Discordance

Author: Kel

Rating | Pairing: M for horror imagery and violence | Gen

Summary: Another piece of the Staff brings Castiel back down to earth.

Notes | Warning: Set in a season six AU that draws elements from canon. There is still demonic blackmail but there is also a soul. Basically, Heaven's war comes to earth and Team Free Will must once again do the impossible. Expect more a series of stories set in this AU season six; this is just once piece of an entire universe.

The day was entirely too gray for mid-morning. At ten am, the sun should have burned through the fog hanging low over the murky streets. Dean smoothed his hands over the lapels of his suit jacket, wishing he could get away with grabbing the heavier leather coat from the Impala, but, no. They were FBI today, which meant they were professional. Sam didn't seem bothered in the least by the cold and wet. Dean wanted to huddle inside the Impala and never come out. With one last (and somewhat longing) look at the Impala, Dean felt he was completely justified.

Sam bumped his shoulder as he walked by. "Seriously, man?"

Dean huddled a little further inside his suit jacket. "It's cold." He stuck his hands under his armpits and gave the drizzling sky a sullen look. "One day, we'll have a winter hunt in Miami."

"Technically, it's still fall."

"Shut up, Sam."

Thankfully, he did, and Dean was able to focus on more important matters. Posing as FBI agents was one thing – they'd done it a million times before and, now, it was a matter of rote – but the worry that had settled in the back of Dean's mind was difficult to shake. Impossible, maybe. He slipped between two closely parked black-and-whites and glanced upward, snorting when the cold drizzle struck his face. It wouldn't be long before this place was covered in snow; Dean was a little surprised it wasn't already. Sometimes the lake effect snow could come in early in the winter – and no matter what Sam said, November was winter, no ifs, ands or buts. If it was cold enough to be winter, then Dean would damn wall call it as such.

The old-style brick building was imposing, its rust-red exterior taking on the look of old blood against the darkening gray sky. Not even mid-day and it looked like dusk around here; Dean suddenly really wanted his heavy leather coat, if only to ward off the sudden chill traveling down his spine. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, I feel it, too."

Dean glanced over his shoulder and nodded once. Sam was in full-on hunter mode, gaze swiveling from right to left as he tried to find something that could account for the ominous weight of the dim sky. Not just the sky, though, Dean thought as he looked up at the station. The brick, the mortar, the cop cars: they were all dim and imposing, somehow, like what life the colors might have had had been sucked out and only these weird, dim shells were left behind.

Dean almost expected to see the people had become apathetic, near-zombies and that was almost enough to send him scurrying back across the parking lot, back toward the Impala. (Which was, after a glance back, still thankfully gleaming black, though the chrome seemed more like dull pewter. Dean resolved to give her a good wax when he got out of this godforsaken place.) At least it wasn't just him, if Sam admitted to feeling it, too – whatever "it" could really be described as.

Their trip to the crime scene last night had been singularly unhelpful. All they'd been able to tell was that, yes, something especially brutal had happened. Fortunately, though, a bit of digging – which, honestly, wasn't too hard – gave them a handful of like cases in the area. Wouldn't be a stretch of anyone's imagination to have the FBI snooping around.

It was when Dean reached out to pull the station door open that Sam spoke again.

"We gotta talk."

Dean glanced at Sam, nodded once, and turned his attention to striding all FBI-like into the reception area. "Can't talk missing angels in the station." He opened the door then, expression instantly smoothed over into something professional and as neutral as he could manage. Sam inclined his head and followed. Yeah, they needed to talk. Dean's irritation had shot straight to worried, zero to fidgety in no time flat once Castiel hadn't met them at the scene. Sam had gone straight into research mode once they'd returned, still angel-less, to the motel room. Dean didn't need to ask to know that he was looking for any sort of sign of their wayward angel. Nothing doing, though, and they'd finally gone to bed long after eyes had started crossing in front of the computer screen.

Despite Dean being half-convinced that he'd come across empty shells of people, the station was a pretty damned lively. Sam stepped up beside Dean after he'd stumbled to a halt at the shouting, eyes a little wide. Dean blinked a few times and almost visibly shook it off. After the dearth of color outside, the sheer noise and liveliness inside was like a punch in the gut.

