Castiel could not remember a time he had been more exhausted in all of his long life. The fight through Hell had raged for months, Hell time, countless demons and other denizens joining ranks to ward off his garrison. By the time he'd reached the Righteous Man, he'd been torn and bruised and burned in two dozen places, his grace flickering when he raised his hand to smite. Members of garrison had, of course, offered to take the blows for him—Castiel was the one charged with the sacred mission, after all—but they were under Castiel's command, and he refused them. A true captain of his garrison would not hide behind his troops…or he thought anyway. There were other opinions.

If the fight into Hell had been long, the flight out had been nigh unbearable.

He'd found the Righteous Man in one of the innermost chambers, tortured souls strung up around him, hanging from the ceiling and tethered to the walls. Most were weakly struggling, the evidence of their torment—skin stripped from their bodies, bones broken, blisters and bruises and missing eyeballs—clear. The Righteous Man had been sharpening his blade, intent on the work, and hadn't looked up until the door had slammed behind Castiel. First he'd stared. Then, his handsome face had twisted into an expression more gruesome than even those of the horribly disfigured souls swinging around him. He'd let out a hoarse yell, charged at Castiel, and sunk his blade deep into Castiel's chest.

Castiel gripped him, one arm crushing him close even as he struggled, even as he kicked and bit and shouted and cursed Castiel to high holy Heaven. And then he flew.

He'd burst through layers of hot stone and iron, past screaming souls and demons and creatures for which he had no name. And all the while, the flames of hellfire had licked at them. He'd protected the Righteous Man as best he could with his own flesh and grace, and after what had seen an eternity, his wings pumping and pumping, they were there. He'd carefully the Righteous Man's soul in what remained of Dean Winchester's body, and with his last spark of grace, returned him to life. He struggled up the final six feet and collapsed on the cool surface of the earth. For as long as it had taken to fly out of Hell—weeks, perhaps—the Righteous Man had not stopped fighting.

Still, Castiel had done it. He had raised the Righteous Man from Hell, as he had been commanded. But…not without a cost.

He was battered and torn, his grace all but gone. His head ached with an intensity he hadn't believed possible, and alone in the field, he allowed himself to groan. It was his wings that were the worst, tattered and singed and searing from base to tip. He tried to push himself up, but stalled on his knees and elbows, throbbing head bowed to the ground.

The earth was starting to shiver above Dean's grave. He had to move.

Castiel beat his wings once more, and landed in Heaven. He was in a field, or perhaps a park, and to his right a man in a sweater was flying a kite serenely, oblivious to the broken angel who had just appeared. This time, when Castiel his the ground hard and his knees buckled beneath him, he didn't try to catch himself. He hit the ground and lay there for some time, pain thrumming through his head, his body, his wings.

A distant part of him knew that he had to report to his superiors. They'd be waiting, and not patiently, to learn whether Dean Winchester had been saved. Any unnecessary delay might cost him, well, he didn't want to think about it.

He drifted.

He was startled to alertness by the appearance of feet in shiny shoes—the typical angel's typical outfit. The sight of shoes was followed by a pressure on his shoulder. Someone's hand on his shoulder, he realized distantly. He was too weak to roll over on his own.

"Castiel?" a voice asked.

Castiel struggled to raise his head.

"Castiel, how long have you been here?" the voice asked again. It sounded young, and gentle.

Castiel blinked in confusion. He had half-expected to be found, so many hours (days? Weeks?) after returned the Righteous Man to life. He hadn't expected it to be gentle.

But then, Samandriel had always been one of the most gentle of his brothers.

"I don't…" he'd meant to say I don't know, but as it turned out his lungs were still full of fire and brimstone, and he curled around himself coughing desperately. As an angel, he didn't need to breathe, but that didn't make what remained of Hell in his body any less toxic.

"Castiel?" Samandriel said again after a few moments. "You're hurt. Let me help you."

This time, Castiel twisted his head around to face him. It had been so long since anyone had offered him anything of the sort that he hardly knew how to respond. "I'm fine," he lied gruffly. He was the captain of a garrison. He did not need the help of his youngest, and gentlest, brother.

"You can't be fine. You crashed, and your wings are all torn up," Samandriel pointed out, and Castiel realized that he had, indeed, left a long furrow in the ground behind him. "Please, brother. At least let me return the favor."

"Return…the favor?" Cas echoed hoarsely, having no idea what the younger angel was talking about. And then, as if the memory had floated up from somewhere deep and bobbed suddenly to the surface, he remembered.

The world was new. Well, sort of new. God had already abandoned the angels, and Michael and Gabriel had made their best effort to raise their younger brothers and sisters.

Castiel was one of the youngest. And while the primordial storms raged on Earth below, Gabriel taught him to fly. They went up to one of Heaven's tallest mountains, overlooking the wide, pastoral expanses that would someday be home to countless souls. Castiel's had been smaller, then, and chubbier, his wings had been much smaller as well. A child. He'd listened very carefully as Gabriel described what he was to do. Then they started small. Jumping from a short ledge and spreading their wings so they glided. Then a taller peak. Then another. Before he knew how he'd done it, Castiel's wings had flapped and he'd found himself aloft, held up by the warm air rising from the valley below, his brother gliding alongside him with a proud smile.

