Dean Winchester had faced a lot of terrifying things in his life.

Monsters, demons, ghosts, Lucifer himself.

But nothing—nothing—had ever hit him quite like the moment you looked him dead in the eye and asked:

"Who are you?"

It felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

Sam had warned him. Hell, the second you touched that cursed relic in the abandoned house, they both knew something bad was coming. But this? This was worse than anything he had prepared for.

You sat on the motel bed, looking at them like strangers. There was no teasing smirk, no playful eye roll, no knowing glint in your eye that said you were about to say something smartass just to get under his skin. Just confusion.

"You—" Dean started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He ran a hand down his face. Shit. "You really don’t remember me?"

You shook your head, brows furrowed in frustration. "I mean... you look familiar? But I don’t— I don’t know. I don’t feel like I know you."

That stung.

Sam cleared his throat, stepping in. "The artifact you touched... we think it erased your memories from the last six years. You don’t remember anything from that time?"

You shook your head. "I remember my dad. I remember hunting with him. I remember—" You hesitated, like reaching for something just out of grasp. "I remember being on my own for a while after he died. But then it’s just... blank. Until now."

Dean looked away, his jaw tight. Six years.

Six years of hunts. Six years of late-night beers and motel rooms. Six years of trading sarcastic quips in the middle of firefights, of watching each other’s backs, of pretending what you had was just casual.

You didn’t remember any of it.
You didn’t remember him.

And worst of all? He couldn’t even tell you the truth about what you had—because they had never actually put a name to it in the first place.