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It's in the not being able to stop himself from making special trips to might-as-well-be-goddamn-Neverland places, for expensive organic coffees and fancy specialist woodland honey...
In the not being able to force himself to tear his stare away when that thick, monotone gravel-growl—a sound that's now as comfortingly familiar as his own brother's voice—rolls like grumbling thunder off a silver-tongue, the weird earnest-yet-sassy manor quietly screaming its intentions...
The not being able to help but touch, whenever and wherever he can, in probably—definitely—overly familiar ways; sometimes too-soft and featherlight; sometimes with firm and loaded brush strokes and for undoubtedly, and now almost unashamedly, longer than strictly necessary…
And in the not being able to ban his not-so-sleepy-memory-foam-thoughts from drifting to desperately desirable images of fuzzy and darkly shadowed-jawline. From eyes a hue which he would swear didn't even exist in this world until a dishevelled but divine being arrived and blew blue straight out of the water for humanity—for Dean—forever; to long, pale and slender but inexorably strong fingers he just wants on him already; and the softest and pinkest lips he's so very eager to press into and messily smother with his own, to document their taste in his mind, and then to part them with his tongue, biblically, like Moses and the epic parting of cyclonic waves of the goddamn Red fucking Sea…
It's every bit of Cas in every part of Dean—and in the unyielding truth of Dean not being able to stop loving Castiel.