Rachel wasn't expecting to see Sam on the other side of her door when she answered the gentle knock. "The guys wanted you to know that you can call your friend," he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

"Sam, can we talk?" Rachel asked.

He looked up, his heart clenching as he examined her. She was so damn beautiful; he wanted to take her into his arms and show her just how insane she made him. "Sure." She stepped aside, allowing him space to slip in before shutting her door. "Warmer in here than before," he noted, keeping his back to her.

"Dean fixed the thermostat," she replied softly. Rachel wrang her hands, looking at Sam's broad back. "This wasn't something I did on purpose," she said, noticing how he paused. "It just happened, and I thought it might be helpful."

Sam nodded. "It is," he murmured. "He might have connections."

"So … you're not mad?"

He turned, looking down at her. "Only for you being in this mess to begin with," he whispered. "Only for what Arioch did to Hailey, to you." He stepped closer. "But not at you."

Rachel's pulse quickened. "But you were before."

"I was mad that you were put into a position where you needed to risk yourself." Sam drew nearer, his fingers raking through her hair, cupping her cheek. "I was mad that the best idea was the scariest. I was mad that I would need to willingly risk you to protect you." His other hand found the other side of her face, cradling her head. "I was mad that as soon as I got you, your life was being put on the line. I was mad at myself for putting you there."

"Sam," Rachel whispered, "you've done nothing but help and protect me since the day I met you. You can't blame yourself for this, or for whatever will happen as we catch him."

"I just …" He shut his eyes. "I just worry about you."

"Because you care," she concluded, seeing his eyes open as he stepped in closer.

"So much."

Her heart fluttered as he bent to her, his lips seeking hers with a gentle brush. They paused, Sam's warm breath coasting over Rachel as her phone rang obnoxiously in her pocket. "I'm … I'm sorry…" Pained, she pulled away, answering it. He saw her gulp, and the way her eyes rounded as she listened to whoever greeted her. "Hey, Vance," she said softly, catching Sam's immediate disdain.

"Hey. So, I'm ready to leave Chi-Town. Say the word," Vance said, jingling his car keys.

Rachel watched as Sam backed away a little, his focus shifting to the ground. "Sam and Dean … the, uh, Winchesters … said they would like your help."

"I'm there for you," Vance reminded her. "Because I don't trust those guys, Rach. They've got their own motivations for everything." He paused. "So, I'll see you in the morning. Text me the address, 'kay?"

"Okay."

"And Rach?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really looking forward to seeing you."

Rachel blushed. "You saw me last week."

Vance grinned. "That's a whole seven days without you by my side. It's enough to torture a guy."

Her flush darkened, feeling Sam's intense stare on her from above. She knew he saw the reaction, and she hated that she had one. "It'll be good to see you too," she said quietly, the awkwardness of the conversation almost more than she could bear.

"Bye, Rach."

"Bye, Vance."

Rachel hung up, taking a deep breath. "He said he will be here in the morning," she murmured to Sam, who looked ready to kick a kitten and punch a puppy.

Sam smiled; it was painfully forced. "Great."

"He's a good hunter, and a good guy. I'm sure he will help," Rachel said quietly, hoping to put Sam at ease. She winced at how it ended up sounding, wanting to kick herself for even talking about Vance in front of Sam.

"Yeah. I'm sure he will." He headed for the door, halfway opening it. "I, uh, need to go finish reading," he murmured. "Goodnight, Rachel."

Sam slipped out of the room, heading straight for the kitchen. He couldn't stay, not after seeing the way Vance made her blush, the way she said she was looking forward to seeing him. It was too much to process. Sam wasn't dumb. He read between the lines. Vance Matthews would try to take her, and she didn't seem to mind being the subject of his chase. The mere idea that anyone would try to stake claim on Rachel drove him wild. She was his.

He dug out a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, sitting down at the table and pouring himself one. Sam tipped back the amber liquid easily, letting it burn down his throat as he shut his eyes.

Dean was right. He had an amazing thing going with Rachel. But he blew it, just like he knew he eventually would. He fixed a second shot, knocking it back. Anger moved over him, replacing the sadness temporarily. There was no way in hell he would ever be okay using her as bait. How could he be? A third shot, then a fourth. He paused, readying himself for a fifth when he set the bottle down, head hanging. Now, some douchebag was coming into his home barely invited—his home—and threatening to take Rachel—his Rachel—from him. Sam knocked back the fifth shot, enraged. Vance Matthews had another thing coming. He wouldn't go down without a fight. Shots numbers six and seven burned, his head woozy. Rachel was his. No one else's. Eight and nine followed quickly, probably too quickly. Sam eyed the bottle, deciding on an even ten.

Dean came into the kitchen with a sniff. "Smells like teen spirit in here," he said, brow arched as he looked at his little brother hunched over the table, his hair a mess. "Alright, big guy, how many did you do?"

"Nine. Gotta make it even," Sam muttered, going to pour another when Dean took the bottle out of his hand before he could spill it, noting the significant reduction of its contents.

"Oh no you don't," Dean said, setting it aside. "Come on," he encouraged, helping Sam to stand. "Let's get you in bed."

Despite the difference in height, Dean expertly maneuvered Sam down the hallway next to himself, holding him steady as he guided him to his room. Opening the door, Dean ushered Sam in; Sam all but fell onto the mattress on his stomach, sprawled diagonally across it as Dean yanked off his boots.

