she had to explain everything to her dumb little child. 'Look, now that I know you aren't tainted, I'm sure these men will be willing to accept you. It's not too late for you, sweetie. You just fell in love, you didn't indulge in . . . sin,' she said the last word as if it were taboo.
It took you a long second to process her words, "tainted", "sin", and a few more underlying insults in less than five sentences.
You were sick to your stomach. You couldn't actually believe this was your mother - a woman who was supposed to accept and love you no matter what. What surprised you more was how much you held onto hope every time, and how it was that much deeper that they hurt you. Every. Time.
'What the hell is wrong with you?' left your mouth before you could stop yourself.
'Y/N, language!' she gasped as if you'd just told her to fuck off.
You lassoed your temper enough to not let another angry word wander out of your mouth, and you subsequently fled the room. You were faster than her and practically raced down the hall, ignoring her calls for you to get back.
Tears were already streaming down your face by the time you reached the library, and you almost jumped out of your skin when Dean's warm voice sought you. 'Y/N, do you want to join us for a beer?'
You made an abrupt halt, and it was then that Dean noticed your tear-stained face. He was already on his feet and approaching you to comfort you when you let your frustrations loose on him.
'I would love a beer, Dean,' you said ironically, 'But I'm not allowed one. Because I'm still a little kid, and my parents think we're making a mistake by getting married!'
He was shocked at your outburst. He glanced back at the other two men in the room, who looked slack-jawed at you.Â
The oldest man in the room gained a furious glint in his eye as he schooled himself. 'Young lady, you need to calm down,' he ordered with restrained emotion.
'Calm down?! Calm do-!' you inhaled sharply. 'How could you do this to me!?' you cried out. 'I love Dean! And you guys knew this, but here you are trying to sell me off as a virginal, all-in-one, ready-to-be-the-mother-of-their-babies woman to a couple of losers I don't even know!'
A hurt look filtered through Dean's expression, and he longed to reach out to you and calm you down himself, but he didn't want to fuel the fire. He hated how they've been treating you, and he's starting to see your point about them driving you crazy.
It hadn't been one whole day, and they'd made you cry so. His heart took a hit everytime he peeked a look at your face. He hated this. He was starting to hate them.
Your father rose to his best height - and once upon a time, you would have shrank away from that intimidating pose that he managed to cut - but you could see it now; your boys towered over even him. And suddenly, you weren't scared of this man anymore - the one who'd controlled your and your Mom's every decision.
'The boys we've been looking for you are all perfect for-'
'That's the thing - I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse!' you essentially screamed.
Holy shit, I just yelled at my father.
But even that wasn't good enough to stop you. 'And if you can't realise that . . . ' you shook your head at a loss for words, panting, as you rushed up the stairs and out of the Bunker.
Dean only waited for a courtesy second before he bolted after you.
And I said
"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone
I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run
You'll be the prince, and I'll be the princess
It's a love story, baby, just say yes"
Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel
This love is difficult, but it's real
Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.
It's a love story, baby, just say yes
Dean knew you like he knew the back of his hand. On foot, without a car, there's only a handful of places your laziness would allow you to walk towards. So, it was no surprise when he found you at a quiet clearing in the Bunker's nearest bunch of woods. You'd gained a habit of storing a blanket and some reserve food in the trunk of a tree that you'd found a hole in. And he knew his money had been in the right place - you were already on the picnic blanket, sniffling as you'd rolled into a ball, trying to comfort yourself.
He sat down silently beside you and pulled you in his arms, tugging till you were fitted snugly between his legs. Then he tried to coax your hands away from yourself, and you broke down sobbing as you released the hold on yourself and caught him in a hug that tight.
He returned the embrace, letting you curl into him as you let your angry tears out. As you let the pain flow. He rocked you from side to side slightly till your full-blown sobs were down to smaller body wracks.
He was curling and uncurling his fingers through your soft, recently washed hair. And it was only when you could hear more than your own voice that you noticed him speaking soothing words to you, even occasionally pressing a feather-light kiss or two atop your hair.
'I thought,' you gasped, clutching the drenched shirt on his chest, 'I thought, maybe this time they'd be proud of me. This time they would approve of my choice.'
Dean waited, you continued.
'Y-You're the best thing about me, Dean,' you swallowed. 'All my life, all my decisions have revolved around their choices, their approval. Everything they wanted. But you . . . you're so perfect. How could they ever find a flaw in you?'
Dean frowned at the choice of your words, and as he often did, he disagreed, deciding to take issue with your words. He pinched your chin between his fingers and made you look up into his eyes. 'You're perfect as you are, Y/N.'
'My parents don't think so.'
