A film of heat is plastered to his cheek. His eyelids flicker and that same heat consumes the remaining liquid in his sockets and sears to the lining of his irises. The wind rises, compact against his features and descending on his back, squeezing soul from flesh and at once, it all drops away.
He parts from Holy Grace, falls through an expanse of existence that is only void and into another one, sealed in freshly crafted skin. His knees make contact with the ice first, then his palms; a moment later he stumbles back to his feet, raising his head and turning from side to side.
His skin is not bare. Fingers clothed in thick gloves curl around the wrist of a heavy, aged winter jacket. He shuffles and hears the whisper of his pants as the legs brush together. He wiggles and the material hums against him, lined with a kind of fluff and flushed with insulated layers.
The surrounding landscape is not bare. A tunnel of ice arches above him, illuminated with a purple sheen from somewhere up ahead. He takes a step forward and the snow crunches underfoot, the wind whistles and he takes another step, he trips a few times - the teeth that line the bottom of his boots stop him from face planting, thank God for small miracles - but he manages to stumble into the light, the irony of which drags a smile from his lips and almost drops him to his knees. The tunnel opens to a sheet of ice that stretches to the horizon, he starts walking again, a speck of light surfaces to view.
The wind whittles at his features, the chill seeps in and settles bone deep. He doesn't stop. The light on the horizon swells, pillars of smoke forging from it. At forty feet from it, the wind against his face stirs with warmth, at thirty feet his face begins to thaw, at twenty feet his hands begin to sweat, ten feet in he peels off his gloves and unzips his coat and the fire bellows at the sight of him. The sky above him is gagging on smoke. The flames shift, bright yellow churning to white, spitting out sparks and colors straining to the surface; shades of green laced with pink, tinges of blue giving way to violet and lilac. His coat slips from his elbows and crumples at his feet, his hands shake and the voice of the wind and the flames has dropped, filling the space with only light and silence.
He drops to his knees.
This, He thinks, watching as the flames merge into shades of color that had long since lost their ability to be formed on Earth - except in dreams and in the eyes of lovers - this is what the heart of an angel looks like.
The ice jolts beneath him. There's a weight on his shoulder. A hand. Unseen fingers curl and grasp the arch of his shoulder.
"Don't ever change."
The voice swells from within, shutters against his chest and slips between the lining of his ribs and heart. His shoulders sag and his head dips, his jaw splits and he wails, the flames rise higher and higher. The edges of his vision cracks and pops, giving way to white and the ice underneath vanishes. His arms shudder and shake, his jaw snaps shut and he heaves against the emotion. His lips curve into a smile and the beautiful man beyond him smiles in return and Castiel loves and loves and loves.