Sam doesn’t get up, doesn’t even think he really can just yet, not on his own, and that’s a bit of a problem - it’s okay to look pathetic in a warehouse in front of a girl he just met who’s having much the same sort of really crappy day. It’s also okay to look pathetic in front of his brother, because Dean gets it. Dad, though...
The door is open, then, and his father’s pushing inside, looking around the room, and Sam’s making a pointed effort to keep the shivering down to a minimum, to sit a little straighter, and if he pulls the blankets a little tighter around himself, whatever, it’s cold, okay?
>>”Sam?” - for a second he thinks maybe that sounds like worry, maybe he’s not going to be all stern and gruff and maybe it’s fine that he’s weak and pathetic right now - “On your feet, son. What time do you call this?” - and then that’s right out the window, because his father’s voice is back to what it usually is, and he’s back to barking orders, and Sam feels a little frustrated and a little hurt that even after all this, it’s too much to ask that Dad actually care.
“Naptime?” comes out a little more on the annoyed side than he probably should let into the tone, and the “Sir,” that tacks itself onto the end is clearly nothing like respectful, but it’s not the normal defiant tone it usually is, either, because he can’t help that little hurt child sound that comes into his voice while he’s floundering around in blankets and trying to figure out how to best get his legs under him, because even if he’s mouthing off he knows he probably really should be standing up like he’s told.