'I do.' He wiped the wetness on your cheek, 'Fuck, sweetheart, I want to marry you; I want to start my own family with you, I want you to be the mother of my children - that's gotta mean something, right?'
You blew out a breath. 'I just don't know what to do anymore - I guess, I guess . . . maybe I was . . . I was trying to get them to . . . accept me, for once. I fought with you for that. I mean, what the fuck?!'
Dean ducked down his head, and kissed the saline over your mouth, releasing it a second later to kiss your left cheek, then the other one, and then leave several other butterfly kisses in his wake all over your face, just trying to calm you down.
When your breathing had seemed to get even, and you looked to have calmed down a great measure, Dean finally spoke. 'What do you wanna do, sweetheart?'
You huffed, looking down at your hands. 'Ideally? We should elope.'
He had to chuckle. 'Oh, yeah? That's not very Indian of you,' he poked your tummy, and you glared up at him softly.
'They're never going to agree to this. Us. And I'm not marrying someone they choose . . . some asshole hunter who thinks he's got all the ladies of the world wrapped around their little finger - I've already got one of those.'
'Hey,' he looked you in warning, but both of you knew his gaze held no heat behind it.
You shot him a sweet, mischievous smile, and he narrowed his gaze at you, before he articulated what he wanted to say to you, '. . . Look, I-I don't want you to regret anything. We can't simply sail off into the sunset. If that were possible, we would have already done that.'
You pouted. 'Really? I was already looking for castles on far-off islands where I could be a Princess, and you'd be my Prince.'
'I thought you didn't want a Prince Charming.'
'What I want,' you grasped the open ends of his flannel, 'is to have a life with my one true love, and to not be told how I'm supposed to feel.'
He couldn't resist a peck to your pouty lips, and he tightened his hold on you. 'Alright. You'll have all of that. But after we give this another try, okay? If I can, I want to give everything to you.'
You sniffled. 'Am I asking too much of you? I know we shouldn't care what our parents think. That this is about us.'
'This is more than that,' he said. 'You want your entire family to be there on your wedding day. I get that. I wish my whole family were there, too, you know?'
You gulped your sadness and cupped his cheek. 'I know.' You nuzzled your warmed-up face into his neck. 'I think . . . somewhere I want them to celebrate you too,' you whispered. 'It's silly, but I want to be the family you miss. I want to be there for you. I, too, want to give you everything I have - and if that's crazy relatives, you're gonna have it!'
He half-smirked. 'Well, aren't you nice?' He kissed your forehead with fervor, then he rested his head against yours. 'I love you.'
You kissed him in retaliation, fierce and loving. Long enough that both of you were panting by the time you parted.Â
'We'll go in after a few minutes,' he murmured against your lips.
You snickered. 'Papa giving you a hard time, huh?'
'Shhhh,' he pressed another kiss to your hairline, and you had to smile at his avoidance tactic - you knew he was trying not to complain about your parents, and that was legit downright sweet. 'Let's not talk until we're ready to head back, hmm?'
'I can live with that,' you whispered.
I got tired of waiting
Wondering if you were ever coming around
My faith in you was fading
When I met you on the outskirts of town
And I said
"Romeo, save me, I've been so alone
I keep waiting for you, but you never come
Is this in my head? I don't know what to think"
You beamed down at the new designs covering the expanse of your hands right up until your elbows - front and back.
As compensation for forcing you, your parents had tried to make amends - extremely begrudgingly, mind you; and after hundreds and hundreds of talk sessions with Sam and Dean, they had been prepared to finally, completely, and wholeheartedly accept this relationship.
Months. Took you two eight months, precisely.
But it was worth it.
And you didn't know who had been happier with this development - you or Dean; for once, they'd been treating him more like a son than they'd ever treated you like a daughter - gender dynamics, yada yada.
For your sake, the boys tried not to show how obviously they enjoyed their attentions, and your mom's spoiling attitude towards "her boys", but you were glad that your boys were finally getting the love and care they deserved. If your parents are overstrict, they are also overcaring, and it usually plays out in favour of guys. You'd had enough of their involvement for a few lifetimes, so you were just happy to sit back and watch them choose Sam and Dean over you. For sure, some little part of you wished they'd treated you like that when you were a kid, but you'd take the brother's happiness any day.
After all, you shouldn't be too surprised - it was practically a trope to treat the in-laws better than your own kids. And if the in-laws were men, you stood no contest.
But even your mother's pestering and nagging couldn't upset you today.
