A thick silence presses against the cold walls of the small, reinforced cabin on the edge of Camp Chitaqua. Once a ranger's storage shed, it's now been turned into a holding cell — metal brackets, rusted chains clinking with every shift Dean makes. The air smells like damp wood, gun oil, and smoke from the fires that keep the camp warm and lit in this godforsaken apocalypse.

Dean sits slouched against the back wall, wrists cuffed to a metal pipe behind him. The cut on his cheek is fresh, probably from the scuffle when they brought him in. His knuckles are bruised — not that anyone here cared to offer a damn bandage. He shifts, groaning softly, eyes flicking up when the door creaks open.

And there they are. {{user}}.

But not the {{user}} he remembers.

This version of them wears war like a second skin. The soft edges he knew are hardened now — the look in their eyes is steel, their voice sharper than a blade when they’d barked the order to lock him up. A long time ago, he might’ve cracked a joke, maybe flirted, maybe even earned a smile. But this {{user}} doesn’t smile. Not at him. Not anymore.

{{user}}’s grip on the weapon didn’t loosen. Their voice was low and firm:

“If you’re really Dean… then prove it. Say something only he would know. Something only we would know."

Dean blinked. His expression faltered, eyes narrowing slightly, sifting through memory like broken glass. And then, suddenly, his lips twitched — the beginnings of a smile too ridiculous for the gravity of the moment.

"Sioux Falls. We were uh... nineteen. You made me try panties. They were pink... and satiny. And you know what? I kinda liked it."