A/N: I'm baaaaaack! So yeah, maybe it took a while for me to kick my muse into gear, but it happened! Delay caused primarily by school, because apparently homework is supposed to take 4 hours every night. The only other thing that held me up was some 'friend' drama, i.e. 'What the heck Salted, you're not fun you never go out and do anything' etc.. It's pretty stupid.

But yeah, the second a final chapter of Gunshots is here! Finally!

WARNING: Some cussing, lots of fluff and Sam whumpage, you get the picture.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the boys, that honor would go to Eric Kripke. I promise to return them in mostly one piece when I'm done.

Love,

~Salted

"Sam! I think I found our guy!" Dean called from the back of broken down mill. The sawmill had been left untouched for so long that it had started to fall apart on it's own, with boards falling from the sides of the structure, showing off the rusted blades adorning the equally run-down interior .

Dean's EMF meter whined loudly, as the needle wavered in the red 'warning' area. His brother rounded the corner of mill and came to stand next to him, eyes fixed on the whirring meter .

"Look," Sam pointed to an aged carving in the tree above the supposed tomb that read 'C.D.' "Guess whoever buried him here had enough decency to mark his grave."

"Come back and torch his ass tonight?"

Shovels struck aging wood, the splintering surface released a sputtering crack as it connected with rusting steel.

"Yahtzee," Dean exclaimed and shined the ray of his maglite at his brother . The sudden brightness against barley glimmering moonlight. Sam winced and pressed his eyes shut as the light sent burning daggers through his head, not stopping to think about keeping his brother from noticing his tribulation.

"Dude? What's wrong with you?" Dean placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder as the younger turned to face him.

"It's nothing, I can finish this," Sam reached for the shovel he'd offhanded in the midst of his light sensitivity induced streak of agony.

Dean tossed the shovel upwards to the side of the freshly dug grave, "Nope, out."

"What, why?" Sam's retort was bitter and half-hearted, laden with underlying desire to give into the violent pounding inside his skull.

"Because I'm older and I said so," Dean shoved his brother towards the slope at the side of the hole, "I don't need to worry about you droppin' dead down here."
Sam grunted in distaste from beside the newly upturned grave,

"I can't believe you," he muttered, the blazing anguish in his skull momentarily faded to low buzz .

Dean cleared away dirt from the top of the coffin, and paused as he began to pry the tomb open when a chilled wind coated the rotting mill.

"Heads up," He called, craning his head upwards toward Sam, but got little more than a quiet 'yeah' in response.

The sentence registered in Sam's pain riddled mind, and he fumbled for his shotgun. The grinding behind his eyes had become overwhelming, causing spots to dance in his vision. Sam felt an unnatural pressure against his chest as he forced back against a tree behind him. He rapidly raised his gun and winced before pulling the trigger .

Sam yelped and folded in on himself when pulsating pain ripped through his skull as the shot ran through the air, rock salt exploding as it collided with the half formed specter .

Dean's heart skipped a beat as a shotgun blast sounded above him, followed by his brother's agonized cry.

"Shit, Sammy?" Dean pushed himself over the ledge of the grave only to see his brother's prone form trembling against the ground, arms wrapped protectively around his head.

Dean scrambled out of the grave -ignoring the freshly opened coffin- and slid to his knees beside his baby brother .

"Hey, easy," He soothed when Sam flinched at his touch, "Something hurt?" Sam gave a snivel in response and pawed weakly at Dean's shirt.

"Just tell me what hurts and I promise I'll fix it, okay?" Chick flick moments be damned.

"Head," Sam whimpered and pressed his pounding skull into the Dean's thigh.

"Aw, crap, migraine?" Dean asked softly, carding his fingers through Sam's snuff-colored hair .

"mhm," Sam mewled pitifully, squeezing his brother's forearm as another bolt of pain lacerated through his skull.

Dean silently cursed himself for not noticing Sam's obvious discomfort before, knowing that once a migraine got this bad, all they could do was wait it out.

"Okay, alright, I gotcha," Dean quieted, still running his fingers through his little brother's hair in an age old act of comfort, "Think you can sit up for me?"

"I can try" Sam muttered, his voice laced with concern as nausea churned uncomfortably in his stomach.

