If there's one thing a person learns growing up in a house frequently festooned by screaming, it's how to sleep through pretty much anything; Caleb has, for instance, remained peacefully unconscious for the duration of a university fire alarm, which are actually nationally recognized to cause ear bleeding.
So to date he's missed most of this, and he's disinclined enough to pry that it's not like he hasn't noticed Freddy hasn't been sleeping, he just--hasn't asked. There are certain codes in place for this, and he is all too familiar with the stonewalling brought to bear by digging into a problem when a person isn't ready to talk about it; for one thing, he's been on the other side of that, and it is not a position he is eager to put anyone else in until necessary. That combined with his usual earth-bound status mean that although lately trying to make sense of his more advanced classwork has been an incredible bitch, the upswing in weirdness has left him with a vaguely feeling of unease, a sense that things are harder to keep in the ordered patterns where they belong, but--he's not seeing ghosts.
So funnily enough - and it is funny, it's the kind of thing that has to be for a well-adjusted person to stay that way at Marrowston - what wakes him up is nothing so mystical as the fact that certain biological demands are making themselves known, and when he struggles out of sleep his first and only concern is pretty much exactly that. Thirty percent consciousness should certainly be sufficient to get to the bathroom and back.
Then, to his credit (he's not fucking clueless, just focused on the here and now; it's the only place he's ever been able to survive), he does notice, like...the slightly subzero temperature. "Freddy?"
He ...muzzles, wiping a hand across the back of his mouth and sitting up in the blackness to blink roughly where he estimates his roommate to be, "It's fucking freezing in here."
A beat. "...shit."
Well, look, just because he can't like, speak with the dead doesn't mean he can't tell by now.