Rachel woke the next morning, her cheek and mouth pressed into cheap cotton blend sheets, a blanket over her. Her hair was tangled around her face, and she pawed at it as she slowly sat up. Her eyes widened. She was in Sam and Dean's room. Immediately, she sighed in relief as she realized she was fully dressed. It was embarrassing how much of a lightweight she was. Had she not been so concerned about making Sam mad, the two beers she had the night before might've been far more dangerous.

Dean's bed was empty, from what she could tell without her glasses, and she was alone. She heard the shower running, and she scrambled up, hunting through squinted eyes for her frames until she saw them on the nightstand. Once they were on, she stood, looking for her shoes as she heard the shower shut off. They were resting neatly at the foot of the bed. She snatched them, slipping them on and lacing them as fast as she could. She couldn't afford to make things any more awkward than they felt to her—she had to get out, and fast. Rachel wasn't 100% sure why she was embarrassed at the thought of sleeping in their room, but the feeling controlled her as she stood and headed for the door.

The bathroom door opened, and she knew—she KNEW—she shouldn't turn toward it, but she did anyway. Sam was in the doorway in the process of tugging a black tee shirt over his head to his bare torso, his jeans slung low on his hips. Oh dear God. All it took was one quick glance, and the image was forever burned into her mind. With no semblance of grace, Rachel busted out of the room, feeling her pocket for her key and letting herself in a few doors down.

Rachel breathed a sigh of relief when she deadbolted her motel room door. She wasn't sure if Sam saw her or not, but she definitely saw him. And good God or Chuck or whatever, it was a sight. His body was way beyond chiseled, more like carved to perfection. It almost didn't look real with how muscular and defined it was. He had a tattoo over his heart—what of, she didn't really know—but shit, what she wouldn't give to be that little sucker stuck for life on his firm pectorals.

Cold shower. That would fix her flustered mental state. She tore through her travel bag, digging out jeans, a green knit shirt, and fresh undergarments, racing into her bathroom and shutting the door.

The icy water definitely distracted her for a bit from the mental image that haunted her, and her teeth were chattering by the end. It was a severe punishment, but one she definitely had to exact on herself. Out. Of. Your. League., she drilled into her brain, dressing and blow-drying her hair part way, leaving the remainder to air dry.

She threw some light makeup on, though she only really did it intending to delay seeing Sam again for as long as she could. When her socks and tennis shoes were on, her gun strapped to her ankle, her wallet in her back pocket, and an elastic band around her wrist for her hair, she drew in a deep breath and left, heading back to the boys' room.

Dean let her in, a partially eaten muffin in his hand. "Got some for you," he said as she closed the door behind herself, reluctantly turning toward them.

"Thanks," she murmured, bee-lining for the breakfast foods, hoping to avoid Sam's eyes. Still, she felt him watching her from his spot on his bed, the laptop in his lap but his focus far from it. She uncapped a miniature bottle of orange juice, downing it to quench her dried out throat, keeping her back mostly to him. For crap sake, act normal. She turned slowly, finding Sam's eyes fixed on her. She held his gaze, smiling to attempt bypassing awkwardness, but she failed miserably, he the first to look away back down to the screen.

Rachel's phone rang in her pocket. She read the number, tapping it to answer. "Markson." She looked up, seeing the two brothers watching. "When?" she asked, her voice softer, her brow wrinkling. She was silent for a few beats. "Okay. We'll be there." Hanging up, she felt herself sobering very quickly. "They found a body at Kerner Packing Plant," she said, looking between Dean and Sam, who stood immediately, setting aside the laptop.

"Where Gray worked," Sam concluded.

She nodded. "They don't … It's not Hailey. They think it was one of the first women to go missing. The decay indicates whoever it was has been gone for some time."

"Want to ride with us?" Dean offered. "Save on the gas?"

Rachel managed a small smile. "Thanks. That would be great."

They changed into suits, Rachel foregoing breakfast for the sake of time. The plant wasn't terribly far away, but they wanted to arrive before any real FBI came.

Sam glanced down at Rachel, who had opted for hip and rear hugging trousers and a blazer. It wasn't any better than the skirt he saw her in yesterday—it might've even been worse. He bit the inside of his cheek, reminding himself of his own decision as he felt a twinge of disappointment not seeing her in her glasses.

He knew she saw him come out of the bathroom that morning. He caught the flash of her dark hair swinging before the door slammed. Being alone with Dean so much made him forget how to be around a woman—he probably made her uncomfortable. Of course he did. He'd somehow screw things up before they even began. He sighed, briefly remembering the weight of her head on his shoulder the night before with a small smile as they approached the mass of police. He didn't even realize she fell asleep, but when he did, he couldn't help but watch her for a moment. She was at such peace, her lips gently parted, her hair draped over him. She seemed comfortable, as if she knew him for years.

