Sam dies first.
It doesn’t really matter how it happens. Leviathan, ghost, monster, whatever the newest big bad is. But it gets him, like it was always going to, like something was always going to. Hunters always die young, and they always die bloody. Sam is no exception.
He falls in an echo of his first Great Fall (that’s what they call it in the Winchester Gospel, years later), but the destination is the opposite. Lucifer is gone. Heaven is broken, but it was always a collection of pieces. Those pieces survive even when the angels are in chaos. In a way, it’s not much different from Earth at all.
Dean watches his brother die for the last time. He’s on the ground, swallowing blood and blinking away tunnel vision. There are only a few seconds left.
When they were little and John was off on a hunt, Sam and Dean would play with their army men, setting them up on the motel room floor. Dean would always make the explosion noises so loud it seemed real, while Sammy lay on his belly setting up the soldiers in battle formations. He’d get so into it that he wouldn’t notice Dean army-crawling toward him until Dean had flicked a line of soldiers over like dominoes. About a thousand fights began like that.
Now, covered in blood and dirt, Dean army-crawls toward his brother’s body. He takes one last look, then leans forward and kisses Sam on the forehead. Like all those years before in a small bedroom in Kansas.
He brushes a hand over his brother’s eyes.
Cut to a shot of Dean sitting on the Impala gazing up at the stars, like in Swan Song, except he’s alone. The crickets are singing, the stars are just coming out, and there’s a cooler of beers on the grass beside his feet. It is peaceful.
Then he twitches a bit, like something startled him. He looks at something we can’t see, just past the camera’s line of view.
The screen goes black.
We hear the words, “Heya, Sammy.”
And then it ends.
I just got fucking chills.
Oh, and sobs.
I got those, too.