A/N Some fan videos got me utterly addicted to this pairing, strange as it is. It's just... something about it is insanely adorable. Hopefully I did them justice!

Rated K plus for some violence and language

Disclaimer I don't own Doctor Who/Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc.


So call the mainland from the beach
Your heart is now washed up in bleach
The waves are rising for this time of year
And nobody knows what to do with the heat
Under sunshine pylons we'll meet
While rain is falling like rhinestones from the sky


"What do you mean, an angel?" Amy repeats for the hundredth time, rising up to get a better view as the Doctor fiddles about with the underside of the TARDIS's console, twisting a particularly shiny silver knob back and forth as if attempting to screw it in more tightly. "Like… it's not like he's actually from… Heaven, or whatever." She adds a small snort at the end of her sentence, farther emphasizing the utter ridiculousness of the very prospect.

"That's exactly what I mean." He sounds almost grumpy, dropping the usual affectionate reference to her by her surname. "And I know you aren't willing to believe it, you silly skeptical person, which is exactly why I'm trying to fix this so that we can hurry up and pay him a visit already…" A small groan of frustration escapes his lips as the entire TARDIS issues a whining noise, as if in protest to his tinkering.

"But—but angels aren't real," Amy insists, cocking a single eyebrow that the Doctor, hands now fully submerged in a tangle of wires, can't see. "You mean some alien, right? Like those ghosts you told me about. They weren't real ghosts, just… gaseous creatures, or whatever."

"Those weren't real ghosts, no. But there are real ghosts, mind you—I've only met one once, it's almost like they stay out of my way on purpose." He sounds almost disappointed, which she can't help but roll her eyes at, even with disbelief rising in her chest. Then again, if aliens are real, why not supernatural entities, too? "And angels, too. Granted, they're not quite as pleasant as people would like you to believe—gave up those lovely little harps quite a while back, and the ones in male vessels have been in trousers for centuries—but this one is nice enough. Aha!"

A shower of sparks shoot up in the air, illuminating the Doctor's profile, and a grin breaks over his face. "Told you I'd get it!" he tells her, shaking a finger in her direction and sounding, despite his words, almost as astonished at his success as she is. "Now, let's go meet us an angel, shall we?"

He springs up and is racing to the main level of the TARDIS before she can so much as turn around, and she has to hurry to keep up with him, her hand tight on the railing and her ginger hair, tinted with gold under the bronzy lights of the machine, sailing behind her. "Where is he, anyways?"

"America. He's got a bit of trouble he's taking care of over there at the moment—well, I say a bit of trouble, I'm fairly sure it's the biblical Apocalypse. Nothing he won't be able to take a little time off of, though. In fact, time won't even be involved." With a wink, he flourishingly gestures around them, at the TARDIS's wide bronze walls. "No one else has quite the knack for dealing with Silurians that Cas does. I think they can tell something about him, you know? Like they pick up on that angel vibe. It's useful, in any case."

"So, what? We're just going to pick him up, take him to deal with the Silurians, and then… drop him back off again?"

"Don't make it sound procedural!" the Doctor replies, his tone a careful balance between humorous and reprimanding. "I hate procedure, it's awfully boring. The way I see it, he needs a break from the stress of dealing with the end of the world, and I have a perfect way to provide it."

"By dealing with homicidal aliens?"

"You're a bit grumpy today, aren't you?"

Grumpy isn't quite the word to describe it. More accurately, she just doesn't want another person dragged onboard with her and the Doctor, especially not some religious nut with wings. She's here for aliens, not… angels, and demons, and whatever else this weirdo might inadvertently bring with his presence. But she just shrugs, leaning back and wrapping her fingers around the railing as the TARDIS, finally repaired, sets of for what's presumably America. It's only one trip, after all, she reminds herself. Then it'll be back to just the two of them.