The stench of the plant sewer run-off was nearly unbearable, the orange juice Rachel drank threatening to lurch back up her throat. It wasn't exactly cold out, so it made for a foul experience. Rachel caught Dean's wrinkled nose, grateful she wasn't the only one who was affected.

"Russell, Elliott, and Markson, FBI," Dean introduced them to the lead officer as he showed his badge, Sam and Rachel following suit. "What've we got here?"

"We'll have to wait for the dental records," the officer said, "but from what we know of the disappearances, this appears to be our first missing woman, Sarah Cartwright."

The three followed the officer into the heart of the scene and to a fully zipped body bag on the ground. Dean squatted down, opening the bag until they saw the woman's face. Rachel's eyes rounded. She had never seen discoloration like this on a body. It wasn't normal by any means. "We're hoping the autopsy can tell us why she looks that particular shade of … green," the officer commented.

"She was missing for three years, correct?" Sam asked.

"Just about. Three years later this month."

Rachel pulled out her phone, scanning through the photos she took of the pictures from the file until she rested on Sarah Cartwright. In the picture, she was beautiful and vibrant, but her body now was truly just a shell, a hardened exterior that once housed a soul long since gone.

Dean stood, looking at the officer. "Anyone see anything as far as suspects? Any cars or activity?"

The officer shook his head. "Nothing. The employee who found the body is Ricardo Nuñez. He's on the B-7 line. He says he pulled up and saw something large floating. That's when he called the police when he saw it was a body.

The three looked up toward the nearby employee lot. "Is he working now?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. We spoke with him, but you're welcome to as well."

Dean nodded. "Be sure to let us know the autopsy findings."

"Will do."

Dean led the charge up toward the plant, holding the door open for Rachel as he and Sam walked in after her. The environment was a sterile, icy metal cage, conveyor belts groaning as slabs of beef were primed at different stations. Large sections of carcasses were hung on giant hooks, people in full white gear attacking them expertly with giant knives and saws. Rachel wasn't expecting the nausea she felt from it all, turning away from observing the main floor to distract herself with something else.

Sam touched the small of her back, and she looked up at him. "You okay?" he asked, his concern evident.

She nodded. "It's just not a very good environment on an empty stomach."

"We'll get you some food after this."

"I'm alright."

He watched Dean heading toward a section of the plant marked B. "You coming?" he asked, looking down at her.

"I think I'll just hang out here, in case … someone needs to talk to us or something."

Sam gently rubbed the dip in her spine with a small nod, slipping away from her side as he headed toward the direction Dean went. She watched him, her skin tingling from his delicate, considerate touch, even through her suit.

Rachel drew in a deep breath, pacing a bit as she waited away from the heart of the action, keeping her eyes on the signs posted on the walls. There were certificates of health inspection, employee of the month pictures, and a picture from 1933 of Francis Kerner, the owner and founder of the plant.

"Are you FBI?"

She turned to the voice, her brow raising as she saw the pizza delivery man from the night before. He was wearing the full white uniform as everyone else, but his was pristine, spotless. "Yes," she replied, feeling unusually hesitant.

"Shame what happened," he said, stepping closer to her. "That girl's been missing for a while."

"Hopefully her family can find closure."

"Hopefully."

"So, you work two jobs?"

He nodded. "Have to pay the bills somehow."

"Did you know the victim?"

"No, I didn't. Only through the local news." He laughed softly. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? Peter Nash," he said, holding out his hand. He flashed her a charming smile; he was a good-looking man, but still no Sam Winchester. "I promise, it's clean."

"Meg Markson," she replied, taking his hand. Her brow wrinkled when she touched him, her nausea from the morning washing away as he held her in his grip.

"Meg," he repeated. "That's a nice name."

"Thanks," she murmured, unsure what she was even referring to.

Peter stepped closer, still grasping her hand. "Is it your real name, though?"

For whatever reason, the truth effortlessly flowed from her like an open tap. "... No."

"Tell me what it is."

"Rachel Lentz," she whispered.

Peter smiled. "What a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman." He gently stroked her cheek, the action blocked from sight by his body. "Tell me, are the two men with you hunters, Rachel?" he asked, his voice soft.

Her reply came like it was automatic. "Yes."

"What are their names."

"Sam and Dean Winchester."

"The Winchester boys," he said with an arched brow, a satisfied hum in his throat. "Well, that's just excellent. But still, I think they will get in the way of us, don't you?"

Rachel stared at him, looking straight through him. "Yes."

"So, we should talk somewhere else, right?" he asked, his breath moving over her wrist as he lifted it to his nose and sniffed it with an almost erotic shudder.

