Go big or go home, Lestat reasoned. Blood was important no matter who you were and it should be treated that way.
He just watched. Watched Sam make the cut, watched the blood flow, waiting. The vampire crossed his arms.
Once the glass was full and Sam took his wrist away, Lestat leaned forward and grabbed the glass. He'd have to drink quickly or it was going to get cold.
So he did.
The glass still held several gulps in it, so it wasn't dramatic and rude and graceless. Lestat shut his eyes drinking the blood down, and let the images in the blood take him.
He could see a cage. And on one side there was a man with a face that seemed not to be holding together too well. Like it wasn't his, which was something Lestat knew a thing or two about. He felt seething hatred for this man. On the other side, mouth bleeding, there was a teenage boy who was glaring at the first man. He felt... conflicted over this one. Pity, or something like it, and apologetic, but also a different kind of hate.
Lestat stood in the middle of the two--because Sam had. And on all sides, he could recognize Hell. Then like a flash, he wasn't there anymore, but there was a sensation of not being quite right. Of a piece being gone, screaming. Suffering.
There were other bits and pieces about Sam that Lestat could see, things that were just tied to who he was. Flashes of hunts, of Dean, of John Winchester. Demon Blood.
Lestat held the glass away and looked at it as if it'd bitten him. Then he looked at Sam, licking the remainder of the blood from his lips.
"Y'know," he said, the blood making his voice sound a bit thicker, like an alcoholic beverage would for an adult, "that's fucked up, Sam."