Râckstarâ â
⎠â
â: and to think he would leave the mortal behind in this way. Without giving him anything but a name to mourn for the rest of his days. Lestat swallows a dry sob in the back of his throat as he blinks at Dean again and again, speaking in Morse Code. The hand that trembles desperately wants to feel the side of his face without peeling his own skin. Damned be the Sun that cast him down. Damned be the desert where he writhed in his own misery, ashamed to look upon the ashes of his soul whispering to the wind while he screamed and screamed.
Dean collapses and begs amid the vampire's plea. He cast his phone into the sea. His letters into the fire. And his clothes were shed in the sand. He did not think of his name, his counterparts, and the love he has proclaimed to care about. There were often days when Lestat would show up, breaking through the veil of rusty motels. He'd corner Dean there, asking where he was, whom he was with, and a whiff of a rogue perfume would send him into a jealous frenzy, demanding explanations filtered through grinning teeth. He'd kiss those teeth thereafter, threatening to sever Winchester's head and carry it like a trophy on his hip. A grotesque promise of an unyielding love. And he abandoned him.
Lestat closes his eyes as Dean's thoughts punish him. He is unworthy of this love; one which the vampire fought against and cultivated in the finest, rotted gardens of his soul. He wants to shove the warm mind away, and yet it folds so tenderly against his own, a missing half he cast aside in favor of a selfish pursuit. Dean's quivering voice is so uncharacteristic to those who do not know what lies beyond that brick wall of a wounded pride. Lestat pried it, and with it, he crumbled his own defenses, sobbing in his hands, demanding for the phantoms to return and save him. Finally, through the split, the Sun came. Not the one that scorched the vampire, but the one that sought to save him.
"I will call. I will come." Promises are now weakened by his present state. He dare not mutter of his love again. He looks like a fool, staring back at Dean with bloodshot eyes and bleeding skin. They hold each other in their private gaze again, and Lestat's chest swells with agony. I will love. His mind whispers back. The same burnt fingers touch a damp cheek, a joining of deepest waters and relentless fire. It hurts, but in a way that fills Lestat's lungs with air. He lowers his hand back into the coffin and carefully raises his chin.
"Close the coffin for four nights, my love. Four nights. I will return to you as I was before." The vampire wheezes. "Your blood will be my own." The man whispers, folding his hands over his stomach gently. "I will be here and-" he pauses, searching Dean's face. "Will youâŚkeep me company? My home is yours, I haveâŚmy bedroom. And," his eyes dart to the side, but he is unable to sit up. "My walletâŚit's somewhere in the living room, I think. Call Christine, she will get you whatever y-you need and-" he coughs, and twitches from the rippling pain. After a moment of recovery, Lestat whispers: "-perhaps some Led Zeppelin?"