After dodging most of your relatives' rooms who'd taken up residence at the Bunker for the wedding that was in three days, you'd managed to sneak into Dean's room. It wasn't like most of them were up anyway - it was way late in the night, and everyone had crashed after the Music Night (also known as Sangeet in India) that was a custom before the weddings.
Dean was already ready for bed, in his sweatpants, and was pulling on his t-shirt for the night.
You let the door click back softly, and it was a testament to how tired Dean must be if he didn't notice you up until now.
'Hey, handsome.'
He whipped around with his gun pulled on you, and his eyes went wide. 'Y/N! Dude, don't do that! It's bad enough most of your relatives don't know the concept of knocking!'
You let out an evil giggle. 'Aw, did I scare you? Do you need a hug? Do you need me to tuck you in?' you used your baby voice on him.
'No,' he replied in order, 'yes, and yes!'
You laughed this time, holding your hands behind your back this entire time. 'I have a surprise for you first,' you told him in a sing-song voice.
'Really?' he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
'Geez, get your mind out of the gutter! You just said, none of my family knows how to knock.'
'Well, fortunately, I know how to lock,' he looked at you meaningfully. 'Blows your mind, doesn't it? The science of locking?'
Your body vibrated with laughter, and your cheeks throbbed from smiling so much. 'You're incorrigible; but no, that's not the surprise.'
'Then?'
'Close your eyes.'
He sighed in a manner that said, "the things I do for you". You locked the door behind you just for a few moments of privacy (didn't stop Dean's devious smirk from growing) as you drew closer to your man.
You draped your newly colored hands over his shoulders in a gesture you'd lost count of how many times you'd already performed, and it was pure instinct when he returned the hug, keeping you close to him, attaching you to his hip.
'Open 'em,' you softly told him.
He looked down at you instantly, smiling first at your proximity before his eyes drew to the gorgeous shade of brown patterns smattered across your forearms and palms, a fragrance tickling his nostrils as he tried to guess which new tradition he was being privy to now.
'Is that permanent?' came the first question as his own palms came to capture your wrists and have a closer look as his cute brows furrowed curiously.
'No. It's called mehendi.'
He shot you a questioning glance as he turned your hand to get its full experience.
'A heena tattoo,' you clarified. 'It's temporary. You apply it like paint to your hands, sometimes legs. When the first layer peels away, only its hue is left and that amazing smell . . . it was one of my favourite things as a kid, to get mehendi done.'
'Why?' he asked, loving the childlike glee you displayed when you talked about this.
'Because they said, the darker the color of your mehendi, the more your man will love you,' you grinned.
'Oh.' But it didn't have the effect you were expecting on Dean. He frowned and looked down at you in earnest. 'But then why would you wear it at our wedding?'
'What do you mean?' getting anxious that, perhaps, he didn't like it - the wedding was in three days, and this was not going anywhere till two weeks at least.
'I mean . . . do you doubt how much I love you that you needed to put this on? I mean . . . What if it's not dark enough now? Doesn't mean I don't love you.'
You wouldn't have been able to fight the smile even if you tried, and boy, you tried because Dean seemed sincerely hurt by that. You turned your hands so that they rested face-up in his palms, and then, on both hands, you pointed at two distinct spots, making him squint to understand.
'Wait . . . is that myâ?'
'When you get married, you write the groom's name amongst the designs to show that your mehendi came true. Only the man you love the most has the honour of going up on your hands in Mehendi,' you informed.
And Dean bit his lip, as his ears turned pink. 'All right, that's awesome. Can . . . Can I also put it?'
An unadulterated laugh burst out of you.
The dirty blond-haired man blushed harder, trying to understand what incited that reaction. 'What? I want to honour you, too!'
You're heart fluttered, and millions of butterflies took off in your stomach, your love swelling up in your chest to the point that you weren't sure you would be able to contain it anymore.
'You would do that for me?' your voice was gently disbelieving, and Dean could have sworn he saw tears shining in your e/c irises.
'Only if it's okay with you.'
You cupped his face in your hands. 'You can do it - just don't let any of the elders see it.'
'Why not?' his nose scrunched adorably.
'They'll think you're gay,' you chuckled.
He rolled his eyes slightly as he rested his forehead against yours. 'Oh, but sweetheart, what I'm about to do to you is so not gay.'
He pressed his lips passionately to yours, and let's just say you didn't get to leave the room like you'd originally planned you would.
He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring
And said
"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone
I love you, and that's all I really know
I talked to your Dad, go pick out a white dress
It's love story, baby, just say yes"
There was only one other thing that proved a bump on the road to the wedding.
It was a day prior to the big day.
Your parents had cornered Dean and Sam into the library and insisted that this was more important than sleep; probably even more important than the wedding itself.
