That's a lot of questions, man. Every time Sam opens his mouth to answer Dean is asking something else and so he just listens, knowing Dean will give him the opening when he's good and ready and half of what he's saying is rhetorical anyway. Of course he remembers, of course he knows.

"Jack," is the eventual, empty reply. He's got nothing. Which is both deeply unsettling and disappointing. More nothing. Everything is nothing.

What's he supposed to do with nothing?

Is it there and he's just blind? Is this, like everything else lately, just slipping through his fingers?

A breath. A step back. Sam acts as though he's getting a better view of the board but more than that he's trying to get a better view of his brother. He's different. The weight on his shoulders is more visceral than usual. The light in his eyes that touch less bright. The little wire of pain in Dean's smile like he's talking with glass under his tongue and doing his best not to choke on the blood.

Sam has so many questions and they're all stacked in his throat, clashing for pride of place up against his palette so that none actually make it through.

"We should keep moving. Copy down what's here and get out."