The groaning hiss of the TARDIS's landing fades away into silence, and the Doctor rushes over to the door, a grin on his face even before he throws it open. Lying outside is an expanse of grassy sand, dotted here and there with pebbles which eventually merge into a wide grey lake. It's a quiet place—almost dismal, but something about it radiates peace more than despondency. And standing on the shore, gazing out into the minute, rippling waves, is a figure—tall, lean, dark-haired, and wearing a pale tan trench coat that lifts in the wind.

"Castiel!" the Doctor calls cheerily, poking his head outside.

The man turns, and the first thing Amy notices are his eyes—alarmingly bright blue eyes, which send a jolt through her even from several yards away. He has a rather good-looking face, though it's darkened by a solemn expression. He looks almost normal, despite the eyes—nothing like how she'd expect an angel to appear.

"Doctor," Castiel greets, striding over. He has a low, strong voice, American-accented—powerful, but not intimidating. He hesitates immediately before the TARDIS, his azure stare shifting from the Doctor to Amy. "And… this must be your companion?"

"Amy Pond," the Doctor proclaims, pride vivid in the warmth of his voice. "The best of the best, naturally."

Amy laughs and shakes her head. "No, nothing like that. It's nice to meet you, though, Castiel—the Doctor's told me about you."

He nods, his eyes lingering on her even as he speaks to the Doctor. "You contacted me… there's a problem with Silurians again, yes?"

"A bit of one, yes." The Doctor takes a step back, gesturing towards the interior of the TARDIS. "Come on in, it's rather chilly out here…"

Amy copies the action, leaving room for Castiel to follow her, taking in the wide golden arches of the time machine's interior. "This place has changed since I last came along with you… changed almost as much as you have, yourself."

"Hm? Oh—" The Doctor lifts a hand to his own face, running it along his jaw and chin. "This, yes. New regeneration! Well, somewhat new, I've had it for a bit now… different, in any case. Very different. How could you even tell it was me, come to think of it?"

"You have an energy about you that's difficult to mistake," Castiel murmurs. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his long coat and tilts his chin back, scanning the ceiling. "As does your machine."

Amy can't stand it anymore—he's just so odd, like he can't quite find a place in the human world. So she blurts out her words before she gives herself a chance to second-guess them, consider how they might be seen as nagging or impolite. "The Doctor said you were an angel."

"I'm not a very good one," he replies immediately, his shoulders shifting in a silent sigh. "Not since Lucifer began and the Apocalypse began… I am… on the opposite side of most of them. There are other people whom I've chosen to ally myself with."

Amy's eyes widen, and she stares at the Doctor over Castiel's shoulder, mouthing silently—Lucifer? He only shrugs in response, but looks rather delighted, as though the concept of the Devil really existing is the most wonderful thing he's heard in ages. She's not quite so sure how to react—it's interesting, she supposes, but a bit terrifying, too. Well, more than a bit.

"That's… well… good for you," she says awkwardly, her lips quirking into a smile. He glances back over his shoulder, a hint of surprise shining through his stoic features.

"Not many would say so. I have been called a disgrace to my kind on multiple occasions."

There's no proper way to respond to that, and she ends up settling for an uncertain and probably painful remark. "I guess I haven't met any of them, so I can't really make the comparison, right?"

"That is one way to see it."

The Doctor suddenly brings his hands together in a sharp clap, causing Amy to jump slightly—she'd been completely locked in on Castiel's sapphire-colored eyes, she realizes now with a surge of embarrassment. She makes sure to focus her attention on the Doctor, instead—maybe it's her imagination, but she thinks she can still feel the slightest prickle of Castiel's stare on herself.

"Right, then," the Time Lord declares, "off to London, is it?"

"Perhaps you should tell me more about this Silurian problem beforehand," Castiel suggests. "So that I'm aware of what we are up against."

There's an odd pattern to his speech, Amy notes now—awfully formal, with sparing use of contractions. It adds to his impression of stiffness, but also is strangely endearing.

