Chapter 2: Soulless on Parade

Sometimes Sam wondered what was wrong with them that they could go from a grisly scene like that back at the police station, to a diner right afterward and order a hefty serving of food. It wasn't that gruesome deaths didn't horrify them, but he supposed that after years of hunting, they had been somewhat desensitized to it. And of course, Cas had been around much longer than that, and seen who knew how many battlefields.

The ex-angel slid into the booth next to Dean and began poring over the menu items with barely concealed eagerness. Now that he was human again, he'd really taken to trying the various food options he came across. PB&J was still his favorite, though Sam suspected it might have sentimental meaning to him. But Cas had also discovered that he liked burgers (Dean had been so thrilled), and Thai chicken salad (to which Dean had been less thrilled), and that he did not like oatmeal with raisins, or potatoes with the skin, or barbecue wings. Again, Dean had been somewhat disappointed with that last one. He took solace in the fact that Cas didn't only eat "rabbit food" like Sam, which was a gross over-generalization; Sam didn't mind eating the occasional bacon strip. He just didn't slather the pork on everything under the sun.

A waitress came over with a pitcher of water. "You boys know what you want or need a few minutes?" she asked as she filled their glasses.

"We'll need a few minutes, thanks," Sam answered. He knew what he wanted, and Dean usually ordered a burger no matter what, but Cas was engrossed in the menu.

She smiled and headed back to the counter.

"We've eaten at diners before," Dean said to Cas. "It's pretty much the same thing wherever you go."

"But this place has chicken fried steak, which the other venues didn't have," Cas pointed out.

Dean shrugged. "Then order that. It's pretty good."

Cas pursed his mouth as though this was a decision of grave importance. "It's one of the more expensive items."

"So?" Dean took a sip of his water.

"When I was human the first time, I had to be very conscientious about money," Cas explained. "Usually, I could only afford a microwaveable burrito or nachos from the Gas-N-Sip where I worked." His gaze turned reminiscent. "I did decide to splurge once, and went to a restaurant where I ordered a slice of pie. I was curious, given how much you like it. There were many other food items I'd been curious about as well, but I had to resist the temptation." Cas gave himself a small shake. "Anyway, I know you and Sam must be equally meticulous with your own funds."

Sam's gaze had fallen squarely on his menu in front of him, though he wasn't actually perusing it. He hated every time Cas brought up his previous time as a human, because it was a sharp reminder of how much Dean had screwed up—tricking Sam into letting an angel possess him, kicking Cas out so that he was homeless and alone because said angel was afraid to have Cas around. It wasn't even like Cas was trying to be vindictive when he mentioned his earlier experiences; they were always said in such casual, matter-of-fact ways, like he was regaling the Winchesters with a passing anecdote instead of the heartbreaking story it really was.

But Sam had forgiven his brother. They had worked through their issues of perceived abandonment and betrayal and agreed to put it behind them. Cas certainly never held anything against them, either.

So Sam forced himself to look up without a hint of displeasure or resentment, and found that Dean's expression was pinched with enough guilt on his own.

"Order the chicken fried steak," Dean said, voice somewhat rough. "You're right; the next diner might not have it."

"And with access to the Men of Letters' resources," Sam put in, "we're actually pretty well off."

Cas looked hesitant for only a second longer, and then broke into a wide grin. "Alright."

Sam caught the waitress's eye, and she came back to take their orders. Dean got his cheeseburger, as expected, and Sam ordered a chicken quesadilla. Conversation didn't really pick up again after that. Dean busied himself with looking at something on his phone, and Sam pulled out the sheriff's report to go over once more. Cas looked a little fidgety in his seat, not having anything to occupy himself with while they waited. Sam took one of the pages out of the file and handed it over. Cas flashed him such an eager look that it reminded Sam of the last time Cas had played FBI with them…right before everything at the bar blacked out because of Gadreel.

Sam didn't really hold a grudge against the angel anymore. They'd agreed to a tentative partnership when trying to reopen Heaven, and Sam had to come to terms with the fact that Gadreel hadn't truly meant anyone harm; he'd just been misled by Metatron.

That didn't make the memories less painful, though.

The waitress returned with two plates—Cas's and Dean's. "Yours will be ready in just a minute," she said to Sam.

"Order up," the cook called from the window to the kitchen.

"That would be it," the waitress said with a smile, and turned to go grab it.

The bell of the small diner jingled as the door opened and a young teen walked in.

"Be with you in a minute, Bill."

"How's the chicken fried steak?" Dean asked Cas, who was chewing on his first bite thoughtfully.

