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Castiel doesn’t know yet. Dean is utterly oblivious. Right now, Sam is the only one who knows. Cas doesn’t notice the gentle smile that brightens his face when Dean says his name. Dean can’t see the light in his own eyes when the angel appears in their motel room. Neither of them thinks it invasive to stand so close that their shoulders brush, or to bump elbows while sitting in sticky diner booths.
Sam sees all these things and more. He can always tell when Castiel appears behind him by the way Dean sits up and licks his lips. He sees the way the angel’s face changes as his eyes shift from brother to brother; Cas looks at Sam with fondness and at Dean with longing. Sam knows his brother’s face better than any face in the world and he has never seen Dean look at anyone the way he looks at their guardian angel; no man, woman, child or creature, not even Sam himself, has ever been the object of such a sad and beautiful adoration. But Sam is patient and says nothing.
He doesn’t say anything when Dean steals a bite of pancake off Cas’s plate after he eats half the stack and decides he doesn’t like it. Dean cuts his hand and Cas immediately takes it in his own and heals it, holding on far longer and more gently than necessary; Sam doesn’t comment. He especially doesn’t say anything when, on the way out of town after an especially nasty witch hunt, Dean falls asleep in the back seat leaning on Cas’s shoulder. From the driver’s seat Sam glances at them in the rearview mirror. Dean’s face is pressed up against the familiar trenchcoat, the bliss of sleep spread out over his features. The angel holds as still as a mountain, not even seeming to breathe, content to watch the gentle rise and fall of the hunter’s chest and the twitch of his eyes under lowered lids. Sam allows the tiniest of smiles to creep across his face as he speeds down the dark highway towards the next nightmare.