A good punch in the gut, as stupid as that sounded. Dean glanced at Sam, who shrugged one shoulder, then stepped forward. It was a good chance that if someone was yelling about intruders on their property, then it had something to do with their case. Coincidence never happened. The man at the counter was dirty blonde, wearing a denim jacket lined with flannel that had definitely seen better days. Heavy work gloves were stuffed haphazardly into the back pocket of his jeans; a working man, from the look of it, and a working man who sounded like he was about to take the law into his own hands, police be damned, they were worthless anyway.

In fact, he was saying just that as a weather-worn and calloused fist came down on the wooden counter. Sam reached up and scratched idly behind his ear with raised brows while Dean just watched the spectacle. An officer glanced up, mouthed something that Dean suspected was "be with you in a minute," and went back to trying to placate the man.

"Danny, we've had patrols out there all night. If there's nothing to find, there's nothing to find."

"Like hell there's nothing," the man returned and even Dean blinked at the tone. Dude was pissed, that much was certain. "Some fucker was lurking around my back door-"

"Danny." The officer in charge here had clearly had enough. "We've been there – twice – and we'll keep looking. But seeing a guy on your property who didn't do nothing threatening isn't exactly big news around here right now. Now get your ass outta here before I have to bring us down on your head."

Silence fell, heavy as the dusk-like light outside, and Dean just waited for the explosion that was about to come. Danny looked positively livid, red-faced and holding his breath. But when sound came again, it was only a huffed growl and Danny turned on his heel. Sam and Dean both stepped aside as he brushed past them, too angry to care that he was about to try to bowl them both over. Dean watched him go, then turned back to the counter with one hand raised, pointing toward Danny's retreating back and a question etched into his features.

"Don't worry about him," the officer said. "What can I help you with?"

It took Dean a moment to recover enough to pull out his (fake) ID. Sam followed suit, quickly flashing the credentials and putting them back into an inside pocket before anyone could ask to look at it a little closer. It would always pass muster – Bobby was damned good at getting them authentic stuff – but they'd always rather start a meeting like this without questions of that nature. "Agents Witt and Johnston," Dean said. "Out for-"

"The DeBarra case?" The officer half-turned to pick up a memo pad. "Captain mentioned that you guys might come in on this one. Frankly, I'm glad to turn it over to you. Heard there was something like this up the road." He stuck out a hand. "Jerry Lim. I'll have someone pull those files. ME's office is off-site, but I've got all the autopsy reports here. I came up from St. Louis and worked my share of murder sites, but this one… Man, if you wanna see the bodies, I can get you an appointment."

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged. They would get the chatty cop. Worked for them, though. "We'll just take the reports for now," Sam said. "If there's something we need to see afterward, we'll let you know."

"Gotcha." With that, Lim barked over his shoulder at a passing officer. "Barton, I need copies of everything on the DeBarra case. Feds wanna take a look." He turned back. "You have questions before those get out here?"

Dean chucked a thumb over his shoulder, pure curiosity – and a nagging feeling that he really should follow up on this – prompting the question. "What was that all about?"

For a moment, Lim looked nonplussed, then snorted in something close to amusement. "I wouldn't worry much about it. Danny's a good guy. Hard-working and all, but a paranoid type. Claims he saw a man in a trench-coat standing next to his back door, knife in hand."

"Really?" That perked Sam up, who'd been idly looking over the lobby.

"Yeah." Here Lim shook his head. "Get this, though. He says that when he yelled at the guy, he just up and disappeared."

It took Dean a minute to find his voice. "Well, that's not strange." Hopefully, he managed a somewhat dry tone. Judging by Sam's blinking, it was at least close.

"Tell me about it," was Lim's response as a thick file came down on the desk next to him.

Barton tapped it once. "We had a couple copies made." He glanced at Sam, then Dean. "Everything's in there. I hope you figure out what the hell happened."

Dean reached out to take it, only stopping long enough for Lim to slip a business card into the file. "Cell's on there," he said. "You need something, you call. I don't have any problem handing this one over to you feds."

Sam nodded his thanks as Dean took the file, then, brow furrowed, spoke again. "Hey, where's that Danny guy live?"

Lim blinked. "Why? You wanna follow up on magic disappearing accountants, too?"

Dean forced a laugh as Sam answered. "Nah. There's just something kinda familiar about it. Can't quite put my finger on it."

