"No idea, yet." He briefly debates the wisdom of going and looking through it in his current condition, and some part of him makes the snap decision of fuck it. With a weary sound of resignation, he ups and goes ahead with it. His fingers deftly run through the combination on autopilot, and the suitcase opens with a faint click.

He surveys the clothes that certainly look like his, the journal that is definitely Dad's, and with all the situational bizarreness, Sam can only muster the immediate reaction of staring and making a sound that's torn between vaguely manic amusement and exasperation.

"Okay, that's - that's just creepy." He turns over a couple of the plaid shirts, shaking his head. "This is all mine. It's like they went and picked over my life - "

He stops, head angling as he studies what looks like a slab of raw meat wrapped in plastic at the bottom. He gives it an experimental poke that makes his stomach heave a delicate warning, and decides he can leave that well enough alone for now.

"The steak's new," he concludes in the higher-pitched, uncontrolled register of someone who just plain doesn't know how to deal. This is his life. This is his life right now.