He didn’t mean to start everyone jumping, and he feels a little bad about that, but mostly he’s blinking images the sleep from his eyes and coming down from the brief burst of adrenaline, running a hand down his face, back up to comb his fingers through his hair and push it out of his face. If it weren’t for the dreams, he’d be curling back up and dropping off again, letting them talk about whatever it is they’re talking about without him.
>“Mornin'. You alright, Sam? Jo's talking about us getting some proper food, that sound good to you?”
Sam manages a shrug and a smile (of sorts) of his own, which is both a been worse and an I don’t know?, because his brain is still sort of muddled, he hasn’t had time to think really string words together properly, and then Jo’s talking, and he has to switch his eyes over in her direction, which feels funny, all groggy like he is. Feels like everything’s happening in slow motion, or underwater.
>>“Yeah, plus the kitchen's probably the warmest room in the place.”
Honestly, all Sam really wants to do is have at least forty-eight hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep in this really warm and surprisingly soft bed, really (no that’s not all he wants, but the rest of that is dangerous territory, he doesn’t even want to think about Gordon’s words or what he and Dean talked about last night, how close he came to--). He’s trying to figure out a way to say that that doesn’t sound like either a spoiled brat or a stupid little kid, tugging the blanket up closer around himself like Jo’s words reminded him of the chill in the air, the chill that hasn’t completely left him yet.
...but Dean didn’t eat anything last night, did he? Sam can count on one hand the number of times he can recall Dean skipping meals - it’s not a common thing. Dean eats like he thinks food’s going out of style, and then he goes back for seconds and orders a whole pie for dessert (okay, maybe that’s a little exaggerated, but not by a whole lot). So he has to be starving by now. And it doesn’t look much like he’s slept well last night, if he slept at all - which, okay, that’s probably Sam’s fault... all of this is probably Sam’s fault, actually, if he’s technical...
“I could eat somethin’, I guess, maybe?” He tries for something that sounds confident, or anything but completely wiped out. He’s not actually all that interested in food, but if Dean thinks he approves of the idea, maybe he’ll actually relax long enough to eat something. Maybe long enough to sleep, afterwards. He shifts around in the blanket again, pushing himself up so he’s propped against the headboard and the blanket it pulled around behind him and over his head. He doesn’t care if he looks stupid. He’s cold and he’s tired and he’s probably entitled to looking ridiculous right now.