A/N: This is the sequel to my S9 AU The Path to Redemption, and you'll probably want to have read that first before starting this. To recap: Cas is the only angel God made with a soul; he and Gadreel reversed Metatron's spell and re-opened Heaven, also restoring the angels' wings (except for Cas, because he's human again); and Dean never found Cain to take on the Mark.

Huge thanks to Miyth for brainstorming ideas with me for this fic, and to 29Pieces for being a magnificent beta as always. ^_^

Disclaimer: None of them are mine. Some lines from 9x17 "Mother's Little Helper" will pop up throughout; they're not mine either.

Chapter 1: Second Time Around

Castiel took another bite of his PB&J sandwich as he sat at the study table in the bunker, scouring through the Men of Letters' books in search of a way to defeat a Knight of Hell. Well, he was supposed to be researching, but he kept finding himself distracted by a myriad of things. One being his sandwich. Peanut butter and grape jelly was his favorite, but Sam had recently convinced him to try peanut butter and banana…and he found he quite liked it. Every time he took a bite and savored the nutty and creamy textures, he lost his place where he was reading.

It was nice to be able to enjoy food again, now that he was human once more. The grace he'd stolen from Malachi's man had burned out when Castiel had sacrificed himself to reopen Heaven and reverse Metatron's spell that had cast the angels out. He wished he knew whether his actions had been enough to earn him forgiveness up there, but it was impossible for him to contact anyone.

Not that it really mattered, because without his grace, Castiel was no longer an angel who belonged in Heaven. And not just that, but he was also the only angel in existence who was created with a soul.

He still had trouble comprehending it at times. Yet that ember, nestled deep inside his solar plexus where his grace used to sit and overshadow it, burned with quiet energy now that Castiel knew it was there. It left him in awe, and with a great sense of responsibility. Mankind was his Father's most magnificent creations, and to be counted among them as one with a soul was not only an honor, but humbling as well.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean asked, jolting him out of his thoughts.

He blinked, turning to look at the eldest Winchester sitting across the study table. "Yes, I'm fine."

Dean regarded him doubtfully. "You sure? Because you've been reading that page for the past twenty minutes."

Castiel glanced down in embarrassment. "Oh. Sorry. I suppose I have been distracted."

"If you don't like PB and banana, you can just tell Sam so."

"No," Castiel said hurriedly. "I do like it. I just keep thinking about…well, everything. The past week has been quite overwhelming."

Dean nodded in understanding, though there was a slight tightening of his jaw. It hadn't been easy for him to stand back and watch Castiel perform a dangerous and powerful spell—or watch him temporarily die from it.

"I just wish I knew the state of Heaven," Castiel admitted. Not only in terms of whether he was no longer hated among the angels, but also if there was peace or if the factions were still warring against each other. He dearly hoped for the former. Angels fighting angels needed to stop, and Castiel had done everything he could to accomplish that. He just didn't know if he had been successful or not. And the only angel who could probably tell him was currently hunting down the fugitive Metatron.

Dean shrugged. "No sign of angel wars on earth, so that's a win."

Castiel held back a sigh. He knew Dean had an aversion to most angels and could not care less if they were having a war in Heaven, as long as it didn't affect humans on earth. Still, that was Castiel's family, to a degree, and he cared about them.

Sam came in from the hallway then, bearing his laptop. "Caught wind of a case online," he announced. "A first-grade teacher came home and killed her husband."

Dean leaned back in his chair and took the interruption as an opportunity to stretch his arms. "Well, maybe she snapped. Ankle biters can do that to you."

Castiel frowned. He thought Sam had said first-grade teacher, not snake wrangler.

The younger Winchester set his laptop on the table and shot his brother a scowl. "Dude, she pounded him, into ground chuck."

Dean's brows rose. "So what are you thinking?"

"Best guess—possession."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "But what about Abaddon? We haven't found diddly squat on taking her out, and she's currently the biggest bad of the bad on scene."

Sam let out a soft exhale of frustration. "I know, but we can't just ignore other cases. And like you said, we haven't found anything yet." He gestured at the stacks of books across the table. "And who knows, maybe we find a demon who can give us some information."

Dean looked doubtful, but he nevertheless shrugged and closed the cover of the book he'd been reading. "Where we headed?"

"Milton, Illinois." Sam turned his laptop screen around so Dean and Castiel could see the headline of the news article he'd found.

Dean rose from his seat. "Alright, pack up and meet in the car in ten."

Castiel felt a flutter of excitement and nervousness ping through him; he was getting another chance to accompany the Winchesters on a hunt. As a human, of course. His last attempt hadn't started out too badly, and Castiel thought he'd handled himself quite well as an FBI agent at the biker bar. But then Dean had told him they couldn't work together (which he understood the reasons for), but it had consequently led to everything falling apart with Castiel getting captured, tortured, and stealing another angel's grace to escape.

That would not be happening this time around, but he still felt some trepidation at the prospect of going out and trying this hunting thing again.

However, with Sam and Dean's assurance that they would teach him, Castiel also felt optimistic about things now. And he was up to the challenge.

