Dean pulled up to the school in record time. It had been just 40 minutes since he'd talked to the kid on the phone, and he'd instructed the boy to leave everything the way he'd found it. Dean spotted the park bench right away. The school yard was deserted this time of day, and he glanced around, unsure what he was looking for.
That's when he spotted his father's beat-up truck parked a half-block away and facing the school. Dean advanced carefully, able to see a figure sitting slumped in the front seat. When he was close enough to see that it was, indeed, his father, his vision went red.
If Dad had fallen asleep while some asshole snatched his brother …
But then he was close enough to see the unnatural bend to his father's shoulders and to see the wicked-looking dart that penetrated his neck, and he swore. Leaping forward, He yanked the dart free and checked his father for a pulse.
Dean slapped the man's face gently. "Dad! Dad! Wake up!"
"Dad! Where's Sam!"
It was the mention of his youngest's name that seemed to bring John back from the brink. He opened groggy eyes and tried to focus.
"Dad! Where's Sammy?" Dean's voice was desperate.
"Dunno." John slurred, "Wha … Sammm." He tried to sit up, but fell backward instead. Dean swore and hurried around to the passenger side, climbing in, he helped his father sit up. He found a water bottle on the floor by John's feet and fed it to him a sip at a time.
"Dad, you gotta snap out of it. They got Sam, Dad. Did you hear me? The vetala. They got him."
That brought John to wakefulness with a start. Damn, he felt like hell, but what had Dean just said?
He stared at his oldest, trying to comprehend. "Who?"
Dean studied the man before him, hoping against hope they wouldn't have to take time out to find a hospital. "Just … stay here. I'll be back." Dean muttered. He slipped down from the vehicle and ran toward the bench.
True to his word, the boy had left Sam's things were he'd found them, and any hope the older boy might have had that it was all just a mistake went out the window when he recognized the cheap flip phone. He studied the scene before reaching down to pick it up. He flipped it open and was greeted by a photo of him and Sam as the background image.
He smiled, remembering the day, the time. He hunkered down then and reached beneath the bench to grasp the juggling ball. The kid had written "Sam's" on it in black permanent marker in his neat, block handwriting, and Taylor's dad had been right, the toy was smudged with blood.
Sam's blood, no doubt.
Dean collapsed back on his heels and gave into the hysteria just for a moment. Just for a single moment in time, the anguish was more than he could bear, then he was pushing it back and down like Dad had always taught them. "Bury your feelings deep in the midst of battle, or they'll betray you," Dean repeated silently.
"I'm coming Sammy." He vowed, as he sprinted back toward the truck. "Hold on for me, little brother. I promise, I'm coming."
###
Sam lifted his head. It was the only part of his body that still worked. His vision was blurred, but he could make out the movement of two people. They sat in front of him, and he thought one of them - the woman - petted his hand.
The man, the one he knew as Mr. Santos, the one who had written Sam lunch passes and given him extra credit for reading during study hall, leaned over him. He touched Sam's face tenderly, smiled at him gently. Then he reared back and became something else entirely. Sam felt the sting as the fangs sank in, and he screamed.
He could still scream. He could sort of see. He could hear. He could turn his head if he tried, but trying was too hard. He was so tired. He wanted to scuttle backward on the couch - away from the creature that drained his blood, but he was helpless. Mr. Santos finished feeding and began whispering in Sam's ear.
"It will all be over soon, Sam." He promised, licking away the single bead of blood that dripped down the boy's slender neck. He ran loving hands through Sam's hair, and stared at him possessively. "Are you thinking of your father, Sam? Hoping he'll come to save you? The man in the black truck?" Santos leaned in close.
"I. killed. him." He sing-songed gleefully. And he was all you had, wasn't he? Single dad, lonely son. No mom in the picture, not even a stepmother. Just you and him, Sam. And now he's gone. You're both gone. The Leonard family name stops here, in my livingroom. Now tell me; how does that make you feel?"
A single tear ran down Sam's cheek as he processed the creature's words. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Nobody got the drop on John Winchester like that. He glared at Santos, putting all the angst and hatred of his 12 years behind it.
But the man only laughed. He saw, and he laughed.
"Is there anyone else you care about, Sweet Sammy? Anyone else I can kill slowly and painfully? Cause you just say the word, and I'm all yours." The creature nuzzled the side of Sam's neck, humming. "Wanna hear how Daddy died?"
Sam's breath stuttered then, and he let out a sob before he could stop himself. "You're lying." He spit out between clenched teeth.
Santos growled playfully. "I'm really not. It was … ugly, Sam. He died ugly. He died screaming your name because I told him about all the wonderful plans I had for his son." He pulled back to see Sam's reaction, grinning. "I did, Sammy. I told him everything. Oh, he begged me. He pleaded with me to let you go, but did I?"
Sam remained silent, refusing to play this bastard's game.
Santos grabbed him by the hair and tugged painfully. "No, I didn't because you're here now, aren't you?"
He glanced over at his companion and nodded as she took her turn at Sam's side. The boy tried once again to draw back, but his body refused to cooperate. He grunted once in pain as she nestled herself into the side of his neck and noisily began to feed.
"Don't." Sam whimpered pleadingly. Then, "Dean …"
And Santos chuckled. He'd remember that name for later.
###
Two hundred and sixty miles away, Caleb handed the phone back to Bobby, and the hunters shared a haunted look.
"I'll keep trying to get him back." Bobby directed, grabbing his duffle bag from the closet. "You get the map."
Caleb nodded, stunned. Sam … the kid was barely a teenager for Pete's sake. And of all the monsters in the world to end up with, he thought as he drug out the battered atlas, vetala were some of the worst.
Vetala would feed on you repeatedly, not only feed, but torture. They had sharp, intuitive minds that could almost read their victims. They knew the words that would hurt the most and they revelled in using them.
And Sammy … the kid wore his heart on his sleeve anyway. A kid like Sam in the hands of Vetala … well, they'd have a fucking field day.
"Dammit." Caleb muttered, swiping angrily at his face. He was only a few years older than Dean, and he'd spent enough time around the Winchesters to consider Sam his sort of unofficial adopted brother twice removed or something.
"Chop chop, kid! Bobby snapped. "Time's wastin'. Sam's got 21 hours tops from the time the thing took him. We gotta hustle. You got what you need?"
Caleb looked down, following his quaking finger from Sioux Falls to Braxton and nodded. "Got it. Let's go."