Sam and Dean Winchester die, appropriately, in the act of killing the Mother of All.
It's a banishment that requires a particularly complicated sigil drawn in a mixture of salt and blood, the smell of it stinging their noses as they trace it on the edge of the Pit to Purgatory. They complete it while she looks on, taunting them, unable to get any closer because of the Wards they put up. There's a piece of paper between them with the instructions for the ritual, a paper that they sneaked out of Bobby's house when he told them that doing this was suicide.
They finish the circle. And go for their weapons.
The ritual requires one other thing.
The center of the sigil, an empty circle that must be filled with the blood of two willing sacrificial hearts.
Sam and Dean kneel, facing each other. Sam with his hand on Dean's shoulder, Dean with his on Sam's. They grip each other's jackets in fistfuls and twist, knowing this is going to be painful, that they won't die fast. They'll bleed out. They'll redeem themselves. And they're terrified to do it. They'd never do it if they didn't have each other to lean on.
Dean with Ruby's knife to Sam's chest. Sam with one of their father's daggers on Dean's. They meet each other's eyes, one last time.
They drive the weapons home.
It's an under-populated funeral for two unpopular people. They're burned, the way their father was, the way their mother, grotesquely, was. There are less than twenty people in attendance, clustered around the meshed tablets of wood as the spitting tendrils of fire consume the bodies.
One man stands apart from the others, in a long tawny trenchcoat, dark hair tousled by the wind. He watches expressionlessly as Ellen reaches for Bobby's hand. Bobby Singer is weeping like a sieve, like something's broken open inside of him. Even Ellen has a few tears. Lisa's there, her arms around Ben. He's almost as tall as she is. There are others—Becky, Sarah, Carrie. Mostly women, he notes with amusement.
And then there's him. Him, and he could comfort them. He could bring the Winchesters back, if he wanted to. Father would understand.
But he also happens to know they aren't bad off. They're with their family now. With John and Mary, and Deanne and Samuel and Jess. They're happy. He's felt it even if he hasn't seen it.
So he stands there, not looking at the mourners here, but looking like a man whose world is changing, for better or for worse. His are the only dry eyes. And when the fire burns itself out on the tribute, he turns and walks away.
He finds the hotel where they spent their last night alive together.
It's a hapless mishmash of beer bottles and burger wrappers, a car magazine lying feather-paged on the floor. The Impala is still outside. He ran his hand across the hood on his way up and it almost felt like the thing had life waiting inside of it, waiting for a master who would never come home.
Now he stands in the middle of the room and sees all the signs of a last party on earth, of a last night to remember a life fraught with doubts and dismay, with fights between them and against the world that had woven an unspeakable bond that had lasted until the end. He'll always remember the way they looked when Bobby found them, gripping each other's arms, the knives sunk into their chests. Bodies contorted into a rictus of pain, but faces peaceful, blood mixing beneath their chests. The strongest thing they ever had, that blood. It had held them together when everything else fell apart.
He's seen places like this before. Signs of some revelry but mostly of memories. Foolish sayings written on the walls. Names carved into the headboard, dates of birth and of death. He runs his fingers over these names and wonders why he cares so much, why standing here where they'd spent their last night alive makes him feel like he's failed something.
He hears the whisper. Come home.
He turns to go, and stops.
There, half-tucked under the blankets on one of the beds, is a scrap of dark leather. He sits on the bed slowly and pulls it free.
John Winchester's journal lies open on his knees. He runs his hands over the pages, absorbing a sort of ethereal taste of past hunts, the bitter metal of sadness and hatred on the back of his tongue, the love of a father returning to his sons. He looks away quickly, regains his composure, and flips through to the very back.
The pages take on a lighthearted tone flavored with something else, like a growing anticipation. He can feel that they sat here and journaled their own experiences, when they were drunk and happy with life before the end. He flips faster and finally slaps down the last page.
There's a note written there, most of it in the chicken-scrawl haste of someone writing with the paper propped against the steering wheel as he drives, peering over the top of it to correct the lanes every now and then.
Do not ever trust demons, angels, or tricksters.
It's John Winchester's handwriting. He smooths the page out and feels the desperation of a father trying to protect his sons from an inevitable future.
Then his hand brushes the word demons, underlined three, four, five times as though not enough emphasis could be put on that simple phrase. He tastes regret like a sour purge in his gut, feels a flash of names—Meg Azazel Alistair Ruby Lilith—and then relief, like a hand grabbing his shoulder, telling him he's forgiven.
Beneath the word angel, there's an arrow drawn, and a small afterthought that wasn't written by John Winchester.
Except for Cass.
And beneath that:
Don't ever change.
He smiles at the page, touching Dean's footnote, and feels the trust and affection of a friend's last goodbye.
He hears that whisper again, nudging him. Come home.
He tucks the journal into his pocket. Leaving it on Bobby's doorstep will ensure that it finds its way into the hands of future hunters who can benefit from the knowledge within—the sort that can be seen, and the hints of something else inside, the things he's felt as he's sat there and gone over it. The trust between friends. The love between brothers. The guardian spirit of a father. The legacy of a family.
Time to come home, Castiel.
C'mon, Cass. You gonna keep us waiting?
Castiel lifts his eyes to the ceiling with a tugging smile. "I'll see you both soon." He sweeps the room with a final glance. "I'm coming home."
A breath of wind rushes through the drapes as he vanishes, leaving two names carved on a headboard and carrying the journal on to its next great purpose—whomever it may teach.
That, Castiel finds, is the greatest anticipation and hope for the future-in a past written in blood and in a promise that even the most twisted, lost, broken and guilty of souls can find their way home, if given the chance.
And this is the legacy they will leave behind them.