This had to be one of the dumbest ideas Dean had ever come up with. Throwing Sam into his own room when the kid was obviously not up to it was an unbelievable move on his part and as Dean threw a few blankets down in the hallway and went back to get some pillows, he kept running the self-recriminating litany through his head.

Thing was, he'd had enough of Sam's bullshit about dying and hospice care and all these depressing theories that painted a way-too-clear picture of Sam's inevitable demise. Before all this started, Sam had been brimming with determined resolve to survive. He'd used it to convince Dean he was better suited to do the trials.

Dean needed Sam to get that whole thing back because otherwise all of this was a foregone conclusion and he'd lose his brother to his warped penchant for accepting death too soon.

Dean cursed Sam for that particular trait: he'd never taught nor modeled that particular aspect of Sam's personality. To a certain extent he figured he could blame their father. While the man had normally valued his life during regular hunts, when it came to Azazel, all bets were off. At early ages his sons understood John was willing to give up the ghost as long as Yellow-eyes was put down first. And just because John sacrificed himself for Dean instead didn't change the sanctioned precedent he'd set, the inadvertent blessing he'd given if either of them decided to follow in his footsteps and resolve to die to end an evil.

Dean knew both of them had made peace with the memory of their father. However, where Dean had managed to take a step back and recognize his father's faulty teachings without resentment, Sam had managed to rationalize them, even maybe embrace some of them, in order to settle out.

Dean didn't even realize he was shaking his head as he thought about it. He wasn't sure if he was more disappointed in their father or Sam. In truth, it didn't really matter where Sam's thought processes were coming from, only that they needed to get derailed.

So this - this idiotic plan of his - was to give Sam exactly what he wanted.

If Sam really wanted to frame this shit like he was dying and not surviving, Dean was gonna give him the full package. Sam wants to "die with dignity"? He can get the hell out of Dean's room and keep his precious privacy and so-called 'independence' alone. If Sam wanted to draw parallels between Dean and hospice care, Dean will damn well play the part and let Sam feel exactly what it's like to have a pleasant but altogether indifferent caretaker at his beck and call.

Dean stood over his bed, staring at it, rage and resentment roiling as he replayed Sam's opening line of 'banter' back in the bathroom. He knew it was supposed to be a joke but it just happened to be the last straw. Sam had been pitching his insecurities at him and Dean thought he'd been knocking them out of the park. However much Sam was scared and worried, Dean thought his presence had been helping and snapping him out of it. Instead, Sam had apparently just decided to extend his bullshit doubts over everything else including Dean's care for him. It was frankly insulting that he'd cast Dean's efforts as something so trite as an impersonal duty. Like Dean was obligated by some other force than his own personal wishes that Sam be safe and healthy.

Dean was taking care of Sam and Sam only - would only ever take care of Sam. There was no one else on his priority list. For Sam to take that and distort it so he could take it for granted was just too much.

Fuck Sam.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He grabbed a couple pillows and brought them out to the stupid nest he'd made for himself about two feet from the threshold of Sam's door. The walls were thick: if Sam called him for something the kid wouldn't hear feedback or his voice doubling up from Dean's radio.

Inwardly Dean hoped this deadlock wouldn't last long. He was already missing his mattress.

...

Sam was cold and the barren aesthetic of his room made the comparison to an arctic tundra all too easy to make. He just lay there thinking how if he were in the soft light of Dean's room, his brother would be sitting next to him keeping him warm.

Sam looked around his room for a distraction. Seriously, what the hell was wrong with him? Why hadn't he done something with the walls yet? He could've at least thrown a map up there. Sam liked maps and they were all over the bunker.

Sam rubbed his face with chilly fingers and tucked his hands under his armpits.

"Change of scenery, my ass," Sam muttered bitterly as a small shiver shot down his spine. He figured the chill was a normal result of his wet hair. He tugged the blankets up higher and tried to scoff at the punch of loss he felt when he realized that Dean normally did that. He was going to have to twist and turn to get the blankets wrapping around him all the way now that Dean wasn't here to arrange them.

Sam rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe he was missing Dean this much already. Pathetic.

