Dean took a bite of Dutch apple pie a la mode, his expression melting into one of bliss. He made a sound that was part sensual moan and part grunting appreciation, green eyes nearly rolling back in his head as his eyelashes fluttered.
Castiel, watching, felt the bliss. The warm, cinnamon-nutmeg-buttery-pastry that caused a deep comfort; the tartness of apple, a spell-note against sugar that toyed with brain and blood; the creamy-sweet cold of ice cream, angel-snow, so arresting to the tongue. Within the cold, the scent and taste of vanilla was warm-hot and narcotic.
Swallowing, Dean scooped up another bite and held his spoon out to Castiel. “Want some?”
Unblinking, Castiel said, “Take off all your clothes.”