Castiel was fortunate he still had his suit after losing his grace again. He left his trench coat in the car when they arrived at the police station, as he'd never seen Dean or Sam wear overcoats with their FBI suits. Castiel wasn't overly fond of the replacement article anyway, as it was shorter than his original one, the one that belonged to Jimmy Novak. But it was the closest he'd been able to find at the time and he'd had to settle for the substitute, much like he'd settled for the second-hand grace. He didn't want to think that he was settling for being human, though it was quite an adjustment. Still, it was his second foray into the experience, so certainly it had to go better than the last time.

Castiel followed the Winchesters into the station, letting them take the lead. When they produced their badges at the front counter, he hurriedly pulled out his as well, glancing at the front to make sure it wasn't upside down.

"We're here about the Young murder," Sam explained to the deputy behind the counter.

The officer swiveled in his chair. "Hey, Sheriff! The feds are here to see you!"

A balding man with salt-and-pepper hair looked up from a desk in the back of the bull pen. His brows knitted together for a moment, but then he beckoned them in.

"Agents," he greeted. "What's your interest in this case?"

"We think it might be linked to another open investigation," Sam replied smoothly.

Castiel made a note of that response, particularly its vagueness. When he'd arrived at the scene of the biker bar angel massacre, he'd told the officers in charge that he was investigating slayings all over the country—which was true, but the lead detective had questioned how so many cases could possibly be linked. Castiel had floundered a bit before he'd managed to convince the police in charge to let him in.

The sheriff gave Sam a skeptical look, and picked up a file folder off the desk, which he handed to the younger Winchester. "Karen Young hasn't left this town in five years to travel; don't know how you'd think this could be connected to anything elsewhere."

"Still," Dean put in, "we'd like to talk to her."

The sheriff shrugged, and held his arm out for them to head toward a door in the back. Sam opened the file and skimmed it as they followed the sheriff into a hallway.

"It says here in your report that you were the first on the scene?"

"Yes, sir. I found Mrs. Young sitting next to her husband covered in his blood."

"Was her husband abusive?" Dean asked.

Hm, Castiel would have asked whether Mrs. Young had seemed deranged or callous. But he supposed it made sense to investigate whether there was a non-demonic cause for a woman suddenly snapping and killing her husband. If there wasn't a supernatural cause, though, surely divorce would have been a better option?

"Rick?" the sheriff said in surprise. "Oh, no. Not at all. I mean, he could be a stubborn SOB, but can't we all?"

Dean raised his brows and canted his head as though in agreement.

Sam frowned in disapproval. "Anything else, uh, weird that maybe you felt was too odd to include?" He held up the report to indicate what he meant.

The sheriff paused in the middle of the hallway. "Like?"

"Like, did you smell sulfur?"

Ah, that would have been Castiel's next question. Good, he was on the right track.

"Why would I smell sulfur?" the sheriff replied as though that had been an idiotic question. Castiel was familiar with recognizing that tone, as he'd received it often during his initial weeks as a human. …Which meant that was not a good question to ask? But how else were they to glean the information they needed on whether this was a demonic possession case or not? Things were always so much easier when one could be direct. Though, even as an angel, Castiel had experienced humans' irritation and annoyance at that approach.

"Of course," Sam quickly backpedaled. It gave Castiel a little bit of comfort to know the Winchesters sometimes ran into these problems as well. He'd have to pay attention to how they got out of them.

"Uh, thank you," Sam continued. "What about Karen's eyes? You notice anything strange?"

The sheriff started walking again. "Actually, agent, they, uh, pretty much looked like eyes."

Castiel exchanged a look with Dean; this was not turning out all that helpful.

They rounded a corner that led into the cell block, and the sheriff halted abruptly.

"Oh lord," he gasped.

Castiel stared in dismay through the bars of the first cell. A woman was dangling by her neck, her flannel shirt having been turned into a noose. Worse than that, though, was there were scores and scores of scratches along her arms—and it appeared as though she had drawn across the walls in her own blood.

The sheriff shook himself out of his stupor and clicked the talk button on his radio. "I need the coroner called down to the station, right now!" He threw a bewildered look at the Winchesters and Castiel. "Holy…I gotta…"

Dean nodded sympathetically. "This is gonna be a shit load of paperwork."

Sam shot his brother another reproving glare.

The sheriff reached up to hold his head. "I'll…I'll be back in a minute." With that, he turned and shuffled back the way they'd come.

Dean took that opportunity to pull his EMF reader from the inside fold of his suit jacket. He ran the device along the outside of the cell, up and down, and to the sides. It didn't show any spike in electromagnetic activity. He tucked it back in his pocket.

"Okay, so not a ghost possession," he said.

Castiel moved close to the bars and leaned in to sniff. "I don't detect any sulfur."

"Well, if it's not a ghost and not a demon, what else is there?" Dean said with a hint of annoyance.

Sam just shrugged, and then straightened as voices and footsteps sounded from the other end of the hall. The sheriff returned with several officials in tow, and the crime scene analysts quickly went to work photographing the cell and Mrs. Young's body. Only once they were done did they cut her down and lay her out on a gurney to be removed.