The brothers had shared a worried look, and Dean told them that he'd call you too, but your father only demolished that idea by deeming you a child, and he said that there was no possible requirement for you in an adult conversation, quote-for-quote.
Sam had been a huge calming factor to Dean's flaring temper during interactions with your parents. The younger brother, even now, had to temper Dean's rage with a warning look, and a comforting hand on the shoulder that said they were too close to the wedding to let anything ruin it.
And Dean at least agreed with that part.
Although the boys had been loving how well-treated they seemed to be once your parents warmed up to them (and how they also bought into the several lies that Dean and Sam had to pave the way with to the wedding) - it hadn't gone unnoticed in Dean's eyes how you were still treated more like an object being given away rather than his fucking bride. He hid his annoyance well from you, so it wouldn't put you in a tough position.
Sometimes he couldn't believe how unfair that system was towards women, and it was absolutely horrible as to how the woman he considered his world was nothing but an object to be disposed of in some people's eyes.
It was hurtful, and Dean's admiration for you had skyrocketed ever since he saw what kind of shit you'd had to put up with all your life - and how, despite it all, you'd turned into such a beautiful human being - one he could see spending the rest of his life with. One he craved to be with, one he prayed to God for, one he'd always dreamed of.
He wasn't saying that his culture was any better - if anything he probably also condoned it to a great extent - because the thing is, and this was his strong belief, culture shouldn't make people simply for the reason that people make culture; why should one person's thoughts confine another person's actions in such a demeaning way?
He'd sworn to himself that he would treat you like you actually deserved for once - not that he wasn't trying before, but he was going to try harder, and that was a promise he made to himself.
'So, Mr. L/N, what did you want to talk about?' Sam politely asked.
Your father had asked them to call him "papa", a term of informality and endearment that you preferred - but they hadn't been comfortable with it, and your dad hadn't been comfortable being called by his first name, so the boys simply stuck to "Mr. L/N" or "Sir" till they were ready to break that habit.
'Actually,' your father was tense. 'We probably should have talked about this earlier.'
One of your Uncles added, 'We just assumed that you would be the first ones to bring it up. We were wrong.'
'What? What do you mean? Is everything okay?' Dean sat on the edge of his seat.
The older men exchanged exasperated looks.
'What is it?' Dean pressed.
Your father sighed, and raked a hand through his hair tiredly - he seemed to age ten years in those few seconds. 'We haven't discussed the dahej.'
The brothers looked to one another for help - finding the other one equally clueless, they both raised their brows simultaneously in a very brotherly fashion at your family.
'Dowry,' the Uncle cleared up.
Dean felt bile press against his mouth, and he wasn't sure he'd heard it correctly. 'Dowry?' he had to resist grinding his teeth. 'You want to buy me to marry your daughter?' the disgust was clear as day in his voice, and Sam looked equally disturbed by that notion.
'Well . . . don't you want that?' your father looked surprised with their reactions.
'No!' Dean barely stopped himself from yelling. 'Sir, with all due respect, I love your daughter - and I want her for the rest of my life. That's all. Now, if you could stop treating her like a piece of your furniture or something, I would really appreciate it. Traditions or not, she's a human being, and what you just suggested is outrageous.' Dean stood up in anger, but he kept speaking steadily. 'I respect that woman; heck, I worship her, and now that she's becoming my wife, you'd better respect her too, or I swear to God, we're going to have a problem.'
He marched out, leaving Sam to deal with the aftermath. But Dean was too busy fuming to actually give a fuck right now.
And he would've just walked on by till he was in the sanctuary of his room, when he found his peace just at the end of the steps at the beginning of the corridor.
'Y/N,' he breathed out.
You had tears in your eyes again - and would have begged everyone to believe that you weren't always such a crier, and it was the situations really - but right now, you didn't have it in you. You were surfing on one of your most emotionally heightened moments.
Dean's heart sped up. 'Did I cross a line? Fuck, Y/N, I'm sorryâ'
You raised a hand to cut him off, rolling your eyes a little. 'These are happy tears, stupid.'
He sighed in relief. 'Really?'
'Well, a mix,' you shook your head. 'Did you really mean that?'
Dean was on the verge of taking offence again, but he kept his voice low so that you were his only audience. 'Of course I did!' He gestured widely and vaguely at the Bunker around you, 'Do you think I'd tolerate any of this for anyone else?'
And once again, Dean Winchester had made your heart grow three fucking sizes.
Any other time, you would've avoided getting near him in fear of being cited - but right now, you were too damn overwhelmed and too damn weak in the knees to not slot your figure against his in gratefulness. You were always amused by how much love you had for this man: you were sure you'd combust if he wasn't holding you together right now.
