Dean asks if he remembers Hell. He schools his face into a mask that resembles the brother Dean expects him to be, and he lies.
Why shouldn't he remember? It's like a bullet he took once, painful and shitty until he dug it out and stitched it closed. It's over. Memories only matter when he can use them.
He likes things he can use.
He likes his hand on the slope of a girl's back and her crimson-red lips around his dick. Things that look expensive and feel good and have no consequences.
These things are his. These matter.