Dean didn’t know how this could have happened. How he could have let this happen. Sure, he’d gotten some of the basics from Sam, back when he’d first arrived, but that didn’t mean he understood how even all the crap that had happened to them could have taken Sam - his dorky, sentimental little brother - and turned him into this... thing that had his face and his body (but older, bigger, so completely different but somehow exactly the same) but nothing else.
It was like he’d been hollowed out, like he wasn’t even alive, and Dean had the irrational urge to reach out and make sure he was even warm - to cut him open to make sure there was really flesh and blood there, make sure it wasn’t steel underneath the skin. He didn’t, though, just moved towards the fridge and tugged it open, back to his brother and tried to ignore the shuddery feeling the action of turning his back to Sam made him feel.
Sam was right, there was pie inside the fridge - blueberry, as far as he could tell - and beers, too. He took the pie out, and grabbed two beers, sliding one across the counter in Sam’s direction without a word, and then opening a drawer in search of a knife to cut the pie with. The silence felt like a hand around his throat, like even if he wanted to say something he wouldn’t be able to, if he kept waiting for the right thing, the right words, the magic words that would bring his Sam back.
He didn’t have those words. Instead, what fell out was “Plate?” and he cleared his throat around the glass that seemed to be embedded there, “Is there, uh. There should be plates in the cabinet next to that one.”