Unsure what to do now that Dean wasn't his primary form of entertainment, Sam eyed a stack of books to the side of his bed. He read the titles on the bindings, dismissing each as he went down the list. They were all heavy tomes of lore, myth and legend that held relevance to their work but a dearth of amusing stories Sam could enjoy before falling asleep.

Sam wasn't really tired now anyway though. Not with Dean's new attitude and the shift to his bedroom. He felt like Dean was punishing him but that was too weird, or maybe just too embarrassing to admit.

Sam always felt guilty for being a burden to his brother. With such unpredictable symptoms he'd basically invaded his brother's bedroom for round-the-clock supervision and on top of all that he bothered Dean too much with his own doubts and fears. He was hitting Dean on all sides on every spectrum and he knew it was wrong.

Thinking about it that way, Sam was feeling better about his current circumstance. Dean having his own space back was a good call. Giving Dean more free time away from Sam was also going to make him happier and after everything he's already done for Sam, he deserves that. And Sam… Sam could deal with his own empty bedroom and erratic symptoms alone unless he needed help, in which case the radio was right there next to him on the bedspread. Easy.

Only problem was the pit in his stomach that kept sinking heavier at every rationalization.

Dean had pulled away from him and deep down, no matter how much Sam tried to justify it, that felt more wrong.

Sequestered and instructed to only call on Dean when he was needed, this wasn't how they treated each other. These new boundaries hurt. For as much as Dean wanted Sam confident and motivated to survive, with this setup, survival was the last thing on Sam's mind.

Dean probably didn't get exactly how tangible it was for Sam. How Sam could feel the icy hands of death wrapping around him at every choked breath, bloody cough, skipped heartbeat. Innately destabilizing, Sam had been trying to come to terms with it and that's where his darker ruminations and jokes to Dean stemmed.

Sam got that bothered Dean. Well, now he did. He could deal with it alone if it bothered Dean so much though, he assured himself. Every man dies alone anyway. Sam probably should have realized it was his task and his alone to reconcile life with death. Dean would never truly be able to hold Sam's hand on that even if they weren't distancing each other right now.

Sam's reflections were interrupted by his stomach making a noticeable rumble. Following protocol, Sam reached for the walkie-talkie he'd set on the bedside table.

"Dean?"

A quick crackle came on followed by his brother's reply.

"Yeah?" Dean grunted.

"Um. I'm hungry." Sam wished he didn't have to ask. For a fleetingly morbid moment,he went so far as to wish he had the strength to give up asking for anything that'd keep him alive.

"Great. What do you want?" Dean asked, tone bland and perfunctory.

Sam bristled. He wasn't ordering from a friggin' diner.

"I don't know, Dean. What've we got?" He gritted out.

"Everything. Let me know when you figure it out," Dean replied back quickly, his tone friendly but dismissive.

Anger flared in Sam and he jutted his chin out, huffing his next response. "Dean will you just get in here?"

Sam waited for the answer. It came after a long, torturous pause that only further incensed him. The radio crackled and Dean's voice came out smooth.

"Sure. On my way."

...

Dean licked his lips, a guilty-but-not-really smile slowly forming as he flipped closed one of the old school pin-up mags he'd found and took his time getting up from his spot on the floor.

As angry as he was at Sam, he was never above finding amusement in getting a rise out of his little brother.

...

After five minutes, Dean knocked on Sam's door. Sam didn't say anything, assuming Dean would just bust in like he always did.

He didn't.

"Come in, Dean," Sam toned, annoyed.

Dean opened the door and took a step inside. He stopped there, kept the door open and leaned against the jamb.

"You figure out what you want?" Dean asked, folding his arms against his chest. Sam stared daggers at him. Acting like a waiter taking an order was possibly the most maddening thing Dean had ever done.

"Grilled ham and cheese," Sam answered, voice strained. He gripped the blankets tighter as another chill swept through him. It took tremendous effort but Sam suppressed any outward physical indication.

"Okay," Dean replied happily and without one word more practically skipped out of the room and shut the door, leaving Sam alone in silence once again.

Sam stared after where Dean had been, jaw clenched.

"Fuck you," he breathed and reached to grab one of his books to get his mind off his complete asshole of a brother.

...