"Yes, yes, that," the Doctor mutters, whacking himself lightly in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Well, Amy and I were just dropping by London, present time, to pick up a bite to eat—she had a particular craving for one restaurant, it would seem." He tilts an accusing finger in her direction, and Castiel's eyes flicker over to her again, brows drawing together.

She laughs self-consciously. "What? I went to the place once as a kid, it was the best hamburger I've ever tasted. Of course I'd take advantage of a machine that can travel anywhere across space in a few seconds, right?"

The silence afterwards is rather awkward, but thankfully only lasts for a few seconds before Castiel turns back to the Doctor. "Go on," he prompts.

He continues immediately. "So while we were there, we heard about some sort of street gang that's been acting up lately. Supposedly, they camp out in the grungiest tube stations they can find, where no one can ever bother to kick them out, and there's a string of violence and theft wherever they go. No big deal, you'd think, only there was also a rumor, treated like some sort of… ghost story, sort of, about these people—that they always wear hoods, but underneath, they have scaly faces. Spooky, right?" he offers jokingly. Castiel's expression doesn't so much as twitch, and Amy stifles a giggle at the Doctor's expense. He sniffs and goes on. "Anyhoo, we decided to take a look, naturally. There was… a bit of a chase, but it turns out there are indeed a number of them living in London. Heavens know how they got there—or, well, maybe not," he amends with a grin towards Castiel, "but they're there now, in any case, and I'd like to try and pacify them a bit. Of course, you have a bit of a way with them, so here we came!"

"You'd do best not to overestimate what I can do," Castiel warns, looking up from the lowered expression he'd donned over the course of the Doctor's explanation. "Just because that group a while ago were fond of me does not mean that all of them will be."

"Yes, but, well… you're our only hope now, Cas, come on. We tried our best with them, believe you me, but… they wouldn't have any of it."

Castiel sighs, but also nods, straightening his shoulders a bit. "I will do my best, Doctor. Just be sure that you can get me back here at the same time I departed… the Winchesters are relying on me, and angels' time travel is much more… taxing than that of the Time Lords."

"Not a problem, not a problem!" the Doctor crows, prancing over to assign the console coordinates. "Any effort on your part will be absolutely brilliant, believe you me. Your… Winchesters?... won't even know you've been gone."

Winchesters. The name, perhaps, of the humans Castiel has been working with. Siblings? Partners? She has no idea, and supposes that she never will. Everything about the angel is mysterious, really—what he's doing on Earth, his alliances, his history…

Well, it's not any of her business to become involved with that. He's only here to help with the Silurians, and that's all she expects of him.


Two hours later, Amy is bound, gagged, and strapped to a wooden chair in a small, dark room with no memory of what got her here. Bitterness surges in her mouth and chest, and a single thought dominates her mind with its desperate brilliance: Where the hell is the Doctor?

There's blackness everywhere she looks. Nothing but solid pitch shade. She tries to struggle, but there's some sort of thick, bristly rope cutting into the fragile skin of her wrists, which she wants to avoid aggravating. Instead, she clenches her teeth together and her eyes shut, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths.

Think. What happened?

She and the Doctor—and Castiel, the angel—the three of them had landed in London, and headed directly for the back alley that they knew the hooded Silurians to hang around in during the daytime. It was a desolate place, especially with the dense London fog filling the space. She can't remember actually finding any of the aliens—a pang strikes the back of her head, and a small whimper escapes her lips. Headache. In a very precise place, a throbbing past along the back of her skull—just about the size of a tight fist.

Oh…

She strains even harder at her memory, fighting to recollect something, anything other than the alleyway. She… she got separated from the Doctor and Castiel, after a couple of minutes of searching. Not too far away, but perhaps she thought she saw something—yes, that's it. Movement in an open garage. She went to investigate, got just inside, and then…

And then what?

They must have gotten her. That's all she can imagine. The Silurians, presumably, though it could have been anyone, really. And here she is now, choking on moldy fabric that's crammed into her mouth to prevent screams, with her wrists strapped tightly to the arms of a weak wooden chair.

