Well, this is my first foray into the world of Supernatural fanfiction. Hopefully it's mildly enjoyable at the very least.
Be warned, this holds spoilers for... everything. Ish. I cover quite a broad range of topics. Also note I was unable to recall/rediscover the exact amount of time Sam spent with Lucifer, so that may be off, though I did my best to ballpark it.
Please enjoy, and don't forget to drop a review to let me know what you thought!
He still had nightmares about Hell.
Sometimes it seemed as though they should have gone away by now. Four years was a long time. But other times he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that Alastair was there, offering to let him off the table. Sometimes he could taste the salty sweat on his lips and the bloody flavor of iron in his mouth.
Sometimes he felt like he couldn't live anymore. But he did, because he had to. Besides, if there was anything he had learned from his life—and death—it was that reality was inescapable.
So he destroyed himself from day to day, taking any hits that he could for Sammy, drinking himself to cirrhosis, wishing that everything would just disappear. It didn't. It dragged on and on, continuing to some unforeseeable end. As much as Dean had fought destiny, he wanted it back. Better to be resigned to an unavoidable future than to wander through life purposeless.
The morning after one of those few nights where he had managed a dreamless sleep, he would wake and wish that he could return to unconsciousness. Sleep was quiet. Sleep was uneventful. Sleep was oblivion.
He wasn't really sure how Sam did it. In fact, his amazement at the fact that Sam got up every morning to interact with hallucinations of Lucifer and go about his day with a semblance of normalcy was the only thing that kept Dean from giving in to his dreams. Sam had experienced Hell. Sam had experienced a worse Hell than he had. And Sam was okay.
So why wasn't he?
He held no illusions, his Hell had been a piece of cake compared to Sam's. He had spent 40 years with demons. Sam had spent 100 with Lucifer.
He hadn't really understood until a few weeks ago, when he was talking to Sam. Sam had stated that he spent his time in Hell paying for sin.
Dean had spent his racking up the bill.
No matter what he did, he couldn't escape the guilt of things he had—or hadn't—done. Too much was his fault. There was no way he could pay for any of it. No way he could tell Ellen, Jo, Lisa, or countless others how sorry he was.
So every night when he closed his eyes, dreamed of Hell, and woke up in a cold sweat, he would blink up at the ceiling and know his guilt.
He had to pay for stuff somehow.