Lim looked somewhat confused, but shrugged anyway. "All right." He wrote an address on a scrap of paper and handed it off to Dean. "You got a card or something? I'll let you know if there are any other reports on him." His tone clearly said he didn't expect it, but Sam handed off an official looking bureau card anyway.

Dean tipped the heavy file in an informal salute as both he and Sam turned to leave.

"Take a right when you leave," Lim called out as they reached the door. "There's a diner there. Best coffee in town."

It was Sam who called out a quick thank-you and Dean who made damned sure the door was shut before he spoke. "Guy in a trench with a knife."

"Sound familiar?" Sam rubbed his hand over his face, then sighed. "I dunno what it means, man."

Dean snorted. "Means Castiel was around yesterday sometime."

"Yeah, getting caught by humans. You know damn well he doesn't have that dagger out unless he needs it."

This time, it was Dean's turn to sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." He fell silent then, worried thoughts over-riding the constant irritation provided by the drizzling fog. He didn't speak again until he yanked the Impala's driver's side door open. "This could be bad, Sammy."

"You think all this is related?"

"Don't have a doubt about it." Dean slid into the seat, waiting for Sam to do the same on the passenger's side before he continued. "Cas was following up on that family in Niagara Falls, yeah? We end up here on a similar lead, less than a hundred miles away and he shows up just long enough to tell me Raphael's got his eyes on a piece of the staff."

"Then disappears," Sam added.

Silence fell.

"Fuck."

Sam gave Dean a sideways look and nodded.

Spaghetti was relatively easy to make. Just a matter of boiling water and heating up sauce. If someone wanted some extravagance like meat, then they could damn well make dinner for themselves next time. It was an uncharitable thought but Chris Harris would never follow through. His sister was too young; at seven, Leanna wasn't capable of taking care of herself. She was lucky Chris was around, because their mom wasn't going to a damned thing.

Chris idly stirred the sauce before tapping the wooden spoon against the side of the pot. He glanced over his shoulder at his sister, perched on the edge of a dining room chair and watching him with wide, dark eyes. She wasn't smiling, but at least she wasn't crying. Chris offered her a quick grin and a thumbs-up.

"Almost ready?" she chirped.

Chris nodded, putting a finger in front of his lips to shush her. "Mom's asleep."

Leanna's face fell immediately and Chris regretted saying a word. Let her wake up Mom if it kept her happy, but he knew better. Emma Harris was not a woman who would take kindly to being separated from her dreams. He nodded toward the refrigerator. "Wanna get us something to drink?" he asked quietly. Leanna liked to feel useful and Chris was more than happy to put that to use. She nodded enthusiastically and hopped off the chair.

Chris reached up into a cabinet, stretching on his toes in order to reach the colander sitting precariously on the edge of the shelf. Fingers just barely catching the edge, he grunted as he pulled, then caught it as it tumbled out of the cabinet. Other boys in his class were hitting growth spurts; they'd definitely be tall enough to do this without having to practically climb up onto the counter. But, no. Chris had to be the shortest guy in his class.

He positioned the colander in the sink, deftly sidestepping Leanna as she passed him on her way to the table with two Cokes in hand. "Grab a couple plates from the dishwasher, would ya?"

Leanna nodded, eyes twinkling as she put a finger to her own lips in a mockery of his own actions earlier. Chris rolled his eyes; Mom, in better days, called her "sassy." Chris couldn't find it in himself to disagree. He wrapped his hands around the large pot of water and pasta, nose wrinkling when he realized just how much he'd made. Looked like they'd be eating spaghetti for the next three days.

He glanced over the island and into the living room, where his mom was sprawled out on the couch, hand loosely clutching at her throat and eyes shut tightly. She shifted, her other hand rising toward her forward, and Chris timed his pulling the pot off the stove to her restless groaning, in an effort to drown it out. Leanna didn't need to hear that. Not anymore.

The pot was heavy, far heavier than Chris anticipated. He almost dropped it more than once on his way across the kitchen and getting it up into the sink was a special challenge. Chris thought he had it, once he'd maneuvered the pot into position and started pouring into the colander. But the hot metal was too much for him to hold onto and, with a hiss of air between his lips, the pot slipped from his fingers.

The crash it made when it hit the colander and clattered across the counter and onto the floor was deafening. Chris froze and, in the corner of his eyes, he saw Leanna clap her hands over her mouth, then dart through the kitchen, presumably heading for the laundry room and the back door beyond that. Good for her. Very good for her. Chris wished that he could follow.