His anger washed away with your nearness. 'Aren't you scared someone will see you?' There was only a slight teasing lilt to his words, but he was tightening his hold on you nonetheless.
'They'd better,' you answered. 'People should be taking fucking cues from you. You're like . . . like a . . . a Love Story King,' you bestowed the title.
His cheeks decided crimson fit them as he also simultaneously fought off a grimace - but he was trying not to spoil the moment as he smiled down at you, eyes full of awe and adoration. 'Well, now that I've talked to your Dad, and everything is out of the way - I guess you're finally mine.'
You smirked. 'Oh, jaan, Juliet always belonged to Romeo.'
He blushed harder, only because that nickname did things to him. It meant "darling" in your language, and sounded incredibly sexy to him in your velvet tongue.
He then pulled away to show you the inside of his hands. And you gasped softly when you saw your name written on both his palms in Mehendi, and your eyes were pooled with renewed tears. 'Oh, my gosh, you actually went through with it!'
He chuckled at your awestruck expression. 'Yep. Turns out even Romeo only belonged to his Juliet.' He cringed a tad because he segued into your Taylor Swift reference.
But you pulled him down for that, laying your lips against his - the rest of the world be damned. If this man can quote your favourite singer, you can kiss him in a hallway.
A/N: So, what do you think? If you have any comments or questions, please feel to reach out!
And one more thing! I know I haven't updated for a while. One of my relatives passed away a while back along with the other shit that I talked about. I fell hard off the consistency wagon. When I could find my inner writer again, I decided that I would finish the TSW series before I started posting it again, so this kind of gap never repeats - I've been going hard at it, and I hope to finish writing it soon! Y'all can expect regular posting from around October. Thank you all for your patience đ„°â€ïž!
Meanwhile, I will try to update a few fics that I do have, like this one, on here.
I lost the ask's request, but here you go, honey! <3
requests are CLOSED
CARLOS DATING AN INDIAN GIRL | CS55
Warnings:Â mentions of food; tooth-rotting fluff; mentions of family members; not proofread.
A/n:Â Just a quick reminder that there are many shades, experiences, and backgrounds when it comes to Indians and their culture, what I am writing does not resume everything, but rather brings a piece of it to the table. <3
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This man will start to tell India's story, location, and importance in the political context to everyone who dares to act uneducated around him!!! Most of what he knew he got from you, but the other half he got curious and just went on his own treasure hunt on the internet and, yes, shockingly, bookstores - he ordered online, but it still counts (those were his words);
Let's say he has never been to India outside the context of racing, so going with you for the first time makes it even more special (he will spend a few hours of the vacation telling you about the old Indian GP);
Carlos loved eating a traditional meal with your family, and he loved it even more because your grandpa taught him about the history behind eating with your hands and suggested he tried it if he wanted to (he had never felt the texture of food or appreciated its flavor quite like the way he did when he gave the tradition a chance);
You told him the story of the Taj Mahal while you walked there, and, of course, he got into a rabbit hole of questions and Google searches and even a book recommendation from a family member of yours (he told them about the experience, just like he told in the group chat of drivers he was part of);
The man bought just about everything in Chandni Chowk! You touched it, he bought it, and even when you didn't, he would point at a colorful fabric and say that the color suited you - but then again, in Carlos' eyes everything suited you, and you looked even more stunning when proudly displaying your heritage;
Pakora's probably his favorite snack, and, for now, his favorite dish is Dal Makhani (you still introducing him to the cuisine);
He'll love your family, and probably be added to the family group chat where he'll dutifully answer every message your parents, cousins, and so on send;
Carlos will casually ask if you would want two weddings or just one in India (yeah, his research took him to the wedding traditions, and he saw a few TikTok videos - he loved the energy and the colors, and of course, the story behind everything);
okay but imagine simon having an indian!girlfriend/significant other. imagine them bickering with him about how different british and indian cuisine can be sometimes, him having to hear his share of "your country invaded mine for spices but don't use any of them". i can totally see him learning how to do henna for them and smiling under his mask when the love of his life decides to get dressed up in their traditional clothes :) *blushes*
This shit is making me giggle bc of all the colonization + spice stealing jokes đ I don't really see Simon as someone who adds a lot of spices to his food, maybe just about enough to make whatever he cooks tastier, but he'd absolutely devour anything his indian girlfriend cooks!!
ALSO he has a very steady hand. He's a sniper after all, but... he's not an artist. Making pretty designs of henna for you would take a while, but he secretly spends plenty of time practicing and using videos, even looking up designs and patterns that you'd like.<33
