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It’s not so much the swoosh or the tempest of air that rockets around him.
It’s more the smell.
Like atmosphere, space, just the pure scent of clean, untouched snow that follows the angel around.
Not to mention the constant smell of peppermint mixed with ginger, because, for whatever reason, he gets the occasional tummyache that he treats with cheap mint candies and ginger ale. (Sam thinks it might be an ulcer, but why would a powered-up Angel of the Lord ™ have an ulcer?)
It’s the peppermint mixed with that clean scent that Dean favors the most. It doesn’t sting like the smoke that still echoes in his olfactory memory, doesn’t smell like the grunge and funk of thousands of grosser than gross no-tell motels. (He doesn’t let himself think about it too hard; that would open up a discussion with himself he’s still not ready for.)
No, this scent is like the lemony-spice of Sam’s aftershave, the somewhat musty smell of the bunker, the faded aroma of french fries and bacon burgers that attached themselves to the well-worn interior of his Baby. It wraps around him, makes him feel safe.
That scent, just the presence of it, smells like home.