Dean doesn't avoid Sam exactly. There's no point to it – most is known in the unsaid anyway, he thinks. But he'd lie if he said he's keen on meeting him around the bunker. He's not. It hurts the last damn unrotten things in him. A lot. Like now. All this space in the kitchen, all this empty fucking space separating them in the kitchen, and they still collide. Back in the day (many years ago), or in the leftovers of "the day", in its empty broken shards (fewer years ago, ever since Sam walked out that door and chose Ruby) that got stitched together in ill ways, it would be brotherly brushing by. Now for Dean it's a collision and it hurts like a motherfucker. He bets Sam probably isn't that hungry. Or at least that he doesn't need that particular orange from the shelf right behind Dean. The touch of Sam's arm on his flannel burns and he stops himself from spitting self-loathing apologies of I'm sorry I'm nothing I'm too filthy Sammy don't. Knee-jerk reaction of his heart, is all. The rest of him doesn't even feel anything at all – it just wants the blade and to some extent perceives his brother as an agent of not letting him have it. This causes a foam of anger to gather in the endless sea of his stomach, but it's still and unruffled. Idle. The only thing in movement is the throb of pain in the innards of his not entirely dead chest, started by the sight of the sad, broken and hopeless thing that Sam's face is because of him.
It doesn't stop him from putting a layer of butter on his bread, though.
If there's anything he should say, it dies stuck in his mouth, even hi.
Sam's braver than him.
"Hey," he says, aiming for normal (but Dean can and does feel the lie scratching over his needy, wanting bones). He clears his throat, from the obvious lie, maybe. "Dean?" he goes (asks?) smiling shyly, like a child. That's two words and that's a fuckload. But what can Dean say – Sam's always been braver than him, he supposes. He makes a great example. So Dean tries to follow.
"Hey". Replicates the gesture, a smile with no teeth. He doesn't say anything more than that – he'd have to lie whatever he'd say and Sam knows his lies like he knows his face, the nightly patterns of his breath when he sleeps, like he knows the bible. There's no use and no dignity in lying to Sam now. Last time he tried, he saw his back shaking slightly and he knew he was a lost cause and for a second it was such a burden if he hadn't leaned on Cas he thought he'd fall (or crumble or just wither away).
Sam takes his orange.
"Good to see you out," unsure, but relieved. Sincere. Dean aches.
He turns around rapidly, or so he thinks – at least he didn't noticed making a decision to move. But he has his palm of Sam's arm now, thumb brushing softly and they stand face to face, both irrationally scared of Dean, yes, Dean included, while Dean reminisces the good old days before he was dead to this world, days where he could still be side by side with his brother. Again, he thinks I'm proud. It's a reflection he can keep taking to the grave – this will never change. But now he's more hungry than proud and he hates this. Closes his eyes, takes a breath (sees the blade calling beneath his eyelids). Tries to roll back into the present but the need is heavy. He has to resurface, he has to. He's not alone in here (sadly or hopefully or both: in this). Focus. Sammy. Sam. Less than three seconds all of this.
"You want some bread, too?" voice nonchalant. "I can make some," slides down to begging. "A sandwich." Explanatory.
He thinks he failed the are-you-human test.