"There ya go, Cas," Gabriel said. "You're flying! Now let's get turned around and see if you know how to land."

They spent more time practicing, until Castiel could glide and turn and spin through the sky with grace. He had thought, as a child might, that he would never come down. When Gabriel had to leave to attend to some of their other siblings, Castiel just kept soaring, turning circles around the peak of the mountain.

"Cas!"

He heard the small, high-pitched voice as he circled, and it startled him so much he lost several feet of altitude.

"Cas! Cast'el!"

It was his smallest brother, Samandriel, perched on the ledge from which Castiel and Gabriel had launched. Samandriel was little more than a fledgling, a tiny thing with tiny, fluffy wings that flapped in excitement as he watched Castiel arc around to see him. He wasn't supposed to be here.

"Cast'el!" he yelled again. "I can fly too!"

And then he jumped. And, tiny wings, fluffy wings pumping ineffectually, began to plummet to the ground.

Castiel flew after him, but he was too new to flying and too clumsy, and could neither reach him in time nor could he dive after him fast enough to catch him. Instead, he watched his youngest brother fall.

He flew down to his side with as much alacrity as he could, and found with boundless relief that Samandriel had not perished. But he was weeping, and it didn't take long for Castiel to understand why. One of Samandriel's tiny, fluffy wings was broken between the first and second joints.

"It's all right," Castiel tried to comfort him, pulling him into his arms. Although Samandriel had been very tiny then, Castiel had also been much smaller, and his crying, squirming baby brother had filled both of his arms.

"Hurts," Samandriel had moaned, burying his face in Castiel's shoulder and adding, his voice muffled, "Wan'ed to fly like you, Cast'el."

Castiel hugged him. He never liked to see any creature in pain…especially not his baby brother. "You can't fly yet," he said gently. "You're too small. Now, hold still."

He rested his hand over the break in Samandriel's wing and tried to find his grace, to let it flow in and repair the bone. It was hard – Castiel was only still learning how to use his grace – but he bit his lip in concentration and stayed in position until the wing was healed.

"There. I'm going to take you back. Michael never even needs to know you snuck after us," Castiel said, for he was sure that Michael would be very angry. He had ordered all of his younger brothers to stay in the nest unless Gabriel or Raphael came with them. Baby Samandriel had broken the rules. "You just have to hold onto me. Can you do that?"

Still sniffling, Samandriel had nodded. "Hold on to you," he agreed solemnly.

It didn't matter that Castiel had just learned to fly, or that he'd never taken off from the ground, or that he'd never traveled with another in his arms. He held onto Samandriel tightly, took a running start, and shot off into the sky.

"You don't need to return the favor," Castiel said, as Samandriel helped him to a sitting position and started inspecting the damage to his wings. "That was a long time ago. We were…children." He winced as Samandriel smoothed down a patch of ruffled feathers.

"I know," Samandriel said easily, then gave him a small smile. "I still think about it sometimes, though. You could have been angry at me for following you and Gabriel. But you just healed me and picked me up and took me all the way back. I remember, you were so tired by the time we got to the nest, you nearly crashed. But you still helped me pretend I hadn't done anything wrong."

"I only did what any brother would have done," Castiel said, then looked at Samandriel perplexed as Samandriel's smiled grew wider.

"I know, Castiel."

He started smoothing another section of wing, using his grace to repair broken feathers and torn skin as he did. Admittedly, it felt a lot better.

"I don't understand," Castiel said. "Why are you helping me?"

"You don't know?" Samandriel asked.

Castiel shook his head. As the pain eased, some of his clarity of thought returned, and he realized he had rested far too long in the kite-man's heaven. He had been ordered to report back as soon as he completed his mission. Then he was to return to Earth to contact the Righteous Man. Instead, he had lain on the grass feeling sorry for himself. Michael would be very upset.

He tried to push himself up again but Samandriel pressed him down, sending even more healing energy through him.

"Don't worry," Samandriel said. "I'll tell them you just arrived."

"Thank you," Castiel said cautiously.

"There's no need to thank me," Samandriel said earnestly as he set a few more feathers right. "I'm just—"

"Returning the favor?" Cas guessed, thinking again of the puffy-winged little angel he'd healed and protected from their older brother's wrath so many years ago.

"—doing what any brother would have done," Samandriel said. He smoothed out a final section. Though Castiel's wings were still battered, and there were large gaps in his feathers where they'd been torn or fallen out, he felt about a thousand times better than he had before. "There. I think that's all I can do."

But Samandriel had said not to thank him, so Castiel didn't. Instead, he offered him a smile in return.

"Now, come on. I believe you have to report to Michael," Samandriel said. "You're still healing, so I'll fly you there. Just hold on to me."