D'Artagnan frowns, but he knows better than to ask how Crowley knows what actual blood tastes like. He'll just choose to believe that Crowley's also been in his fair share of fights and can recall the sharp, metallic tang of it easily enough. It wouldn't be difficult to believe, after all.

He takes the bottle and sniffs it before lift it to his lips to take a sip. He's forgotten where he is, of course, so the second he does it, the whole place goes quiet and he thinks he hears a plate smash and a gasp. Please. How dramatic.

He lowers the bottle and clears his throat. Disgusting aftertaste indeed.

"Can't say I'm a fan of it," he says, looking only at Crowley for the time being.