tangled skeins of cytokeratin (emmram) wrote,
tangled skeins of cytokeratin
emmram

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Masala Movie - First Half

Yaaaaaaay!

This is for anu24, a birthday present that is more than a month overdue (I am so sorry, hun). One of the things I'll always be grateful to Supernatural for is that it gave me the chance to know you, Anu. Love you, and I hope you'll like this.

Summary: Sam and Dean act in a Bollywood movie.

This is meant to be funny, but I'll let you decide.

Warnings: This is set sometime in late s2, but there aren't many spoilers. Uh... mild swearing, some violence, attempted humour?

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. Nor do I own the songs that I have roughly translated and used in this story. A full list of acknowledgments is available at the end of this part. This story is meant to parody a particular genre of Bollywood (and South Indian cinema) and is in no way representative of all of it.

Also: I would love to make a poster for this fic; unfortunately I have no skill and little experience in Photoshop and the like.


Masala Movie

Once upon a time—

There was a small village named Cinemapur. It's still around, of course, but this was a time when it was at the peak of its splendour, when the air was full of song and the streets bustled with men and women who danced in gay abandon. When people were happiest while tending to their fields, sitting outside the tea-stall at dusk and discussing the day's events, catching their breath under the big banyan tree that was the social epicentre of the little village, and racing their horses with cargo trains while gypsies hung off their backs.

... I digress.

Our story starts in this village of dance and song. Specifically, in a little hut on the outskirts of the village. It's a cold, rainy night, and the only sounds are of the rain beating a harsh tattoo on the thatched roof, the soft sounds of a woman sobbing, and the cries of the baby in her arms.

"I won't let him have you," the woman says, rocking the baby against her chest while her artistically dishevelled hair falls about her shoulders. "He's already killed your father—he shall not rip you out of my life as well!" She starts as a little boy hugs her leg with a whimper; she crouches next to him and hugs him to her chest as well. "And you, Dean—oh my babies, my babies!" She sings a soft song to both of them, a song she's been singing since they were born.

The door slams open just as a clap of thunder resounds across the sky. The silhouette of a large man is framed in the doorway, and the woman cries shrilly and backs away as he strides in. "Sharadha!" he roars, his eyes blazing, the ends of his moustache quivering with the might of his rage. "I will finish what I started tonight!"

He reaches for the baby in her arms. She fights back, but he merely catches hold of her hair and twists. As she staggers and screams in pain, he snatches the baby and tosses her to the floor, leaving her sobbing into the ground. Little Dean tries to lunge after the man, but he merely kicks him aside.

Just as he's leaving, the man turns around and growls, "Your husband took everything away from me—everything. This is only the beginning of my revenge."

With that, he slams the door behind him, leaving a broken family crying their grief to the unrelenting rain.


Black Impala Productions Present

Masala Movie


Dean Winchester's a simple man.

He doesn't ask much of life: as long as he's got clothes on his back, a roof above his head, plenty of booze and friends to pay for it, he's pretty much set. He works as a mechanic at a garage down the street from his house, but the job's more of a necessity than a passion. His mother, bless her soul, is disappointed at his lack of ambition, but really—as far as Dean is concerned, ambition is a waste of time and energy.

He has better uses for all of that time.

It's a bright, sunny day, and Dean's just finished his shift at the garage. He's itching for a drink, maybe a bit of lounging around with the boys before dinner. Here he is, making his way through a street bustling with activity, a large, anticipatory grin on his strikingly handsome face.

Dean scowls. "What the hell am I doing here?"

... like I said, a large, anticipatory grin on his strikingly handsome face

"Screw this shit. Sam! Sam, where—"

"Deeean, buddy!" A group of young men descend upon Dean then, the largest among them clapping an arm across Dean's shoulders and nearly slamming him to the ground. "Are you ready, man?"

"Shut up, Karthik, of course he is," says another and tries to give Dean another good-natured slap on the back. Dean twists out of the way and takes a few steps back, only to bump into another man standing behind him. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey. "So, are we starting?" he shouts.

And just like that, the seemingly chaotic street organises itself into a perfect formation with Dean in the centre, blinking.

"Uhm..." he says.

An old lady makes her way to him, her wizened face twisted in disapproval. "Won't you boys ever study and make something useful out of your lives?" she squawks.

And Dean sings, "We read but did not understand
We drank and then we did!
"

Here he grabs the bottle of booze from the man and takes a long chug while his friends hoot and cheer around him. He finally stops drinking, smacks his lips. "How in the world did I do that?"