She needs the Doctor.

Once again, she opens her eyes and stares as hard into the darkness as is physically possible, fighting to be able to see something, anything—a single shape in the gloom would be better than this emptiness—but to no avail. Despite her best efforts, panic begins to rise inside of her. Who's to say that the Doctor will find her here? What if she starves, or dies from lack of oxygen? What if—

Damn it. She's gotten out of worse situations than this—surely she has. The vampire aliens, in Venice—the Doctor saved her from those, right? She can survive just being trapped in a basement. She's not going to be this pathetic, for God's sake.

This is reassuring, and she holds onto it as she begins to test her bindings again, wiggling her hands and straining her legs. Her wrists and ankles are both roped to the chair, which feels very solid underneath her—old wood, probably. Okay. Deep breath. Maybe she can break the chair if she tips it over.

Yeah, and break your neck, too.

It's her only hope, though, and she's not just going to sit down here and wait to be rescued. So she takes a long, steady breath, shakes her head to clear strands of hair out of her eyes, and tenses her wrists before jerking sharply to the side. The chair rocks slightly, but it's heavy, and doesn't tip. Swallow. Keep breathing. Her heart is racing up her throat, but she jerks again, gaining notable momentum, and then one final time.

For a moment, she and the chair are suspended in the air, and it's terrifying—her stomach flies to her throat, and a scream battles the gag in her mouth. Then all the wind is knocked out of her lungs as she collides with a cold cement floor, sending a jolt of pain up her shoulder and through her spine. She gasps and chokes on the fabric on her mouth, agonized stars flying before her eyes, momentarily paralyzed.

Doctor—!

It takes several long, tense seconds for the pain to fade away, and even then there's a sharp ache along her entire left side. She's on the ground, though, she realizes slowly—she achieved what she meant to, right? With this thought in mind, she tests each of her tied-up limbs again, feeling a disappointed flip in her stomach as she discovers that each one is just as tight as ever. Damn it. Tipping didn't cause the chair to so much as splinter, apparently—and now she's horizontal, with a chill seeping into her cheek and her neck aching with strain.

Think of something else, then. There has to be a way out of this. There's a way out of everything.

Before she can resume brainstorming, though, a high-pitched creak assaults her ears, and a faint, dusty puddle of light penetrates the darkness before her. Ignoring the sharp pains in her neck, she forces herself to look up, her breath coming short. A thin staircase is outlined in blurry sepia, and, standing at the top, a tall, slim figure.

For a moment, her heart races ahead of her—is it the Doctor? Is he finally here?—but then a voice floats down the stairs, and distress wells up inside of her. It's not him—in fact, it's female, smooth and low and tinged with some accent she can't quite place.

"You know, human girl, we don't take kindly to people invading our personal business."

She tries not to whimper as a light bulb flickers to light overhead, instead wincing and half-closing her eyes against the amber glare. The door shuts with a crisp bang, and the Silurian woman begins to descend the staircase. Amy's eyes slowly begin to adjust to the dim light, enough to make out that she's in a small room with a damp, cracked cement floor and greyish tan walls patched with mold. It's bare of furniture, but the layout makes it look as though it could be the basement of some abandoned apartment building, or something of the like.

"See, we mostly just keep to ourselves. We're not nearly as bad as half of those human street gangs out there, are we? And yet we're the ones you always seem to come after."

Please, she wants to say—please, we didn't want to harm you, only talk, only ask you not to hurt people anymore… but the gag muffles any attempt at speech, and she suffices to remain silent, her eyes wide as the Silurian strides across the floor and kneels in front of her, sneering. Her face is indeed covered by green scales, and some of her features are slightly less than human, lizard-like. Other than that, though, she appears to be a person—a rather furious-looking person, her eyes narrowed to fierce slits and her lips pulled back from her teeth.

"We didn't ask to be here, see," she goes on, spitting out each word. "It's not our fault to exist here, on this planet, in this time… we're not meant to. It's unnatural and demented, but if we're going to be here, we are going to use it to our advantage, damn it."

