Sam came closer so he could see what she was doing. That vague hint of gunpowder was there and then gone, leaving only a heavy musk reminiscent of wet skin and drier sheets. He watched quietly as she worked, tipping his head down toward his chest at different points to show he understood. "If..." he reached out to take the pencil. "May I?" He took the pencil and used a white space above her own lines. "I just... look, I'll show you." Maybe Fred could explain what happened to him, and what happened to Dean.
"This is me." Sam drew a line. His line had a break in it four-fifths of the way through, then continued on. He had said he'd died once. "From what he said, I think he came from here." He indicated a place just after the break. "I was from here," indicating the very end of the line. "Then, yesterday, he has this... fit. Seizure. Something. And when he came out of it, he knew things I didn't know. From... shit, I don't know, out here somewhere." His frustration was clear in a flick of the wrist and the tightness in his voice.