A heavy, resonating beat starts in the background and everybody starts dancing. Dean finds himself leading them, seemingly throwing his arms and legs and crotch in three different directions, yet achieving perfect rhythm, co-ordination, and a strange sort of grace.

"We read but did not understand
We drank and then we did!
I laughed but did not attract
I drank then I did!
"

He takes another swig of the whiskey even as he's shaking his pelvis in gravity-defying dance moves. A chorus starts up then:

"If not now, then when?
If not us, then who?
We are boys, we are men
So screw you!"

Dean's loving it. He sings again, "We drank and did not understand—", finds dozen other voices joining him in perfect harmony, and feels high like he's never felt before.

"We'll drink beer on Dad's cash
We'll flirt through our phones
We'll paint the city red
Can you feel it in your bones?"

He finishes the last of the whiskey in his bottle, and barely feels the burn when the other guys lift him onto their shoulders and sing one last time, loud and high and happy:

"If not now, then when?
If not us, then who?
We are boys, we are men
So screw you!"

Dean barely remembers being taken back home, his mother letting him in with a resigned shake of her head before he flops onto his bed and descends into a dreamless sleep.


Vineet Sharma is the city's big rags-to-riches story. `

He was a virtual nobody when he moved to the city from Cinemapur nearly twenty three years ago—he had nothing but the clothes on his back, a suitcase filled with cash, and a small baby. It didn't take long for him to establish a small business, make the right political connections and expand. Now he has a tiny business empire that's rapidly growing, one of the most prominent businessmen in the country, and an influential voice in the local government. His astronomical rise to power and fame is indeed an inspiring story—

—but also an indictment of just how much one needs bribery and corruption and crooked ways to succeed in this country. Rumours abound of gangs of goondas employed to scare competitors out of the way; fat suitcases stuffed with cash that regularly make their way to politicians and other government officials; of loopholes and exceptions and forgery.

Not that anybody can really muster up the resolve to do something about it, of course. It is an accepted way of life, for better or for worse. Mr. Sharma's not worried about what other people think; in his life, he has only two passions: his business, and his only son, Sam.

Sam Sharma is indeed his parents' pride and joy: a tall, strapping young man who is just returning home from earning a business degree in London. His mother awaits him in their sprawling mansion just outside the city. She is conducting a grand puja in honour of his arrival, full of music and colour and dance and revelry. Even as the girls dance around her and several voices rise in bhajan, Mrs Sharma can only think of her own heartache at being separated from her son for so long. She casts a longing look at the huge doors leading into the grand hall where they're celebrating; thinks about the helipad just outside of it where Sam is scheduled to land in his father's private helicopter any moment now, and every fibre of her being yearns to see him, embrace him, feed him the ladoos he used to adore as a child (her husband protested it made him fat; but the poor little boy needed more sustenance than just rice and snacks and chocolate, of course).

A stunningly beautiful girl in a backless, bright pink gagra choli places a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Sharma," she says, tossing her straightened, exquisitely set hair back, "He will arrive soon. You shouldn't worry so much."

Mrs Sharma smiles at her fondly. "Oh, Nalini," she says. "He is so lucky to have found a girl like you. It will be the happiest moment of my life to see you both married as soon as possible."

Nalini laughs. "Sam? Marriage? Oh, aunty, he is not interested in matrimony now at all. He is only interested in business, just like Uncle."

"My husband and your father approve of the alliance; what more do we need?" Mrs Sharma touches Nalini's (impeccably made-up) cheek affectionately. "I'm sure that you can convince him, can't you, dear?"

Before Nalini can answer, they hear the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades over the singing. Everything stops, and a deathly silence falls upon the gathering as everybody turn, almost as one, to look at the huge doors. Mrs Sharma picks up the aarti and stares expectantly, her eyes already brimming.

They hear the helicopter land... and then nothing. For a few long, long minutes, everybody wait, but the doors remain shut. Her heart sinking, Mrs Sharma turns away.

Just then, the doors open, and Sam stands in the doorway, his tall, muscled frame silhouetted in the bright sunlight streaming in from behind him.

The crowd relaxes; laughter ripples through the hall. Mrs Sharma rushes forward with the aarti plate. "Oh, Sam!"

Sam greets her with a broad smile and open—

"Um... Dean? Dean! Where am—DEAN!"

—arms. Oh, screw it. Yes, he stood there, blinking like an idiot, utterly baffled.

She circles the aarti in front of a very bewildered Sam, and reached with a kumkum-smeared thumb toward his forehead.

At this point, he seems to come to life, and violently flinches away from her touch. "What the—who are you?"

Mrs Sharma looked shocked for a second, before smiling and shaking her head. "Oh, you were always a little rascal. Don't be bad to mummy, now."

