Title: Chasing Rabbits

Summary: After Dean's death, Sam starts to spiral, starts chasing rabbits down little hellholes, and he knows he's going to fall. It's just a question of how far and how fast. One-shot.

Rating: K+

A/N: Written for Supernatural.tv's Better Together challenge. The song used as inspiration for my team's fic, art, and video was "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane.

Disclaimer: The show and characters aren't mine.

Chasing Rabbits

May second had been colored in red. It wasn't because May second was his birthday, even though it was. He hated thinking of it that way, like it was a special day, like he deserved to be happy on it. As far as he was concerned, he never deserved to be happy again.

It was one of those little plastic cards that fit neatly inside his wallet, along with the scammed plastic he still had left over from those months when he'd had a partner. He took it out and looked at it everyday, just to remember. To make sure that he never forgot.

May second was red, but every day after it was black, marked off by a hand that shouldn't have been as steady as it was.

He turned the little calendar over in his hands, looking at the picture on the back. Once, back when he had bought it, the image had been clear. Now it was smudged, rubbed raw in the place that made him think of his brother.

Sam blinked away the tears that still threatened to form behind his eyes, even after he had blocked out all those squares on the back of the card. It shouldn't have hurt so much. He shouldn't still be falling, should still be tumbling, chasing rabbits down a hole leading to nowhere but a dark abyss that Dean had warned him to stay out of.

Dean was in that hole, though, wasn't he?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Two hours after his brother's death, Sam refused to leave the older man's side. He had taken Dean from New Harmony, snuck him from the house before the demons and Bobby could even react. He had taken his brother and he had run.

He'd driven blindly, wildly for two hours before stopping at a motel. He'd smuggled Dean inside, laid him out on a bed, and just sat. He stared. He wondered if Dean had done the same, back when he'd been dead. He'd have to ask Alice.

He'd shaken his head at that, wondering where the thought had come from. Some song, something that Dean would have listened to. Something about rabbits and drugs and Disneyland.

They'd never been to Disneyland. Sam had always wanted to go, but their father hadn't let them. Dean had promised. He'd said that one day they would, just the two of them. John would never know.

Dean had lied. Sam didn't know how to feel about that. He'd have to ask Alice about that, too, he supposed.

He laughed.

-.-

One week and two days after Dean's death, Sam finally burned the body. It was starting to smell.

That was a lie. Dean had stated to smell long before the week was up. The wounds left by invisible claws had putrefied faster than the younger- now only- hunter had expected them to. Still, he'd held out hope. Maybe he could find a way. Maybe he could save his brother.

Hell, if he couldn't, maybe Alice could.

Truth be told, Sammy hadn't moved from his brother's side since taking him from Indiana. He'd moved from the chair to the bed, from the bed to the chair, and so on and so forth, but hadn't done much other than that. There was no more research. There was no more time for research. There was only time for regret and death and the sickening sweet smell of blood as it seeped through what was left of his brother and into the thin motel sheets.

He carted the body out to the Impala, sliding Dean carefully into the passenger seat, buckling him up for safety, and searched for the perfect place to build the pyre. He went to work as soon as he found it, Dean's glazed eyes watching him all the time. He hadn't had the heart to close them, had felt that he needed that stare, had deserved that stare.

He had failed his brother, had let the man die, even after he'd promised to save him. He felt like the worst person in the world, the worst brother in the world.

Sam had piled up the wood, set his brother atop it, and draped a sheet over the body. He hated to think of Dean like that, as an empty shell, something no longer there. His brother was supposed to be vibrant, lively, all smiles and crude jokes and Dean.

He could remember the last time this had happened, the last time Dean had died, taking that little bit of humanity Sam had held onto with him. He had felt that die, and he had hated it. Even now, as he trekked back to the car, searched through the trunk- so damned unorganized- for salt and lighter fluid and matches, he could feel it.

One pill made him larger, and one pill made him small. The pill the Trickster gave him made him feel nothing at all, and that was what scared him. That was what was happening again. That numbness, closing in on the edges of his mind, threatening to overtake him as the smell of his brother's rotting flesh finally had. He feared it. Maybe that had been the point.