She was still, hypnotized by his touch. Her mind was separate from her body, but neither functioned in a usual way as he held her hand. Every move was scripted, only she wasn't the writer. "Yes."

"Good," Peter murmured, kissing the delicate skin under her hand. "Where would you like to go, my Rachel?"

Before she could answer, Sam's voice shouted from across the way. "Meg!" he called, jogging over to her. When Sam initially caught sight of the man in front of Rachel from across the plant, red flags shot up everywhere, and he automatically went on the defense.

Peter's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he kept his back to Sam. He let go of Rachel's hand, maintaining an innocent appearance and a respectable distance as he rattled on about the missing woman. "...So, it's just a shame for the family," he concluded as Sam approached.

Rachel blinked hard for a moment, as if adjusting herself back into the scene, then she nodded at Peter. "It is. But hopefully we'll find the person responsible soon."

"Can I help you?" Sam asked Peter as he pushed between them, everything about him challenging Peter in that moment.

Peter held his hands up with a small laugh. "Easy, big guy. Just wanted to talk," he said, taking a step back.

"About what?" Sam asked, his nostrils flaring a little.

"He's fine, Agent Elliott," Rachel said, her brow raised at Sam as she took in his odd behavior.

Sam wasn't convinced. He kept his eye on Peter as he walked away. "Nice to meet you, Meg," Peter said with a nod, returning to the main floor.

"What the hell?" Rachel snapped when Peter left earshot as Sam turned her to himself.

"What were you talking about?" Sam demanded.

"The case, you dufus!"

"And that's it?"

She scoffed. If she was being honest, she wasn't sure if she and Peter had talked about anything else. The interaction seemed like a smudge of a moment in her mind. "Yes," she replied coolly, maintaining a hard appearance to avoid showing Sam any weakness. "What, when I'm with you two, I'm not allowed to talk to people?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. She saw a genuine concern in Sam's eyes, but she couldn't depart the train of anger she had jumped on.

Sam looked over his shoulder in the direction Peter went. "So, he just wanted to chat you up over a dead body?" he asked, turning back to her.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Sam," she said in a hoarse whisper, "I think I can handle myself."

Dean came over to them, his brows knitted tightly as he saw their expressions. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing," Rachel said, purposefully brushing by Sam as she left for the exit.

"Yeah," Dean said, watching her leave, "that's a whole lot of nothing." He looked up, finding Sam still tensed. "What happened?"

"She was talking with someone," he murmured, turning his eyes away from her.

"Jealous?"

"No, Dean," he groaned. "Whoever she was talking to was way too friendly, even to just be flirting."

"So, you are jealous."

Sam sighed. "Rachel fits Arioch's type to a T. We found a body here. Who's to say he isn't hanging out?"

"You think Arioch was in the dude's meat suit just now?"

"I don't know," Sam replied. "I just know that we're going to need to keep an eye on her."

Before he could even hear Dean agree, Sam was headed for the exit, quickly leaving the plant and finding Rachel near the Impala, kicking at a rock with the toe of her heeled boot. "Rachel," Sam said softly when he was close, stopping in front of her.

"Sorry," she said sarcastically, "I know I should've asked your permission to leave."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "That's not what this is about," he argued, stepping closer. "You are Arioch's type to the letter. Who's to say he isn't trying to lure you without you knowing it?"

"So, because a person of the opposite sex interacts with me, they must want to kill me?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "No," he replied with a slight growl. "But we don't know how this grigori works. You're exactly what he likes, though, so can you try to understand where my concern is coming from?"

Rachel looked up at Sam, seeing the worry in his hazel eyes. He was right. She wasn't used to someone having her back, but she definitely could afford it on this particular job. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I get it."

Sam's hand rested on her small shoulder. "It's alright. I just got worried."

Her chest tightened at the idea. Instead of facing it with a mature response, she hid behind teasing sarcasm. "Aww, you do care," she said with a smirk.

His lips curled up at the sides a little. "Did you doubt that?"

Rachel's throat ran dry. "Maybe."

Sam's gaze shifted, a serious tone taking over him as he slid his hand down her arm, brushing his fingers against her hand. "You shouldn't," he said softly, giving her hand the gentlest of squeezes. His touch was light but electric, his eyes more intense than she could handle.

"Well, who's hungry?" Dean asked as he approached.

Sam pulled his hand back, clearing his throat. Neither responded right away. "I could use some non-beef food," Rachel finally said, turning away from Sam and climbing into the back of the Impala.

"Yeah, sure. Food," Sam said, sitting in the front passenger seat and shutting the door.

"Oh yeah," Dean mumbled as he walked around to the driver's side. "Absolutely nothing going on here at all."