Sam was suddenly distracted by the kid grabbing a fistful of mashed potatoes off a plate on the bar counter and stuffing them into his mouth in quite the grotesque display that would dampen anyone's appetite. Sam must have made a face, because Dean craned his neck to look behind him.

"Billy, what are you doing?" the waitress exclaimed in horror. "Your mother raise you in a barn?"

"Don't talk to me like that!" he shouted back.

"Hey, take it easy," Sam found himself butting in. "She's working hard."

The waitress furrowed her brow in concern as she walked over to the kid. "What's eating you?"

Billy swept his arm out and knocked a glass off the counter. It shattered on the floor. Sam tensed; this was escalating fast.

"You," the kid snapped. "My mom. Him." Billy gestured at Sam, who bristled. It wasn't like he'd said anything to provoke the kid.

Dean twisted around in the booth. "Buddy, give it a rest."

Billy whipped his glare toward Dean, attempting to stare him down. Dean didn't balk.

The waitress leaned over the counter, trying to get the kid's attention. "Billy? Billy. I'm gonna call your mom, have her come fetch you."

Billy whirled toward her. "No, you're not." Before Sam knew what was happening, the kid had snatched a table knife from the counter and stabbed it down into the waitress's hand, pinning it to the counter. A bloodcurdling scream tore from her throat and Sam launched himself out of his seat and flew at Billy. The kid wrenched the knife out and raised it as though to attack, but Sam swiftly grabbed his wrist and torqued it. The knife fell from useless fingers. Then Sam delivered a sucker punch to the jaw, and Billy went down like a lead brick.

Dean was already darting around the edge of the counter and scooping up a cloth napkin to press to the waitress's hand. She kept screaming and blubbering hysterically. The cook came barreling out of the kitchen, eyes wide with shock.

Dean jabbed a finger at him. "Call 911," he ordered.

Sam looked down at the unconscious kid, and reached into his jacket for his phone so he could call the sheriff directly. He had a sinking hunch that this behavior might be the same as Karen Young's. As Sam made the call, he noticed Cas herding the other diner patrons toward the back, instructing them to stay back, that the FBI had everything under control. Sam felt a flicker of pride at how quickly the ex-angel was learning.

The ambulance and sheriff arrived at the same time, and the sheriff just stared in bewilderment as the waitress was escorted out, a blood soaked napkin wrapped around her hand. Then he came in and gawked at Billy.

"Not another one," he muttered.

"Let me guess," Sam said. "Unusual behavior for this kid?"

The sheriff nodded mutely and ran a hand over his balding head. "Agent, I think you need to come back to the station and see something."

Sam frowned, but nevertheless nodded. "Okay." He waved Dean and Cas over. Unfortunately, there were too many people to check for EMF readings, and Sam didn't smell any sulfur on Billy.

The three of them headed outside and grouped together next to the Impala.

"You smell any sulfur?" Sam asked just to double check.

"Nope," Dean said. "You?"

Sam shook his head. "Sheriff says there's something we should see at the station."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, let's go." But just as he put his hand on the car door, his expression fell with remorse. "Er, sorry about your chicken fried steak, Cas."

"That's all right," Cas replied. "I don't believe it would have made the favorites list."

Sam didn't know whether Cas was telling the truth or trying to alleviate Dean's guilt. Not that it mattered, because they were back on the case with a lead that probably shouldn't wait.

They drove back to the Milton Sheriff's Department and found the place much more riled up than before. A phone rang every few seconds, and most of the officers were already on the lines, the drone of their combined voices making it nearly impossible to catch a snippet of actual conversation.

"Agents," the sheriff greeted, coming around the counter to meet them.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"This way," he replied, leading them once again to the back corridor that led to the cell block.

Sam exchanged a confused look with Dean and Cas, but followed. He'd been expecting to see that kid from the diner, but he had not been expecting to find four other people occupying the jail cells as well. The sheriff stood by with grim patience as Sam walked up and down the aisle, completely flabbergasted by what he saw. Two people were writing on the walls in their own blood, expressions utterly devoid of anything but blithe boredom. Another person was humming to himself in a rather creepy way, and the fourth was banging his head against the cell door as though he didn't even register the pain. Dean paused in front of that one, and the guy stopped long enough to crack a crazed grin at him.

"This is disturbing," Cas remarked.

That was putting it lightly. Sam turned back to the sheriff. "So, tell us what's happening here."

The sheriff shrugged. "I was hoping you'd tell me. You're the ones that mentioned weird."

