Summary: Every sense and emotion has a hold over Castiel and Dean both.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Eric of Kripke and his merry SPN Knights.
Five senses, part one: Touch.
The snow ghosted down from the sky, falling to the earth in soft flurries and covering the ground in blankets of quietness. Dean watched the flakes falling, turning his face to the skies and smiling at the small tickling sensations he felt as the flakes settled upon his cheeks, rapidly blinking as some fell against his eyelashes. He considered opening his mouth and trying to catch some upon his tongue, but he didn't want to risk the embarrassment of anyone actually seeing him doing that. It might have been acceptable if he were five years old again, but not now. He was a fully grown man after all.
He closed his eyes against the chill of the snow, pulling his coat around himself, stamping his feet against the hardened ground, trying to get some warmth back into his body once again. His breath plumed in clouds of condensation, hanging in the air for a few moments, before spreading out, disappearing, as though they'd never been there at all. He purposefully blew a huge stream of air past pursed lips, watching the steam drift away from himself with rapt attention.
Once again he turned his face to the sky, a smile touching his lips as he heard the familiar sounds of flapping wings cutting through the otherwise silent air, coming closer, before suddenly falling silent. Dean turned his face downwards from the sky, smiling at the angel standing patiently before him. Castiel looked cold against the snowy backdrop, his nose reddened, his cheeks and lips pinched, but still he looked perfect, ethereal, like he belonged there. Castiel smiled, slightly, his eyes providing a little bit of warmth in the cold air, before his gaze dropped to the snow drifts at his feet.
Dean closed the distance between them wordlessly, pressing lips to Castiel's own in a fervent kiss, moaning slightly when Castiel responded.
If Dean had thought the feel of the snow was soft, cleansing, forgiving, it faded away into nothingness in comparison with Castiel's kisses. They were light, quick, feathery soft, gentle, with a hint of hunger barely restrained behind them. His wings were warm and softer than the snow around them, as the angel wrapped them protectively around them both, and Dean lost himself in those wings, those kisses, Castiel himself.
Not even the feel of snow could compare to the perfection of the touch of Castiel.