He covered and doused the body. He tossed the match. He'd have to find that song of Dean's, have to listen to it. He'd have to tell Alice, make her listen to him. He had to tell someone what he was feeling, what he was scared of. If he didn't, he might just become that numb thing again, might just become something wrong.

-.-

Two weeks, five days, thirteen hours, and fifteen minutes after Dean's death, Sam found the Trickster again. He begged for his brother's life. The damned thing snapped its fingers, laughed, and said it was sorry. There was nothing it could do. Maybe Sam could go ask Alice. She might know.

He staked it. He knew the damned thing wasn't expecting him to move so fast, not with the haze of tears covering his eyes, not with that waver in his voice. He staked it right through the heart and watched it die.

Sam stood over the body of the Trickster, and felt. For the first time since his brother's death, he really felt. He felt sad and he felt angry and he felt worthless and he felt like a failure. And that was what made him human. That was what made the stupid thing that Dean had done worthwhile.

He burned that body, too.

-.-

One month, six days, and seven hours after Dean's death, Sam was still Sam. He was still hunting a bit. He was still keeping in touch with other hunters. He was still feeling the appropriate human emotions.

They hit him in waves, strong bursts that washed over him, sprawling him out on the single motel bed, threatening to crush him each time. He was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Sometimes Bobby was with him. Sometimes it was Ellen. Most of the time, he was by himself. He hunted less and less, following fewer leads. If someone called him with a job, men on the chessboard telling him where to go, he would listen. He would hunt. Otherwise, he didn't do much.

It was his fault. All his fault. He felt it with every fiber of his being, no matter what anyone else said. He knew where his brother was, what was happening to him. He could imagine Hell, knew what it must be like. It was this. It was being left behind. It was grief and anger and confusion and loss.

It was Hell.

Sam was in Hell. So where was his brother?

-.-

Two months, three weeks, and two days after Dean had died, Sam finally found out what that damned song was. He was starting to feel like logic and proportion had fallen sloppy dead, and what the hell did that even mean?

So he asked Bobby. Bobby knew everything.

Well, Dean knew everything. But Dean wasn't here right now, was he? And whose fault was that, again?

Sam hated crying over the phone, especially after all the time that had passed, but Bobby let him cry it through, let him get it out of his system. He'd confessed to Bobby, let Bobby be his Alice. He'd told the older man what he'd feared becoming, and they'd both agreed that any sign of human emotion was a good sign. Crying was good. Tears were good. Humanity was good.

The song was "White Rabbit." It was by Jefferson Airplane. It was about Alice in Wonderland, so Sam had been right. Disney.

A very merry Un-birthday to me, he thought, and hung up the phone before Bobby could hear him laugh the laugh of the lunatic he feared he might be becoming.

-.-

Three months exactly after Dean had died, Sam was at Wal-mart. He was making a beer run. He'd started drinking more as the tears had stopped. Maybe it was a vain attempt to replenish the dried-out ducts, maybe just a way to try and forget the memories of those glazed eyes, the flickering flames of the funeral pyre. He'd stopped trying to figure it out.

The calendar cards caught his eye, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was that stupid song, the one that had been on a loop in his head for three months. They were sitting out on a small white rack, barely noticeable, but he saw them, nonetheless.

He was drawn to one, a blue one with a picture of two large rabbits on it. They sat side-by-side, one white, one black. The white one had its nose tucked firmly into the other's ear.

The picture made Sam smile, reminding him of the long-ago days of his childhood when he'd been so grossed-out by germs that Dean would do anything just to get him to scream, including waking him up on the morning of his sixth birthday by sticking his tongue in Sam's ear.

He picked up the small plastic card and added it to his basket without even thinking. He needed it. It made him smile. He hadn't smiled in a long time.

He took it up to the check-out counter, still grinning that grin, the expression feeling so foreign on his face. It really had been too long.

The clerk didn't even look up as he slid his purchases onto the conveyor belt. He flashed her a smile, loving the way it felt on his face, the way it warmed his body, and glanced at her nametag. "Hey, Alice."

She passed the beer and card over the laser set into the counter. "Hey."

The smile faded from Sam's face. Something told him that she knew. Something in her voice, in the way she looked at the card and smiled, the way that her eyes turned murky and dark as she looked up at him.