"Okay, just let me do all the work," Dean pacified before pulling his baby brother up by his shoulders. Sam moaned and swayed with the movement before pitching forward, only held up by Dean's strong arms wrapped protectively around his chest.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed, leaving one hand in Sam's unruly locks and the other on his chest to hold him upright. They stayed like that for a while. The classic reassuring post-nightmare position. They doubted anyone else knew how they held each like that when one brother was hurt or suffering.

"You're okay, I gotcha," Dean cooed, repeating the mantra until the words ran together, forming one multi-syllable string of sweet nothings.

A blast of frigid air -far stronger than the light breeze before- pumped through the desecrated gravesite, bringing attention back to Debroff's ghost, who'd hit new levels of pissed after being blasted with rock salt.

Dean muttered a curse -holding Sam slightly closer to his chest- rifling through his worn duffel, pulling out a half-empty canister of salt, a jug of lighter fluid, and a matchbox. He made short work of dousing the grave with both salt and lighter fluid, leaning as close to the grave as he could while holding his not so little brother , every movement eliciting a pitiful whine from Sam.

Dropping the smoking match into the grave, Cavan's spirit gave a final, piercing, wail not willing to go quietly. Sam pressed his forehead into Dean's chest, the sound hell on his already migraine-abused ears, clutching fistfuls of fabric from the back of his brother's shirt.

But then again, as long as no one else went on a shooting spree, the worst was over.

Or maybe it wasn't. Half dragging, half carrying a whimpering, barely responsive Sam into the front seat of the Impala was pretty high up on Dean's list of things never to again unless entirely unavoidable. Over the years, that list had become a list of things that will inevitably happen again because reality's a bitch and give approximately zero fucks about your desires.

Sam was lying across the bench seat, head resting on Dean's lap in a desperate attempt to ease the agonizing pressure in his skull that restated its presence every time the Impala hit a rut in the sludgy excuse for a backroad.

Sam grasped a handful of denim from his brother's jeans, whining pitifully as the car struck another rut, rattling the sleek metal frame. Dean smoothed Sam's hair back, whispering words of comfort as he risked the main road, given no other choice. He hoped there weren't many cars left on the roadway that late at night, but sighed bitterly, knowing there would be.

Two minutes of peace on the main road came to a squealing stop when a two cars nearly rammed each other switching inbetween the only two lanes on the narrow thoroughfare. The blaring car horns and near-blinding headlights -that both seemed far harsher than necessary- was more than enough to shove Sam over the edge. His stomach had long since given up the whole digestion thing -or withholding any substance at all- and any exposure to light or sound (or both at once, mind you) was punishable by immediate expulsion of any and all stomach content.

Thank God Dean managed to pull the Impala into the shoulder of the road before Sam had a chance to redecorate his baby's interior.

The driver side door flew open far faster than it had in months, allowing Sam the vomit out the side of the car.

"Shh, just let it out, I gotcha," Dean murmured -knowing there was almost nothing that his younger brother hated more than throwing up- rubbing slow circles on Sam's back.

Eventually the heaves and retching tapered off, allowing Sam to slide back across the bench seat, resting his head on Dean's lap once again.

With the motel in sight and the worst case scenario achieved, things were looking up. Then again, Sam wasn't walking into the room alone. Touché reality, touché.

Dean placed another cool cloth across Sam's closed eyes, brushing tendrils of dark hair out of his face. Sam's expression was still one of pain, but in the silence and darkness of the motel room, he was coping pretty well.

Dean began to turn away to dampen the cloth again, but a weak moan and a hand at the hem of his shirt called him back.

"I'm right here, Sammy, I'm right here," He soothed, smiling lightly as he remembered just how clingy Sam got during his migraines, especially bad ones like this.

Dean slid onto the far side of the bed, letting his brother nuzzle into his side, and made a mental note to kick Sam's ass when his head wasn't trying to explode.

Dean ran his fingers through Sam's chocolate hair, listening as his breaths evened out and he relaxed into Dean's touch.

Dean shifted slightly to see his brother, "You're such a girl..."

FIN

Thanks for reading! Reviews/Favorites/Follows strongly encouraged! Feel free to PM me or leave some prompts/ideas in your review.

Love ya,

~Salted