He left the pot on the floor as he turned to face the living room fully. His mom had sat upright at the noise, the hand that was clutching at her neck pressed flat against her chest. Red marks streaked across her collarbone, where she'd been clawing and scratching in her sleep. For a moment, Emma Harris simply sat there, staring at something Chris couldn't see – probably something that no one but Emma saw.

Please go back to sleep, please go back to sleep, please please please… Chris refused to move, in the vain hope that she wouldn't see him. It wasn't to be, though; Emma blinked sleep from her eyes and turned toward the kitchen. It took a moment for her to speak; her dark eyes danced over the mess in the kitchen, the pot lying on its side among ruined spaghetti and the spreading puddle of water, before fixing on Chris' face. "Christopher Harris."

It was hissed and Chris flinched. That wasn't his mom. She never sounded like that. The tone and timbre of her voice was the same but… but she sounded so angry.

"I'm sorry." Chris's words were rushed, tripping over each other in his hurry to get them out. Maybe it would calm her down. He hated this, hated this so damned much. "I didn't mean to. I was just trying to make some dinner. Leanna was hungry and I didn't want to wake you up. I'm just really-"

"Quiet." Emma pushed herself to her feet and strode into the kitchen. On her way past the island, she snagged a towel and tossed it in her son's direction. "Don't just stand there and apologize."

Chris fumbled with the towel before he nodded once. "Right. Yes, ma'am." He'd never called her 'ma'am' before; she'd never demanded it. Never seemed like she even wanted it, but this new woman that looked like his mom seemed to need it. Tears stung his eyes and Chris stalwartly blinked them away. Clean up the mess, then deal with the rest. He needed to find Leanna. Maybe get his mom settled in again. She was happiest when she was sleeping. Then, maybe, he could find something else for he and Leanna to eat.

Silence fell. Emma leaned against the counter, fingers idly drumming her thigh as she stared at nothing. Chris knelt on the floor, tepid water soaking through his jeans, and picked up slippery noodles. He wasn't sure how long he managed. It wasn't too long, because there was still spaghetti on the floor. It was when he glanced out the door in the laundry room and saw Leanna peer around the corner. He shook his head once and pressed his lips together as Leanna disappeared to the outside once again. He glanced at Emma, eyes wide and concerned.

Strange as she was right now, she was still his mother. "Mom?"

Emma blinked, and then seemed to shake herself as she looked at him. Her face softened almost immediately and her brow furrowed as she looked over the mess again. "Oh, baby, what are you doing?"

Chris flinched. It was like she didn't even remember what she'd been doing two seconds ago. "Sorry, Mom."

"Oh, stop it." There was something in her tone, a hardness that Chris had never really heard before all this started. It hadn't even shown up when Dad died; it came in those weeks after, when she started sleeping all the time. Emma pushed off the counter and her hand dropped onto Chris' shoulder.

It didn't seem to occur to her that her own son tensing under her hand was wrong.

"I don't like being woke up, baby. You know that."

"I know, Mom." Chris dropped a handful of noodles into the pot. "Really, I didn't mean to."

Her eyes grew hard again and Chris ducked his head as he felt her nails dig into his shoulder. "I've got things to do, baby." Her gaze was distant as she slowly turned and made her way out of the kitchen. She stopped suddenly, turned, and pinned Chris with a glare. "No more noise," she hissed – and then she was gone again, muttering under her breath. She picked up a bag from the end of the couch – some green thing from a local grocery store – and clutched it to her chest. Chris remained still until she'd slipped out the front door.

Leanna must have been watched; as soon as Emma was gone, Leanna was back in the kitchen. "Chris?"

Chris didn't need to look up to see the fear and concern in her expression. He was fairly certain it was mirrored in his own. "Don't worry about it, Lee."

And he went back to cleaning the floor.

The buzzing might not kill him, but Castiel was fairly certain that, after too much time exposed to it, he might find a way to kill himself just to find some measure of relief. He listed to the left, knees buckling under him as the sound intensified to a point where it wasn't simply all around him: it resonated within him. It crushed him, pressing in from all sides until Castiel couldn't pinpoint its source. The sound simply was and he was invading its space. It wanted him gone. He'd gladly leave if he could manage it.