Sam took a slow step back, wishing he'd kept the knife that Dean had stolen from Ruby, wishing that he hadn't handed it over to Bobby for safe keeping.

"You know," the demon said, stepping out from behind the counter and flashing a know-it-all grin, the calendar still grasped in her hand. "If you go chasing rabbits, you're surely gonna fall…"

His heart clenched at the words, the sarcasm dripping in her voice. "Get away from me."

"I know what happened to your brother."

Whatever good feelings the smile had brought to the surface of his system were gone now. He was cold, alone. Dean was in Hell. "Leave me alone." He grabbed the card from her hand, surprised to find the action easy. She didn't put up a fight, didn't try to stop him as he turned and walked away.

"You need to pay for that, sir," she called after him, her eyes returning to their former bright blue.

He looked back at the card in his hand, at the picture of the rabbits. One white, pure as the snow. One black, dark as night. The white one was a prankster, fun-loving, care-free. He was a fighter. He would do anything for anyone and ask for nothing in return.

The other was different. He didn't realize what he had until he lost it. He was selfish. He was evil. A plague upon the earth. Some kind of monster.

There was that whole Anti-Christ thing.

He rubbed his thumb across the picture of the white rabbit. No. Dean had told him that he wasn't evil, and he had been right. Dean had always been right. Dean would never lie to him. Not ever.

-.-

Three months, one week, six days, and five minutes after Dean had died, Sam was lying face-down on a motel room bed, crying. He had let himself forget, hadn't wanted to remember what had happened, where Dean was, and that had been his undoing. That had made him weak.

He was a horrible person.

He had gone back to the Wal-Mart to exorcise the clerk, had waited for her in the parking lot, had hit her over the had, tied her up, shoved her in the trunk, and trapped her under a painted symbol on the motel room's ceiling.

She'd woken up, bound and terrified, and he'd hit her with the holy water. He'd performed an exorcism. He'd said "Christo." Nothing happened.

Her named was Marie. She had been working at the Wal-Mart for a little over two months. She had reported him to her manager. He'd robbed the store. She thought he was going to rape her.

Such a creeper. An occultist, too, if the weird symbols and chanting and this ritual were to be believed.

He hit her again, right over the head, and left her in the room. He fled the scene, scared to death. What the hell was happening to him? Her name was Alice, he could have sworn it. She'd had black eyes. She'd been a demon. She knew about Dean.

He was hallucinating. Seeing black eyes and Disney references where there were none. He was chasing rabbits. He was knew he was going to fall.

He cried himself to sleep. He dreamed of Dean hung up by hooks, bound by chains, screaming his name, over and over again, dripping blood, for all of eternity.

-.-

Four months, two weeks, two days, five hours, twenty-six minutes, and forty-two seconds after Dean had died, Sam was looking at his calendar. The many black boxes and single red one mocking him, staring up at him, laughing.

Somewhere outside the safety of his cluttered room, police sirens sounded. He glanced at the door, at the line of salt that he'd laid down to keep himself safe. Himself and no one else.

He shuddered. So alone. One bed, one bag, too much room in the car, in the motels, in his life. Too much time to think. Too many thoughts of torture, of meat hooks, of rusty chains and blood and sweat and fear and Dean.

His head hurt. His head hurt and his eyes burnt with tears and that bitch's words echoed in his mind. He could wipe Lilith off the map. She was scared of him. He was some kind of Demon King Wanna-Be, even though he didn't. And all of this was because of that damned demon, that yellow-eyed bastard that fed him his blood, fed his head.

Feed your head, he thought, turning the card over in his hands again. The picture of the rabbits faced him. There was only one now, the black one, and wasn't that appropriate?

Feed your head.

Someone knocked at the door. He wanted to ignore it. Really, he did. Something wouldn't let him, though. It was the same thing that kept him awake at night with visions of Hell, his own and his brother's, torturous visions that pained both his head and his heart.

Feed your head.

He got to his feet, crossed the room, and pulled the door slowly open, careful not to disturb the lines of salt he'd placed between himself and the cruel outside world. His eyes bugged as soon as they landed on the figure outside his door.

Dean smiled up at him, pale as death and smelling of ash, but looking otherwise unharmed. "Hey, Sammy," he said, voice breaking with emotion. "I came back."

Feed your head.

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