Disclaimer for Entire Story: I do not own Supernatural. I also don't own any Bollywood film referenced in this story (mainly Om Shanti Om, which references those films in turn).

Setting: Not really important. I'm thinking early season five, but I'm not giving any spoilers away.

A/N: This isn't quite a crossover because you don't have to be familiar with Bollywood film or Om Shanti Om to understand the story. It helps though. This is actually going to be a rather short story (only about 5 or 6 chapters long), so I should have it finished soon enough. However, reviews always help me get the job done, so please tell me what you think and feel free to give suggestions.

Dedicated: This was written for Kimmi as a very late birthday present. It was for The Guild of the Fantastic Quill's Birthday Challenge.

Give My Regards to Bollywood

Chapter 1: Not a Michael Jackson Video

Dean knew it wasn't safe to look away from the road while driving, but he couldn't resist the sudden urge to stare intensely at his little brother. He clenched his jaw, pushing down the laugh threatening to escape. He put on his serious face.

"Dancing?" he asked. Again. "Like, undead dancing. "Thriller" style?"

Sam sighed, refusing to meet his eyes. "Yes, Dean. Choreographed dancing. Not "Thriller" style. Nearly the entire dormitory witnessed theā€¦ event. But it was definitely supernatural in origin."

Dean turned back to the road. "I knew there had to be a few fruity demons out there, but, really, dancing? As in, Broadway, stage line-up dancing? Doesn't sound like your standard mass-possession."

Sam flipped through his printouts. "Actually, a few of the Indian students staying in the dormitory said the number resembled a dance from an old Bollywood movie called Humjoli." Sam paused, fairly certain he'd just slaughtered that title, and frowned. "Also, I don't think this has anything to do with a demon."

"Oh, come on, Sammy. No spirit is that talented." Dean looked puzzled, nevertheless. "And what the hell is Bollywood again?"

Sam smirked. "Remember that time when we were teens and staying at that motel outside Chicago? You thought we were getting the pay-per-view channels because you saw a bunch of half-dressed Indian women in what appeared to be a harem." He paused for effect at Dean's dreamy expression. "Then they broke into song and dance with hairy-chested pirates wearing pink and lime green--that was the Bollywood channel."

The oldest Winchester snorted. "Worst porno ever."

"Anyhow," Sam trailed. He went back to his notes. "Looks like the event can be traced back to six days ago when Amy Murphy was found dead in the dorm's staircase, her neck broken. By the next morning, there were reports of strange music coming from the staircase, flickering lights, figures in the windows, cold spots--you know, the usual. Since then, there have also been two more deaths in the dormitory--both girls were reportedly friends of Amy's. And the musical encounters seem to be getting more intense after each murder."

"Ghost then. So, the question is, is Amy playing the foreign films from the beyond? Or is it whatever did her in who's picking off the college chicks?"

"Exactly." Sam stared at the car's radio as "Highway to Hell" began to play. Again. There was only so many times he could take that song. He turned it down, stopping Dean from snapping by continuing to speak. "But this isn't an ordinary haunting, Dean. I mean, how many ghosts have we met with the ability to manipulate and appear to that many people?"

The Impala rolled into a motel parking lot, slowing to a stop in front of the check-in office.

Dean raised a brow. "Have we been here before?"

"Not in this motel--last time we were in Florence we stayed outside of town. Probably not a good idea to mingle in the same locations." Sam took in his puzzled expression. "This is where we hunted the leprechaun. And the fairies who, you know, were so, umm, friendly."

A light bulb went off in Dean's head, and he bit his cheek to keep the happy grin off his face. He shook his head. "Some crazy crap happens in Alabama."

"Yeah, who knew?"

Dean smiled at the tall, athletic blond holding open the door for him.

"Thanks," he said, his eyes unable to stop roaming the extremely short exercise shorts and tank top she was sporting. Sure, it was a cold day. But that's where sacrifice came in. And, boy, was he proud of that sacrifice. "So, you like the dorm, then? I'm thinking of moving in next semester. Mind giving me a tour?"

"Gern geschehen," she chirped, her blue eyes twinkling in his direction as she hopped on the elevator.

It occurred to him that she probably didn't understand a word coming out of his mouth, but that didn't stop Dean from almost following her into the cramped compartment. A knocking on the glass door at his side stopped him. He turned to see Sam standing out in the chilling winter rain, shooting his brother a furious look. Dean pushed open the door.

"How'd you get in?" Sam asked, his eyes accusing Dean of some unknown treachery.

Sam squeezed out his jacket's sleeve, wetting the foyer's carpet.

"Cute German chick," Dean answered. He quickly pressed the elevator's up arrow. "What?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, the staircase. You know, where the haunting began? We should probably check it out. For that matter, we should probably sign in as guests."


Dean cut himself off, staring past the elevator door as it slid open. Sam's eyes followed his brother's. Instead of opening to the graffiti latent walls of the closet-sided compartment, the door had opened to a darkened, crowded theater.

"Well, that's new," Dean commented.

Sam quickly stepped past his brother into the theater. Dean groaned, as if wishing he'd stopped him, and jumping into the "elevator" just as the door closed. The light from the dorm disappeared completely, and the scene remained the same. The men walked down the main aisle of the theater, staring at the audience engrossed in the film that was playing.

Noting the faces of the audience, Dean elbowed his brother and pointed to the screen. "Think this is Bollywood related, too?" he asked.

Sam nodded, his mouth agape at the gorgeous, orange-clad woman dancing on the big screen before lines of background dancers. The colors of the film were bright, engrossing, even though the image itself seemed somewhat blurry. He seemed to shake himself from her spell and took a step back towards Dean.

"Yeah, but in what decade?" Sam hissed.

"Not exactly HD," Dean agreed. He turned a full circle, taking in the seemingly unaware audience once more. "And there's a whole lot of polyester goin' on. I don't know how India spent the seventies, but I sure as hell know this isn't how they dress now."

"But what does all of this have to do with the girls who were killed?" Sam asked.

He blinked and found himself inside the elevator, staring at blacked out cuss words in a variety of sharpie colors. Dean looked just as surprised at his surroundings.

"That was weird, right?"

Dean nodded. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a Trickster thing."

Sam shook his head. "The MO isn't right. Where's the trick? And judging by what their friends said about them, the three girls who were killed weren't very popular or prideful. It just doesn't fit."

"Should we stick around for the second act or cut to the salt and burn?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "We need to figure this out first. Something isn't right about this haunting."

"Third vic's roommate, then?" At his brother's nod, Dean frowned. "Think she'll know more than the coroner's report? Who am I kidding--kids cramped into cubicles this small, of course she'll know more."

"Like what really happened to Amy Murphy," Sam agreed.