"I don't get this," the sheriff said, sounding truly distressed. "Karen and Rick were two of the most ordinary people you'd ever meet."

"Did she go anywhere on the day of the murder?" Sam asked.

The sheriff shrugged as he watched the woman's body be carted out. "It was Saturday. Uh…a quick trip to the grocery store. That's about it."

"If there's any surveillance footage of that area, we'd like to take a look," Sam prompted gently.

The sheriff nodded jerkily. "Yeah, sure." He turned and trailed after the coroner.

"What now?" Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Wait for a new lead. Because we've got nothing here." He gestured at the macabre display inside the cell.

It was just like their search for a way to defeat Abaddon—nothing to go on.

"Then what do we do in the meantime?" Castiel brought up.

Again, Dean shrugged. "We gotta eat."

Castiel's stomach rumbled slightly in response. Well, at least consuming food was a satisfying endeavor.

An imposing figure glided between the shadows of a dark alley, sending several rats skittering under dumpsters. A neon sign for a restaurant fritzed and buzzed. Gadreel stopped, eyes narrowed shrewdly as he sharpened his senses. He waited, like a granite statue guarding admittance to some secret portal. Nothing moved. Still he waited, listening, poised. Flies flitted between him and the garbage rotting in the bins. He felt eyes trained on him.

His quarry thought himself so clever, and though Gadreel had spent millennia imprisoned in Heaven, he was no less the soldier he'd once been—top of the garrison and an adept sentry. It wasn't ineptitude that had let the Serpent into the Garden.

Gadreel canted his head, and in the next instant flapped his wings and flew into the warehouse across the street. He landed on the fourth floor and seized the man standing at the window by the back of his shirt. The guy yelped and flailed, but Gadreel yanked him around and slammed him up against the wall, followed by an angel blade pressed against his throat. The scrawny vessel was a fitting reflection for the angel possessing it.

"Ezra," Gadreel said severely. "You have been avoiding me."

The angel let out a pathetic mewl, grasping futilely at Gadreel's steel-like grip. "Please don't kill me," he whimpered.

Gadreel shoved him harder against the wall. "Then tell me where to find Metatron."

"I don't know!"

Gadreel angled a knowing look at the puny angel. "You were a devout supporter of Metatron, all the way to the end. But your faith was misplaced. Metatron would not spare a second thought to aid you now."

Ezra mustered an ounce of bravery and sneered at him. "You are the last angel I would ever help. It sickens me that you have been allowed back into Heaven."

Gadreel slammed him against the bricks again, hard enough to crack the mortar. "Perhaps I should take you back to Heaven. See how you enjoy being imprisoned for ages."

Ezra's bravado faltered at that, and he squealed like a swine. "No- no, wait. I don't know where Metatron is."

Gadreel had to force himself to take a calming breath. With the Scribe in the wind, he was still a threat to Heaven and everything the angels were trying to rebuild now that they'd returned from their banishment to Earth. But not only that, Gadreel had sworn to find Castiel's grace and restore him who had sacrificed everything to reopen Heaven. He would just have to take Ezra back with him and hope some other methods of persuasion would be effective.

Gadreel spread his wings in order to fly, but Ezra started up that high-pitched squawking again.

"I may not know where Metatron is…but I know where he might go."

Gadreel paused and eyed Ezra mistrustfully. "Where?"

The other angel licked his lips nervously. "Metatron entrusted me with hiding some very valuable items here on Earth, just in case. Sort of like a top-secret crypt. I was the only one who knew about it."

Gadreel lifted his angel blade a fraction, nicking the underside of Ezra's chin and eliciting a yelp. "The location."

"B-Blaine, Missouri," Ezra bleated. "The library."

Gadreel eased up on the pressure as he considered this. He did not consider a library to be a very secure place to hide valuables, but Metatron did have an unusual love for the written word.

Ezra cracked a hesitant grin. "So, you'll let me go, yeah?"

Gadreel narrowed his gaze at the much smaller angel. He could not be one hundred percent certain of his veracity, or that Ezra wouldn't attempt to contact Metatron and warn him. But the longer Gadreel tarried to deal with this miscreant, the greater the chance he would miss the Scribe entirely.

Gadreel released his tense hold on Ezra's shirt and took a measured step back. The other angel slumped in relief.

"You will answer for your crimes against Heaven and our brothers eventually," Gadreel warned.

Ezra scoffed. "Like the factions will ever be able to agree on anything long enough to spare me a thought."

"You would be surprised. Leaders have been elected to oversee rebuilding, and the progress has been significant and well received." Gadreel hesitated a beat. "I am sure if you repented and asked forgiveness, you would be welcomed home. For that is the current goal—bringing all angels together under a united Heaven." And if one such as himself could find redemption, then so, too, should any of his brethren be offered the same opportunity.

Ezra's eyes flickered for a moment as though he might be considering it. But then they hardened and his shoulder muscles bunched. "I'll take my chances."

He was gone in a rustle of wingbeats.

Gadreel felt a pang of regret for him, but it was Ezra's decision. And that was not the angel to be concerned about running loose at the moment.

Gadreel turned his internal compass east and took flight to Blaine, Missouri.