As he stares at her, sputtering, "Mummy?" she smears the kumkum across his forehead. The gathering applauds. She gathers him into her arms, the aarti plate digging painfully into his back, the flame mere centimetres from his (expensive designer) shirt. "Oh, my baby," she says into his chest, "how thin you've become! London-Shondon and its stupid food. You must be starving for my cooking."

"Ooof-hhrm," Sam replies.

She's barely released him when the others descend on him, laughing, patting him on the back, giving unsolicited hugs. Nobody seems to mind that he barely answers them, gaping like a landed fish in between being pulled into rib-crushing hugs.

Nalini sidles up to him, plants a kiss on his cheek, and whispers in his ear, "Welcome back, Sammy." He shudders violently at that, and is opening his mouth to say something to her when the hall goes silent again. Vineet Sharma enters, just finishing an argument on his mobile. "No," he's saying. "For the last time, sir, that cannot be arranged, and even I will not—" He catches sight of Sam, and his mutinous expression disappears. "I will discuss this later," he says tersely into the phone and flips it shut.

"Sam!" he says, and pulls a resigned (and now fairly dishevelled) Sam into a hug. "I trust you had a good journey back home?"

Sam steps back, takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Just—gimme a minute," he says.


"Do you know what's going on here?"

Nirmal laughs at Dean, taking a swig of beer. His teeth are stained with betel nut juice and black gunk, and Dean has to look away. "Arre yaar," he drawls. "You've been talking nonsense for a long time now." He leans forward abruptly, and Dean nearly chokes on the stink of stale paan and dried sweat. "Are you drunk? Because that usually happens to me first, y'know. You," he digs a finger into Dean's chest, "you are the one with the stupid, ridiculous tolerance for alcohol." He leans back, blinks rapidly like he's just realised something. "Huh. You know what? Maybe I am drunk. See, that's why you're not making any sense." He nods smugly.

Dean manfully resists the urge to lean across the table and throttle the guy. "Look," he says. "I don't belong here. I don't know how the hell I got here, how I'm doing the things I'm doing, how I'm even drinking this... thing—because Kingfisher? What the hell kind of name is that for a beer?—but I need to get out, and I need to find my brother."

Nirmal grins lazily at him. "Oh, but this is fantastic. Tell me more."

Dean rolls his eyes and gets up from the table. "Whatever, man." Just as he's leaving the bar, Nirmal shouts after him, "Hey, hey! I don't have any money! At least pay for your goddamned—" at which point Dean hurries his steps.

He suddenly stops at a street-corner (at a safe enough distance from the bar, of course) and shouts at the sky, "I swear to god, if this is another Trickster, you are getting a giant wooden stake right through your heart! Let's see if you find that hilarious, huh? Huh?"

"Huh! Huh!"

Dean starts. The man next to him waggles his eyebrows encouragingly, looks at the sky, and goes, "Huh!" again. Soon he's joined by another, then another, until four of them are going, "Huh! Huh!" at the sky. A small crowd has gathered to watch (and point and laugh, Dean notes sourly), and that's it. Dean's had enough. He throws his arms in the air and stalks away from the madness.

He's just a street away from home when he runs head-first into another bit of commotion. It's a rowdy gang heckling a pretty young girl, surrounding her, making lewd comments, grabbing her dupatta and making to touch her while she flinches away. Nobody seems inclined to help her; they're hurrying past, averting their eyes.

Dean feels a near-disproportionate swell of righteous rage swell inside of him.

He taps the shoulder of the nearest thug. The guy turns around, blinks stupidly at him. "What?" he snarls.

"Oh, nothing much. Just wondering if you could leave that girl alone."

The thug makes a sort of mangled sound that sounds like a cross between a snort and a chuckle, says, "No," and turns back.

"Huh. Okay, then." Dean taps his shoulder again, and when the guy turns, he rears his fist and punches him in the jaw—

—and stares in stark surprise when the goon goes flying back, knocking down his cronies like they were ninepins.

"Wow," he says, looking at his fist. "I mean—wow."

They gather themselves up pretty quickly, however, and charge at him, screaming incoherently all the way.

For some reason, they only fight him one person at a time; so while Dean is punching one guy to oblivion with his Fists of Spontaneous Awesome, the others are just hovering, glowering menacingly. Dean would find it funny if he isn't caught up with the wondrousness of his own fighting skills.

He punches one guy, who goes flying back and knocks over a vegetable cart, so that tomatoes and onions and snake-gourds are rolling everywhere, and then he twirls and sweep-kicks another who goes down and knocks himself out on the tarmac, and then he's friggin flying, tackling two of them at once and literally knocking them out by smashing their tonsured heads together.