Amy whimpers—she can't help it. She feels unwillingly vulnerable, lying on the floor like this with a much larger, powerful woman looming over her with that crazed look in her eyes.

"We saw the other two with you," she goes on. "The men. Maybe it'll teach them a lesson if we take care of you." Then there's a knife in her hand—oh, hell, it's a knife, blade glittering in the syrupy light, and she feels like she'd throw up if not for the gag in her mouth—tears are welling in her eyes, Doctor, please, it's not supposed to end like this—

—Bang—

She gasps, and her eyes sting as dust fills the air, burning against them. The Silurian releases a yelp of shock and confusion, and she squints to see the scaly alien woman thrown violently aside by a figure, shadowed in comparison to the light shining down the stairwell—the door, she realizes, the door has been knocked clean off its hinges and crashed down the stairs, and someone's here—the Doctor? But he wouldn't be so violent with the Silurian… her eyes are blurred with tears from her fear and from the thick, dusty air, but there are warm hands on her shoulders, pulling her upright, and then the gag is ripped away from her mouth, causing her head to jerk forward.

"Are you alright?"

It takes a moment for her still-lagging mind to put a face to the low voice, but then she does, just as she looks up to see the bright blue eyes inches away from her.

"Castiel?" she exclaims in confusion.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, of course, I'm fine—where's the Doctor?"

"Coming." He roughly unbinds her hands and feet, then stands up, his coat billowing behind him as he whips around to face the Silurian, who's cowering in a corner, a snarl curling her features. Amy frowns and rubs at her bruised wrists, confused and fragmented thoughts flying through her brain at a million miles an hour as Castiel strides up to the Silurian and glowers down towards her.

"I was called here to deal peacefully with you," he breathes, his voice quiet and yet somehow all the more deadly for being so. "To talk to you, and see if you would cooperate better."

The Silurian hisses in a very reptilian manner, shoving herself even farther up against the wall. He only steps in closer, so that they're the same distance apart as before.

"But if you're only going to kidnap and harm innocent humans… then that makes you lower than them. I am more powerful than you can fathom, you poor creature, and all I will say is that if your race intends to survive for long in an environment like this, they'd do best to keep themselves away from the business of humanity." Every one of his words is bright and fierce, fiery. With that, he turns around and starts towards the staircase. He shoots a single word in Amy's direction—"Hurry"—and she hastens to scramble to her feet, following him. The stairs creak under her feet, and her muscles are still throbbing with the pain of tripping herself over in the chair, but she feels better, much better, now that she's free, and she can't quite take her eyes away from Castiel. He acted as if it was normal, but there's no way to beat around the fact that he just saved her. She should probably thank him, but he doesn't seem like he's expecting it…

Luckily, her thoughts are cut off by the sight at the top of the stairs—parked there is the TARDIS, the door wide open and the Doctor standing inside, looking uncharacteristically tense. "Pond!" he cries out as soon as he sees her. "Oh, wonderful, so you're alright, then?"

Her face breaks into a grin at the sight of him, and she dashes into his open arms, looping her own around his shoulders and squeezing him as tight as she can. "I'm brilliant," she promises. She inhales deeply, savoring the smell of his shirt, and can't help but giggle with euphoria. I made it. Just like I said I would.

"Good," he chuckles in response. "Cas—?"

"The Silurians should not be of farther disruption," the angel mutters. He's at the side of the console now, his head tilted down and his hands tucked back in his pockets, as Amy sees once she pulls away from the Doctor. "If you will deliver me back to my own place now…"

"Of course," the Doctor agrees cheerily, bounding over to the console. "America it is!"

Amy laughs again, shaking her head in disbelief. She's jubilant enough from their victory and the Doctor's likewise enthusiasm, filled with a golden energy, that she doesn't think twice about the downwards tilt of Castiel's eyes, or the way that he doesn't speak another word for the rest of the journey.