He didn't even know where he was. It was cold here, and wet. A wind whipped at his coat, far from gentle. If he concentrated, he could smell the water – not the tang of salt, but fresh. Maybe that meant he was still close to the lake. He hoped that was the case. Instinct had him flying away from the man who'd discovered him; it seemed so long ago, but somewhere Castiel knew it had only been a few hours. It didn't matter, though. His problem remained the same.

That anxiety was back – one could argue that it never left – and Castiel raised a hand to his chest and pressed, breath caught when he could barely feel his own hand there. Phantom sound was too loud, sight was gone, and he couldn't feel the things around that had grounded him earlier. Slowly, certainly, senses he relied on were fading. His hand fisted in the material of his coat and it was only dimly that he felt the fabric pull across his shoulders, felt his fingers clench.

And still, the buzzing pressed in on him. On his knees, he pressed a hand against his ear, hoping in vain that a simple gesture could ease the pain. He didn't feel the ground underneath him anymore. The buzzing turned to howling; the same he'd heard in that house in Niagara Falls. The wind stopped suddenly, but whether it was the wind dying or his own perception failing, he didn't know. The smell of the water receded, and then was cut off abruptly.

It was as if the world around him didn't exist anymore.

A presence pricked at the corner of his mind and Castiel strained to listen; familiarity bred comfort and that was a presence he knew. Dean's voice formed, nearly incoherent as the words faded in and out.

…figured a few things out…

Raphael's…

… Staff. We have…

Castiel clenched his jaw, brow furrowed, and tried to simply concentrate on Dean's words. When Dean prayed, he would listen. He'd promised himself. He'd promised Dean. But the words and the presence faded, and Castiel couldn't help but feel as if it were ihim/i being pulled away, not Dean. Two more words rose through the void and Castiel held them, replaying them over and over again as the world around him faded to nothing.

…hang on…

For too long now, the only sound in the old motel room had been the clacking of laptop keys and the rustling of paper. Dean had elected to look over the files Lim had given them while Sam tried to dig up anything on the family in Niagara Falls. Research mode was nothing new and even research mode in the midst of uncertainty was pretty much par for the course anymore. Sam stopped typing, stopping to lean on his forearms as he looked over the table at Dean, who sat on the bed, files spread out over the tan coverlet.

"You got anything?"

Dean snorted. "One torn apart family. Normal, by all accounts. That is, until they upped and murdered and each other in a fit of… something. No weapons. No warning. Not a damned thing. You?"

"Same." Sam shoved the computer away from the edge of the table and sat back in his chair. "With what we've been given, we know they're connected."

"But not how."

"Not beyond both families dying in the same way and the Staff."

"There's gotta be something, Sam." Dean's voice was hard, edged with frustration as he gestured at the files. "Somebody used the Staff on 'em for some reason. There's a common thread somewhere."

"Not anywhere noticeable," Sam shot back.

"Then dig, man."

"You think I'm not? Dude, this isn't easy."

Dean grunted as he pushed himself off the bed. He gathered up the files without a word, as Sam waited for the inevitable explosion. Instead of snapping back, though, he set the files on the table and dropped wearily into the other chair. Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean's muttering, ready to call him on being an ass under his breath, but then the words reached him.

Oh. Praying. Sam waited until Dean started pawing through the paperwork again before he spoke. "You think that's doing any good?"

"Can't hurt," Dean replied and Sam refrained from telling him all the ways that it could. Dean plucked a picture of the DeBarra family – before turning upon each other in supernatural-induced rage – from the pile and held it, looking at it with narrowed eyes. Maybe he was hoping he'd see something. The picture was stubbornly silent. "There's gotta be something."

Sam shook his head. He knew it, but it wasn't there after hours of searching. "What do we do?"

Dean shrugged, still looking at the picture. "Use our awesome fake credentials and pull up everything we can about their lives."

"Paper trails."

"It's all we got."

Sam shrugged and sighed as he dug out Lim's business card. Dean watched for all of two seconds before he stood, abruptly pulling on his jacket. Sam paused in mid-dial and blinked up at him. "Where you off to?"

"Gonna run down this Danny-boy's address."

"He's not gonna be there, Dean."

Dean checked his gun, tucked it away, and started for the door anyway.

"Dean."

"It ain't gonna hurt to check." Dean waved his hand, helplessly gesturing toward the phone and computer. "You do your thing with the paper trail. I gotta do this."

Sam just nodded. Better not to argue.

TBC::