Castiel
[The bottle is the greenish sort of clear of ancient glass, speckled with age and nestled into a simple, unfinished wooden box of cotton because the bottom of it is round and will not stand on its own. It is smaller than the sort of bottle found in liquor stores, about 2/3rds the size. Though it is sealed with a thick, dark green wax, at first glance, there doesn't appear to be anything inside. Once it is hefted in the hand, the liquid shifts enough to be felt and heard, but still not seen. There is a hand-written label on the outside, but age has faded it enough so that only some of the letters are readable. Does it say "Tree" of something? Is that a "d" next to the "E" and followed by two more letters? There's simply not enough to make out anything that makes sense. There is, however, a new note (in what might be the same handwriting as the label) that reads simply: Never for human consumption. Sip carefully.
When the wax is cut (and it takes a very sharp knife), it smells not only of bees and honey, but also of innocence turned to desire. And it's only when poured from the bottle that the liquid inside becomes visible. It's a gold so rich that it's like afternoon sunshine, and in the glass it smells like summer gardens. Somewhere on the edge of awareness is the lazy buzz of overladen bees and the content call of birds. On the tongue, the liquid tastes like apples and pomegranates and dangerous contentment. It instantly - with only a single mouthful - makes the world lilt to one side, warmth spreading quickly. The feeling lingers, fading slowly and leaving behind a sharp awareness of everything around the drinker - details of the world nearly painful. But that fades as well. Eventually.]