"Ha, yeah, doubt it," he said. It was like someone had punched him in the face with a fist of black licorice. At least, cold, it faded from his taste buds. Dean was willing to brave the taste, though, because he knew that later he would feel nice; laid back, a little fixated on certain thought patterns but in no way as impulsive as if he were drunk, and he wouldn't feel like throwing up.
"You couldn't even cut that taste with just a splash of it in a giant piƱa colada! I've tried."