Until the moment that he touched Ramiel, that he remembered both worlds and not just in bits and pieces, he was not sure if the dreams were real or simply dreams. He didn’t understand the concept that when he had left this reality, a part of him had been left behind. Now though, the reason didn’t matter. Both halves had returned, and he felt more himself than he had in years.
Coming together again was hard to explain, but it was as if he had been missing a part of him for years and had no idea until it returned. Ramiel’s fainting had given Dean time to think about the memories that he now housed. It wasn’t as if he simply remembered them, but that they just were. He could remember a time that they did not exist, but now it simply felt as if he had lived both lives at the same time. He remembered them in paralel to each other. It was strange, at best, but seemed oddly natural to him.
His thoughts about himself, though plentiful, didn’t hold a candle to the ones he carried about his lover. He was human. The disturbing part was not that he was human, as he had seen him in that state before, but how he came about being human. What had happened to him?
Dean sighed softly, adjusting the covers over the sickly looking man. He could see a hint of scaring, but he left him clothed for now. Ramiel lay in Dean’s bed, covered in his furs. The doctor had insisted he stay in the medical tent, to be monitored for both his health and to see if he was a spy, but Dean had been stead fast against it. The hushed discussion that had occurred already echoed in whispers across the camp.
“I know this man,” Dean hissed at Tod, eyes narrowed. If not for his eyes, and perhaps his voice, it would he hard to read the emotions on his face. He was clearly not going to budge.
“I said, no. Don’t make me say it again, because I won’t. He will stay in my tent, and you will tend to him there when needed. He is to be trusted until I say otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Tod nodded. The doctor was no push over, in fact he was at least five inches taller than Dean, and built like a fighter… For he had, at one point in his life, been used in the fights for amusement of angels. He held the scars to prove it. He knew when to back down. Dean may not look as strong, but he knew first hand that their leader was not the docile creature he presented himself to be. Deep within him he held a dark energy—trained by an arch angel—he held the highest kill count in the camp.
“Good,” he grunted before turning to his tent, Ramiel in his arms the entire conversation.
“What happened to you?” Dean sighed, gently running his hands through Ramiel’s hair.
All that answered him was the man’s even breathing, which he took a certain amount of solace in. Had he the time he would have remained at his bed side the whole day—the best he could do was plotting at his desk across the room. He had a war to fight, lover or no lover, and Ramiel was not the first one he had to leave behind that he loved. Walking across the room was no real travesty when he remembered that he may never see those he loved in the world that he had temporarily called home.