A/N: Sorry about the lengthy wait. And sorry in advance, because it's gonna be a recurring thing. My husband and I adopted a little girl and then two months later found out we were pregnant so... life is crazy right now, and I'm prioritizing my Real Life books.

The Doctor's head was spinning.

What he'd tried to play off as "just a little psychic feedback" was turning into something far more worrisome, and at this point, he was going to have to admit it. Especially when he closed his eyes and the next thing he knew, he saw the image of a weeping angel behind his eyelids.

That was strange enough. As far as he knew, he'd only faced the weeping angels once, with the help of Sally Sparrow. And considering every detail she had known about that encounter—and how long she had held on to the information—he was sure she would have told him if this was a side effect.

Or maybe she didn't know to tell him, and this was a side effect of the angels' victims. That was possible, he supposed, though he couldn't remember hearing anything about stories of weeping angels crawling in people's heads. They were supposed to be the nicest psychopaths in the universe, killing people slowly. That's what he'd told Martha.

Maybe it was time he reevaluated what he knew and didn't know.

He sat down and heard, through the fog of his headache, Dean trying to explain the situation: "…happened when I was a kid. I mean, coming back from the dead by angelic intervention apparently has its advantages—like losing weeping angel infections and memory blocks all in one blow."

Memory blocks. That would make sense. But still, the Doctor found himself frowning. There weren't many beings in the universe powerful enough to put a memory block in him that he didn't notice. Sure, he and his people were only low-level telepaths, but he was aware of his mind.

Or, well, at least, he tried to be. Maybe he was sometimes preoccupied with other things. And maybe he was getting old enough now that his head was too full to pay it much attention. He'd lived so long and seen so many things that he was even lying about his age now, like a vain old man trying to have a mid-life crisis well beyond the middle of his life.

Alright, so maybe he wasn't as good about keeping his mind as uncluttered as he would have liked. But he still felt like he should have noticed something as big and important as a memory block!

The Doctor sighed and forced his attention back to the present—and the ongoing conversation:

"…had to go back in time to get Donna out, and let me tell you, crossing my own timeline was weird. I thought the Doc was going to lock me in the TARDIS when he realized my mom was there," Dean was telling Cas, and when the Doctor focused, he could see that Cas was frowning deeper and deeper the more he heard of Dean's story.

"If that were the case, I can see why an angel felt the need to step in," Cas said. He wasn't human—the Doctor could see that much easily enough—and he had a way of speaking human words that told those around him that he was measuring each one. "Your fate is vital to the War; nothing can be allowed to change your past or your future."

"There you go again," Dean said, obviously annoyed. "I already told you—"

"Perhaps we can have this argument at a time when your friend is not so near collapse," Cas suggested, gesturing toward the Doctor.

"No, no, don't mind me," the Doctor said, waving off the looks that all three of them were now giving him. "Go on. You were complimenting my friend while also trying to railroad him into something he clearly doesn't want. That doesn't sound like it'll backfire on you or anything."

"See? The Doc gets it!" Dean said triumphantly.

"No, he really does not," Cas said, narrowing his eyes toward the Doctor—though not in anger. No, he was working something out, his head tilted to the side. The Doctor could read the body language signs and knew exactly what plotting looked like.

Dean waved his hand. "Don't listen to Cas," he told Donna. "He gets his wings knotted when people mess with the Divine Plan or whatever."

"Dean," Cas said in such a tone of longsuffering that the Doctor knew instantly that Dean had known better than to be dismissive and did it anyway just to get a rise out of Cas.

"Hey, I call it like I see it," Dean said.

"Dean," Cas said. It really was amazing how simply changing his tone could change the way Dean reacted. The Doctor might have been distracted, but even fighting a bad headache, he could see the way Dean straightened up and lost his teasing smile. It wasn't the same way he straightened up when he spoke to or dealt with his father; this was different. This was borne out of respect and trust—which in itself was surprising, since Dean Winchester didn't trust easily, and it had sounded like Cas was trying to pressure him into something he didn't want to do. "I believe I know what is wrong with your friend."

"Yeah, so do I," Dean pointed out. "Or weren't you listening?"

Cas smirked, the expression nearly foreign on his face and looking like he hadn't meant to do it. "I somehow doubt that you would like me to heal him by sending him to Hell and then dragging him back."

"Would you though?"

"No."

"Didn't think so," Dean said, shaking his head. "So start making sense, Cas."

"I am making sense; you're just being infuriating."

"Alright, boys, you two can find a room later," Donna cut in, shaking her head at Dean and Cas—and apparently shocking them both into silence. Which was also telling. For the two of them to have such an easy relationship and not know how it looked…

Then again, the number of times he and Donna had been mistaken for a couple…

The Doctor smirked. Ah well. They'd figure it out.

In the meantime, Cas had stationed himself in front of the Doctor, frowning hard as he considered what to do before he simply reached forward and placed his hands on either side of the Doctor's head. "This won't take long," he promised.

"Bedside manner, Cas. You're supposed to say it won't hurt," Dean said, though he was frowning. "What're you doing?"

"Erasing the ties that should never have been there."

"English, Cas."

Cas sighed but didn't remove his hands from the Doctor's head—and for the Doctor's part, he didn't pull away either. He could already recognized the posture and the light telepathic touch; angels, whatever they were, had powers that he could at least recognize among those that he hadn't yet figured out. "It means," Cas said, "I'm going to rid your friend of the weeping angels' interference. Now, let me concentrate."

Cas closed his eyes, and so did the Doctor. He could feel the familiar sensation of a mind reaching out to his, and on instinct, he reached out as well—which turned out to be a mistake.

As soon as the Doctor's mind, filled with war and Time itself, met the angelic force filled with obedience and God's plan, the two telepathic presences overwhelmed each other. And an instant later, both Cas and the Doctor were unconscious.