"Makes you Teegarden, or Reed, Frost. Take your pick," he says, pressing the tack in.

Sam can deal with the filth and the logic. Dean's not working through it. Because that would mean he's working through it, working through one of his deaths. He's not about to climb Jacob's Ladder, not in the fogged out ghost town.

Just like he doesn't want to explain how he's aged since Sam last saw him, which, according to Sam, was just last night.

Dean's just going with it. Sam's learned to.

"Think they provided the pens after defacing the bulletin board?" Dean asks dryly in response, dropping the pen back in the little pen holster.

"Don't know. That's why I have you. The paper's not aged or weathered. And all that dust hasn't risen like bread. Someone's maintaining this thing," he admits.

"This town remind you of anywhere?" he asks, remembering all too well what happened the last time they were somewhere like this - the last time Sam was kidnapped to somewhere like this. It's sooner for Sam than for Dean, but it's no less etched in his mind.

"Find anything or anyone else?"