Yeah, but this was getting beyond weird now; Sam had never seen anything like it.

"Where did they all come from?" Dean asked.

"Oh, they're all locals. Four of the straightest arrows you'd ever meet. Apparently, they've been acting like this for days." He swept his gaze over the cells and shook his head, obviously at a loss.

"Do they share anything in common?" Sam questioned. "Church? School? Uh, book club?"

"Not of my knowledge." The sheriff paused. "Oh, I met the kid's girlfriend. She said he was hitching a ride when a van picked him up, and that's the last she heard of him. Whatever that's worth."

Not much, Sam thought, but it was something to follow up on.

The door at the end of hall opened, letting in a bit of the cacophony from the bullpen. "Sheriff, can you come out for a sec?" a deputy called.

"Excuse me," the sheriff said, and walked away.

Sam took the opportunity to pull a flask of holy water from inside his suit jacket and head back to Billy's cell. He flung the holy water at the kid, but nothing happened. No sizzling or screaming. Billy just glared at him. Sam's jaw tightened.

"What are you, Billy?"

The kid canted his head in a brief moment of thought. "Clear."

Sam frowned. "Of?"

Billy spread his arms and grinned. "Everything."

"Why are you doing this?" Dean demanded.

Billy surged forward to grab the bars. "You think there's a 'why'? No. It's because I want to. And I can."

Sam stared into the kid's eyes, steely disregard and complete lack of empathy reflecting back at him. A cold feeling started working its way down his spine. Sam made a small noise in his throat and jerked his head for Dean and Cas to join him a short distance away from Billy's cell.

"Guys…" he began hesitantly. "I think I might know what this is."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, they've all lost their fruit loops."

Cas frowned at him. "I don't recall Billy saying anything about looking for breakfast cereal."

Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam jumped in before the sheriff decided to come back.

"No, it's more…basic instinct. It's like the littlest things can set them off." Sam swallowed. "Kind of like me."

"You?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam shifted his weight. "Yeah, uh, soulless me. Remember that?"

Dean let out a small snort. "How could I forget? But you weren't out of control like these people." He gestured at the whack jobs in the cells.

"Well, maybe everyone has a different reaction to losing their soul," Sam suggested. He couldn't think of anything else that might fit what was going on here.

"That is possible," Cas put in. "Every soul is unique, and so a person's reaction to losing it would likely vary."

Dean shook his head, clearly not thrilled with this theory. "So, what? A crossroads demon making deals and taking people's souls?"

Sam pursed his mouth. "No, I don't think so. I mean, it's not as if these people are winning the lotto."

"Plus, when a soul comes due for collection, the person's life is also forfeit," Cas added.

"Okay," Dean said. "Uh, well, that was my best swing."

Yeah, it wasn't like Sam knew how to explain this, either. It seemed they had a bunch of soulless people running around, but no idea how they'd gotten that way.

The door at the end of hall opened again and the sheriff stuck his head in, waving a folder. "Grocery store surveillance pics."

Sam spurred into action, moving forward to take it. "Great, thank you." He immediately flipped the file open and began perusing the photos. Cas crowded next to him to get a look as well, while Dean continued to watch the soulless people warily.

Sam narrowed in on the second frame that showed a van in the parking lot, the words 'St. Bonaventure' on the side. He slid that picture out from the rest and walked back to Billy's cell. "Your girlfriend said you got a ride in a van earlier. Was it like this?" Sam held up the photo.

Billy lolled a lazy look at it, and shrugged. "So what if it is?"

Sam turned back to Cas and Dean. "Looks like we finally have a lead."

Dean nodded decisively. "Let's go."

Gadreel landed outside the library in Blaine, Missouri. The place was dark, apparently closed for a holiday. He waited a moment before flapping his wings and reappearing just inside the door. Again he paused, poised with senses peeled. Everything was silent. A quick visual sweep of the first floor, which was rather small, revealed it was empty. There was a staircase that headed down to a lower level, and so Gadreel started toward it.

As he descended the steps, he caught the sounds of books thudding on the floor, interspersed with a few grunts and indecipherable mutters. Gadreel tensed as he stealthily crossed the foyer, narrowing in on the source of the noise. He spotted some books haphazardly scattered across the floor at one shelving bracket.

"These riddles don't even make any sense," a familiar, high-pitched whining sounded from somewhere within the stacks.

Gadreel moved forward cautiously, glimpsing a head of curly hair through gaps in the shelves. Metatron was frantically pulling out books and then either shoving them back on the shelf roughly or merely dropping them on the floor.