Dean's disappointed when the goons scamper away, trying to preserve the remaining scraps of their dignity. The crowd that had gathered to watch applauds enthusiastically, while Dean brushes some dust off his sleeve and tries not to look too pleased.

Eventually, the crowd disperses, and only the girl he's just saved remains. Surprisingly enough, she looks furious, and stalks towards him. "I didn't ask you to do that," she says, managing to hiss the words somehow despite a distinct lack of 'ss' sounds.

Dean blinks. "Well, excuse me for—"

She slaps him across the face. "What did you do that for?" he yells, holding a hand against his stinging cheek.

"That was to tell you that I am not a regular damsel in distress," she says pertly. "I can hold my own if I want to."

"Fine, whatever, lady," Dean says, shaking his head, and he makes to leave. She stops him, however, and sticks out her hand. "My name is Aisha," she says. "And... thanks anyway. For what you did."

Dean looks at the hand warily before shaking it. "Dean."

Aisha smiles, and wow she is cute with those dimples. "Thank you, Dean," she says. "I guess... I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah—yeah, sure," Dean manages awkwardly before she turns and begins to leave. Just before she gets out of sight, however, she turns her head and smiles shyly at him. Dean figures why the hell not, and smiles back.

Wham.

The world shifts and changes around him, and suddenly Dean's standing on a snow-covered mountain-top and weird music is resounding across the skies.

He looks around and sees Aisha, dressed in a chiffon, barely-there saree, dancing toward him, swaying her hips. She opens her mouth and she sings:

"Slowly, slowly
I have come to believe

Slowly, slowly
I lost my heart to someone, somewhere."

Dean stares at her like she's lost her mind, notices he's dressed in some purple designer suit ensemble himself, and opens his mouth to say something about it, but what comes out is more song:

"Is that the moon descending on us
Or just your radiance?

The earth is flying past us
As we fall
Slowly..."

She's reached him by now, and he slides a hand around her slim waist while she leans into his chest. He twirls them around, and within a blink, they're suddenly in what seems like an expensive Italian car, he's driving, she's standing in the passenger seat and letting the wind whip her hair, and still goddamn singing:

"It's happened for the first time
That I've fallen in love

Oh, for the first time
I've fallen in love."

He finds himself joining her, singing throatily:

"It's happened for the first time
That I've fallen in love

Oh, for the first time
I've fallen in loooooove."

Suddenly they're in a gargantuan flower garden, and Aisha's running toward him through a field of tulips, singing:

"We'll lose ourselves
In this moment

This bed of flowers
Ours, forever."

He pulls her into his arms, and they both sing, one last time:

"Slowly, slowly
I have come to believe

Slowly, slowly
I lost my heart to someone, somewhere."

He slowly lowers her to the ground and leans in to kiss her, and he hides where their lips meet with a strategically-placed tulip.


Sam Sharma is feeling incredibly claustrophobic.

Sitting in the backseat of what seems like a very expensive German car, wearing a stiff and scratchy suit, and blocked out on both sides by dark-tinted windows, Sam is distinctly uncomfortable. He sighs, pulls at his shirt cuffs, raps his fingers against the door handle, before he asks the driver, "So where are you taking me again?"

"Well, Master Sam," the driver replies, "Your father wanted you to visit the factory and meet with the supervisor there."

Sam sighs, throws his head back against the seat. "Factory. Right."

"Master Sam," the driver ventures after a couple of minutes' silence, "Perhaps because you—"

"No. Just—" Sam shakes his head. "I don't need your input, thanks; I can deal with this."

"As you wish, sir." The driver falls silent after that. After a few minutes, the silence is too suffocating, so Sam rolls down the window. The sudden explosion of noise and colour is almost disorienting.

They seem to be stuck in a traffic jam; Sam wonders whether he should be disturbed or impressed that he wasn't able to make out whether they were stuck or moving while the windows were closed. He settles for watching the thong of people making their way past the car, some giving sidelong glances of pure awe, and others just hurrying along.

Suddenly, over the chatter and noise, Sam can hear someone humming—clear as a bell, an unusual tune that he is sure that he knows, that's he's heard somewhere before, maybe as a child—

The traffic starts moving again, and Sam can just about feel the engine rumble as the car shifts.

The humming gets louder, closer, and Sam can—

—see Dean.

It's Dean, strolling past the car, humming like he hasn't a care in the world, and Sam feels his heart lurch in his chest. "Dean!" he shouts, trying to put his head out the window, but the car is already moving; when he cranes his neck, Dean is gone, disappeared into the throng of people like he'd never existed.

