The feathers didn't feel real.
Dean felt like a dick for thinking it, but it was true. Obviously they were real, this was a real thing under his hands, but they didn't feel like feathers. Looked like them, sure, but not coarse enough, too smooth, smoother even than down. Like expensive artificial feathers but way classier, strands of fine silk flowing from his fingers like water. Dean shook his head; here he was, touching an actual angel's actual wing, and all he could do was try to find something to compare it to when he knew full well nothing on Earth was going to fit the bill.
Dean wished...he wished he could have touched Castiel's wings right when he got grabbed out of hell, before he'd calloused up his hands again holding guns and knives and punching monsters in the face. It seemed kind of...profane to be doing this with motor oil under his fingernails. Obviously he would go back to the Pit before he would ever tell that to Cas, but still, the feeling wouldn't shake.
He could feel Castiel's eyes on him, his brow furrowed in the way that meant Dean was doing some strange human thing beyond his angelic comprehension. "You're disappointed," he said, the crease in his forehead deepening. "I tried to match your expectations as closely as possible."
Dean chuckled. "I don't get how you can still suck so bad at reading people, Cas." Dean had just been kidding around with him, bitching about how the angels were such disappointments they didn't even have wings, but Castiel had gone and taken him seriously (considering this was the same guy who'd thought Uriel was the life of the party, Dean realized he probably should have seen that coming). And so now here he was, staring down at Castiel lying there with his wings unfurled, probably fifteen feet from tip to tip and so white it hurt to look at them. It was almost enough to make a man religious.
It was wrong to be doing this here, wrong to be looking at an angel in some crappy hotel room with peeling wallpaper and a bedspread that that probably last been washed when Carter was in office.
But Dean wasn't about to stop looking. "So you're telling me you've had these the whole time?"
"In a more intangible form."
"And you can really fly on these?"
Castiel tipped his head to one side. "Not flight as you understand it. But yes." He propped himself up on his elbows and flapped his wings once, as if to prove to Dean he could.
The air kicked up by his wings felt like a soft breeze coming off the ocean, and for just a second Dean could swear he heard music.
Everything about was already so wrong Dean didn't see what he could hurt by making it more wrong; he felt Cas hitch in a breath as he leaned forward and kissed him. They were both very, very still for a long moment, then Castiel folded his wings around Dean. Dean felt that silky softness at his back as Cas pulled him closer, an unangelic-sounding whimper coming from deep in his throat. Dean leaned forward into the kiss, all second guesses banished from his mind. This was probably a bad idea, Dean knew, but he'd never let that stop him before. And wrapped up in Castiel's wings, with Cas' hands reaching up under his shirt with that touch Dean realized he'd been craving since those hands had brought him back to life, Dean didn't see any reason to let it now.