Dean closed the door and made his way to the kitchen at a fast clip. Grilled ham and cheese he could do but he'd have to do it fast before Sam's feistiness got lost in fatigue or anything else that might dull his hunger.

Shit, if he'd known this would bolster an appetite in his little brother he should have pissed him off earlier.

Dean set the frying pan on the stovetop and got two slap-dashed buttered pieces of bread going on the surface. He pulled out strips of swiss, slices of ham, moved the pieces around to get things toasting and melting and in the blink of an eye he managed to finish.

Dean noticed his hands were shaking when he pushed the slices off onto a plate, cut the sandwich into quarters, and set it on their meal tray. He almost knocked the protein shake off the counter. Quick reflexes served him well as he saved it from shattering to the floor.

The stressed haste was Dean's own emerging fear that if anything happened to Sam, not only would Dean be at fault but it'd be happening in the midst of Dean's bullshit ploy to make a bullshit point.

He didn't even know how much he was rushing back to Sam's room until he got there and realized it had been less than ten minutes. His last thoughts before pushing the door open into Sam's room were that he wasn't making a bullshit point. He knew how to play Sam. He'd been doing it since the kid had the wherewithal to get played. This would work, damn it.

Dean took a deep breath, shored up his worries and let his admittedly disturbing persona of cheerful apathy override everything. He walked in to find his little brother safe and sound in bed.

Sam pulled his eyes away from the book he'd been reading. The whole time he'd just been reading one small passage because he couldn't stop his own internal monologue fuming over Dean distracting him. His brother carried the tray over and didn't say a thing. He didn't meet Sam's eyes either.

"Thank you," Sam said, straightening up against the cement brick of the wall. His bed didn't have a headboard.

Dean bit back his usual retort when Sam would needlessly thank him.

"You're welcome," he gritted out, hating it. He set the tray down on Sam's lap. "You got it?"

Sam nodded and pulled himself up as best he could. This was about the time Dean would've pulled Sam up and made sure he was comfortable. He fought the urge to do it this time. The kid's wet hair was a tangled mess sticking to his face.

"Yeah," Sam murmured, slouched more than Dean liked but grasping the tray's handles. Concern flashed through Dean at Sam's shaky hands but Sam didn't see. He was busy balancing the tray properly in his lap.

"Great. Need anything else?"

Sam kept his head down. "No," he sniffed, picking up a sandwich quarter.

"Cool," Dean muttered sourly. At every step he took to get out of Sam's room, the pressure mounted in him to stay, make sure Sam ate, make sure Sam was hydrated, warm, and even maybe as close as he could get to happy given the circumstances.

None of those things seemed in the cards for Sam if Dean left. The fluorescent lights were too bright if Sam wanted to sleep after he ate. Sam was going to get so slouched the food might not go down smoothly… and slouched against the jagged, scratchy concrete of the wall no less, which couldn't be comfortable. Dean hadn't added the memory foam to Sam's bed yet either so he knew Sam was sleeping on his usual piece of shit mattress. Additionally, Sam seemed cold but he hadn't asked for any more blankets and to top it all off, his room was so blank and devoid of things that even Dean felt a spasm of need for some interior design homes-and-gardens type shit.

How were they even related? How was Sam so spartan when Dean's room had mementos and tools and weapons. It even had unsolved and possibly dangerous mysteries in it because whenever they went through the Men of Letters artifacts, Dean always just took stuff he thought looked interesting to keep in his room for later scrutiny. It was pride in the past, a recognition of the present, and an assumption of a fun and interesting future. Sam could look around and find all that random crap in Dean's room to think about on every layer of time that existed but in Sam's room? Four walls and an uncomfortable bed and stacks of books that may or may not hold relevant information about the gates of hell.

Come on, Sam.

By the time Dean got to the door his heart was aching and racing in equal measure. He took a deep breath and without a backwards glance, opened the door.

"...Dean?" Sam called suddenly. Dean's jaw clenched. He turned his head to the side to show he was listening. One direct look at his little brother right now and he'd cave.

"Yeah?" he grunted.

"Seriously. Thank you," Sam said softly.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. Please comment/review if you can spare a minute! xoxo Alex