"All morons," the Scribe continued to grouse. "And those dolts think they can rebuild Heaven, hah!"

Gadreel moved silently. He could sense a faint thrum of grace filling the room, and suspected it was Castiel's. He drew his angel blade, prepared to move in for the capture, but out of nowhere, paralyzing pain struck him in the chest and shot outward to seize up every one of his muscles. He choked on a gasp and slowly fell forward onto his hands and knees. Metatron stepped out from behind the bookshelf, two fingers dripping with blood, a smug moue on his face.

"You didn't really expect me not to have alarms and safe guards set up, did you?" the Scribe said, and then tutted. "Guess strategy isn't really your game, Gadreel." He turned around and began searching the shelves once more.

Gadreel tried to force himself up, but another wave of searing pain stole his breath and nearly crumpled him. His hand muscles had seized around the hilt of his blade, yet he couldn't move his arm enough to wield it. The fire in his nerves was all consuming, and dark spots began speckling his vision.

Metatron hummed to himself as he pulled another volume off the shelf. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "There you are."

Gadreel blinked against his blackening vision, and saw Metatron take a Tablet out of a tome. No, he couldn't allow the Betrayer to win.

"Now to find Castiel's grace," Metatron mused, and moseyed down another aisle.

Gadreel narrowed his focus on the bookshelves, and inch by inch, started crawling his way around the corner. The sigils Metatron had painted on the book spines glowed orange-red with vengeance as they worked their debilitating spell on him. Yet Gadreel managed to heave himself up, grasping at a shelf edge when he began to collapse again. He heard Metatron exclaim,

"Oh! Finally a riddle that's actually clever."

Clutching his angel blade in a white-knuckled grip, Gadreel launched his arm up and stabbed through one of the sigils. The blade pierced the book spine like flesh, and then Gadreel's falling weight dragged it down through the scorching blood, destroying its line.

The pain disappeared instantly, and Gadreel sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He staggered under the shock, trying to regain his composure before Metatron realized his trap had been disabled. Too late, the Scribe rounded the other end of the aisle further down, eyes widening in disbelief.

Gadreel flapped his wings and flew at the other angel. Metatron threw his arms up to block, and squealed much like Ezra had. He tried to bash Gadreel over the head with the Tablet, but Gadreel swatted the Scribe down effortlessly. Then he lashed out and grabbed a fistful of Metatron's hair, bringing his blade up to the angel's throat.

"Combat is not your game, Metatron," Gadreel said. "Now, where is Castiel's grace?"

"I'd rather die than tell you where Asstiel's grace is," Metatron spat.

Gadreel's fist clenched harder, eliciting another yelp. "I wished for death many times, and was not granted it." He pressed the tip of his blade deeper against the Scribe's neck. "Tell me where Castiel's grace is, or perhaps I will take yours until you are more amenable."

Metatron's eyes widened. "Y-you wouldn't!"

Gadreel angled the weapon into a better position. "Try me."

Metatron's cheeks puffed with rage, yet there was also defeat in his eyes. "The riddle," he ground out, "points to the book Don Quixote."

Gadreel frowned. "I do not understand."

Metatron snorted. "Of course you don't."

Gadreel clenched his fist and knocked Metatron's head against the bookshelf. "Take me to this book."

"Argh, fine!" Metatron pouted like the weasel he was, and took a tentative step. Gadreel loosened his hold just a fraction to give the Scribe enough leeway to walk, but not to attempt escape. They shuffled down another book aisle, and finally Metatron reached for a volume from the shelf. The thrumming on the air grew more vibrant.

Metatron flipped the cover up, and inside was a small vial with a tiny amount of pure angelic essence swirling within. Gadreel reverently took it out. So it was true; there was a little of Castiel's grace left over. Not much, and Gadreel didn't know if it was enough to restore Castiel as an angel, but it was worth a try.

He tucked it safely in his jacket, and then readjusted his vice-like hold on the Scribe, causing Metatron to flinch and drop the book. "Now you will answer for your crimes against Heaven."

He spun Metatron around to head back the way they came, pausing to bend down and snatch up the Tablet—the Demon Tablet, as it turned out. Metatron tried to struggle, but Gadreel returned his unyielding blade to the Scribe's throat in clear threat. Metatron stilled his futile attempts.

Then with a flap of his wings, Gadreel set off toward Heaven to see Metatron situated where he belonged. And then he would have the great pleasure of returning Castiel's grace to the angel who had helped save them all.

A/N: Of course, you know it's not gonna be that easy. ;)