Sam settles back into his seat, blinking and breathing heavily.

"Is everything all right, Master Sam?"

"What? Yes—yes, everything's—all right." Sam frowns, licks his lips.

"Would you mind closing the window, sir? The air-conditioning—"

Sam closes the window absent-mindedly, his mind still racing. He's almost managed to convince himself that he'd just hallucinated Dean when the driver announces that they'd arrived at their destination. Before Sam can move, he tumbles out, and opens the door for Sam.

Sam gets out, stares at the gigantic husk of a building in front of him. "Are you sure this is the right place?" he asks. "I mean, this looks... abandoned."

"But of course," the driver says, and when Sam turns to him, all he sees is metal, all he feels is sharp, white pain in his head, and then—darkness.


Sam wakes up sometime later, pained and disoriented. He raises his head woozily, blinking to clear his vision. There's a dull, horrible ache in his head like somebody set off the world's slowest jackhammer in there, and blood coating one side of his face, but it doesn't seem as bad as some of the several other times he's gotten knocked out.

No—the injury isn't what's worrying him, speeding his breathing and sending sharp jolts of panic down his spine. It's the fact that he's kneeling on the floor with his hands tied behind his back, his ankles restrained similarly.

(And sure, this isn't the first time he's been kidnapped, either, but Sam's not about to take pride in that.)

He's finally able to make his eyes focus. He seems to be in some sort of gigantic storage room, dusty and rickety and falling apart at the corners. The driver's standing in front of him, grinning smugly, while there's a man sitting in a chair next to him, one leg over the other, smoking imperiously.

Sam clears his throat. "What do you—"

"Samuel Raj Sharma," the man in the chair says silkily. "Oh, how long I've wanted to meet you personally. Smart young man. Well—" He looks to the driver, who's practically vibrating with glee, "—not always, but smart enough." He uncrosses his legs, leans forward and blows a ring of smoke. "Smart enough, I hope, to understand what I'm about to propose."

Sam doesn't say anything; only silently tests the bonds on his hands.

"Your father," the man continues, "has been... difficult. He seems to have forgotten just how he got to the top, and who got him there. You have to understand," he adds, smiling down at Sam, rheumy eyes glinting, "that after you've rolled around in filth, it isn't acceptable to suddenly get on your high horse."

Sam sighs. "So you've kidnapped me."

The man's smile widens. "Very good!" he says. "As long as you co-operate, we will not harm you. Food, water—even TV if you want to watch MTV Roadies—all will be given... provided you do not make a sound, or even the slightest attempt to escape. If you do, well." He laughs lightly, and the driver laughs with him before a glare stops him. "It would be a tragedy for the Sharma business empire to lose its only heir."

He gets up from the chair; more goons emerge from the shadows, all of them heavily-armed and leering. "Take care, then," the man says, sweeping out of the room, the traitorous driver following in his wake.

Sam sighs. "Well, this is just great," he mutters.


A day later, Dean strolls into his house to see his mother crying in the living room.

She's hunched over a newspaper, sobbing piteously, and Dean rushes to her side, puts a tentative hand on her shoulder. "Ma?" he says. "Ma, what's wrong?"

She doesn't answer immediately, only sobs harder. Frowning, he takes the newspaper from her hands, sees the article she was reading, and sits down, dumbstruck.

"The boy..." his mother says, gulping, "the boy who's been kidnapped..."

"SAM!"

"... he's your brother, Dean."

"Well, of course he's my brother!" Dean cries, springing to his feet. "I've—I've been wasting my time; I need to—"

"You need to find him, Dean." His mother stares at him, mascara smeared down her cheeks. "You have to find him before he atones falsely for the sins of the man who stole him!"

Dean stares at her for a few seconds. "Uh... okay," he says.

He strides out the door with the newspaper in his hand.

Screw this stupid circus. He has a brother to find.


INTERMISSION


Arre yaar, where's the caramel popcorn?!




[I have a translated a couple of songs here and taken a lot of liberty with the lyrics. My apologies to:
  • Tamizh Padam, an excellent parody film itself, from which I've taken a few cues, including the inspiration for the opening scene
  • GV Prakash Kumar, Shankar Mahadevan for mangling the song Padichi Pathen from Pollathavan
  • Karan Johar, Shah Rukh Khan et al for imitating a particular scene from Kabhi Kushi Kabhie Gham
  • Vishal and Shekar, Anvita Dutt Guptan, Lucky Ali and Shreya Ghoshal for mangling the song Aahista Aahista from Bachnaa Ae Haseeno.]

    Tags: fanfiction, masala movie, movies, season 2, supernatural, writing
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