Have this one too. It's S4... and I'm fuzzy on my S4 and can't remember if we got a scene like this with Bobby or not, this conversation I mean, but, if we did, Dean definitely didn't have a cold in it, which he obviously should have.

"Dean. Gimme a hand with something."

Dean's on his feet, pale and creaky. "What's up?"

"We need firewood."

"Oh." Dean glances at the crackling fire, at Sam still slumped into the couch, texting. "Yeah."

"I'll warm up the truck."

---

Dean stifles a sneeze into his sleeve as he crosses the yard, fumbling with his jacket zipper. He opens the passenger door and stumbles, catches himself on the truck bed. He's panting out white puffs Bobby can see.

"Been drinkin'?"

Dean shoots him a warning look from darkly smudged eyes. He climbs into the cab. "Couldd't sleep. UH-TSHH! HIIIH-IIISHHH! ETCHCCHHH-uhh!"

"Damn, boy." Dean's straightening up, honking into a handful of tissues. "You know what's good for you, you'll head straight for bed when we get back."

"Add biss Y&R?"

Bobby puts her into drive.

---

"How's it going with Sam?"

Dean doesn't look up, keeps arranging wood in the flat bed. "How do you bead?"

"He's different from how he used to be. Don't tell me you ain't noticed. That summer you were gone? It changed him."

Dean snuffles, tugs at his work gloves. "So he grew up a little. So what?"

"He dunn't need you the same way he did before."

Dean's jaw works. A fluffy snowflake lands on his shoulder and slides off. "Well, thagks. HAH-KRRRSHH-uh!"

Bobby watches him scrub his pink nose. "But you listen to me, kid. You're a fool if you think he dunn't still need you."

In the back of the truck Dean shudders, crosses his arms tight. His tone's flat. "How so?"

"He loves you, Dean. He near went crazy when you were gone. He needs you to be there, with him. That's all."

Dean kicks a log thoughtfully.

"I know you went through a lot, son. I don't know details, but I do know hell ain't one of my top five vacation spots. And lord knows I've crawled into my share of bottles, but you've gotta see that drinking's not helping Sam, and it's not helping you."

Dean's hot-cheeked, glitter-eyed.

"Look at you. You're running yourself down. Not sleepin', makin' yourself sick. I care about you, you big dumbass. And I know you're hurtin', but you've gotta find another way to deal with what's eatin' you."

Dean sniffs, looks at the sky. "Are we fiddished?"

---

Sam's in the kitchen when they get back, frying up some eggs.

"Hey," he greets them, taking a pull on his beer. "Who wants scrambled?"

Bobby watches Dean shrug out of his coat and sneeze hard into his armpit. He grimaces, palms his stomach. "Just sleep for bee."

Sam frowns at him, then glances at Bobby.

"I'll take his," Bobby says as Dean retreats toward the stairs, sniffling into his hands. "Fresh air always gives me an appetite."