Dean didn't remember anything about RhyDin. He didn't remember the places he'd been or the people he'd known, and they didn't seem to recognize him either. At least, not yet.
For that matter, he didn't really remember much of anything about his life. How could he? He hadn't lived it yet.
He didn't remember his father's death or the time he'd spent in Hell. He didn't remember killing the Yellow-Eyed Demon. He didn't remember Sammy's fall into the pit taking Michael and Lucifer with him. He didn't remember Cassie or Jo or Anna or Lisa. And he sure as hell didn't remember Castiel.
What Dean did remember was the fire that had taken his mother's life and the promise he'd made to take care of Sam. None of the other things had happened yet. He'd remember them eventually, but not until time caught up with him.
Every morning since their arrival, when Dean got up and looked in the mirror, he noticed he was a little bit older. A year older, to be exact. A little bit taller, a little bit wiser, a little less innocent, a little more jaded.
Every morning, Dean got up and made sure Sam was clean and fed and dressed. Every night, he tucked Sam in and made sure he was safe. Dean took care of everything, just like he always had and always would.