"She's mine," he heard Sam mutter into the sheets. "If he thinks he can take her, he can suck my—"

"Alright," Dean said, patting him on the back. "But you know, you need to do more than drink yourself into a mess. You've gotta talk to her."

"Can't. She hates me."

Dean shook his head. The boyish reasoning was typical Drunk Sam. "She doesn't hate you, you idiot."

He grumbled. "She's 'looking forward to seeing him.' So am I—I want to rearrange his stupid face."

"Just sleep it off, then talk to her in the morning."

"She won't listen."

"Yes, she will. Don't be a bitch about it."

Sam growled into his pillow."What the fuck kinda name is Vance, anyway?" Sam slurred. "I'll kick his fucking ass for having a douchey name."

Dean sighed, pulling the blanket over him, slipping into the bathroom for a moment before returning to the room. "You're probably going to hate yourself tomorrow, so take these two Tylenol and two glasses of water as soon as you wake up." He set it down on his nightstand, flicking the light off. "G'night, Sammy."

"Dean?" Sam asked, not moving.

Dean paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. And load your gun. I'mma need you to shoot him if I'm hungover tomorrow."

Dean chuckled. "Not if, Sammy. When."

Sam slowly opened one eye the next morning, remembering Dean's parting words. His brother was right. He did hate himself for downing that much whiskey in a short period of time.

With a groan, he buried his face into the pillow, grumbling as he realized it was the one Rachel had used. It smelled like her. "Fuck," he growled, the scent not only pissing him off, but turning him on. Hungover with a hard on wasn't a good combination.

He reached up blindly on the nightstand, swiping the two Tylenol from it and shoving them into his mouth. He managed to sloppily drink a half a glass of water before flopping back down to the bed, lavender assaulting his nose. In his haze, he wasn't sure if he wanted to tear the pillow apart, or cuddle with it.

God damn, she was beautiful. He couldn't help but think about her smile, her laugh, her sweetness, her soft, warm body, her gasps as he pleasured her, and how his name sounded as she screamed it in ecstasy. He knew he had to talk to her, to beg her to forgive him for being an ass, but he also wanted to hear her admit that she understood why he acted the way he did. And he wanted to hear her screaming his name as he brought her pleasure, not that douchebag's stupid name. A pile of bricks sat on his back and his head, and he remained pressed down into her pillow, the throbbing of his head and his member both equally horrible.

Sam wasn't sure how long he laid there, but by the time he finally attempted to get up, the Tylenol had done little to prevent the pounding in his head. He ran a hand through his hair, deciding on a shower. Slowly gathering clean clothes, he padded his way to the bathroom, shutting himself in.

The shower took a lot longer than it should've, and by the time he got out and managed to head into the kitchen for some coffee, he heard a male voice he didn't recognize. He immediately bristled, hand frozen as he gripped the handle of the coffee pot. Vance fucking Matthews. As calmly as he could, he poured himself some coffee, focusing on drinking half of it before refilling and cracking his neck. He was readying himself for battle, straightening as he tried to forget the ache in his head, focusing on the goal: Rachel.

Sam made his way into the library, immediately setting his eyes on the asshole he assumed was Vance Matthews. In his hungover state, he wanted to laugh, but held it back. Vance was much smaller than he was. He wouldn't be a challenge, even if he felt like shit right now. Still, he was far too close to Rachel, who looked good enough to eat in her jeans and a tight, white knit top, a hint of her bra showing through the fibers.

The focus in the room shifted to Sam, Dean's brows arched as he took in his brother's cocky smile. "Oh boy," he muttered.

Vance approached Sam with an outstretched hand. "You must be Sam," he said, a polite smile spread on his face. "Vance Matthews. I've heard a lot of good things about you."

Sam took Vance's hand, nearly crushing it as he saw Rachel watching. "I've heard you're chummy with nephilim sex traffickers," Sam said with a barely concealed grin.

Vance laughed. "If by chummy, you mean responsible for their takedown, then yes."

Sam shrugged. "Actually, I just meant chummy. You know, considering your remaining contacts."

"Ooh-kay," Dean said, patting Sam's back; Sam released Vance's hand, keeping his eye on him. "So, Vance was just about to give us some potential leads." Dean looked to Vance, who nodded.

"You've spoken to Gray, I assume?" Vance asked.

"He was … interesting," Rachel murmured.

Vance raised a brow. "You went in there with him?"

"She held her own," Sam said, stepping near Rachel.

"I've no doubt that she did," Vance replied, eyeing him. The two stared each other down for a bit, then Vance looked to Rachel. "She's also a great hunter," he added, sidling up to her, putting a casual arm around her shoulders with a knowing smile.

Rachel swallowed, seeing behind Sam's cocky smile to the jealous and rage he struggled with. "Thanks," she murmured, attempting to shy away from Vance.

"Thing is, she's always so modest," he continued, grinning down at her. "She's got a lot of talents she doesn't take credit for." He flicked his eyes up to Sam's.

Sam's nostrils flared at the insinuation; he set his coffee down. "So, where are these other contacts?" he asked.

"I've got a few people I'll reach out to," Vance replied, looking from Rachel to Sam, keeping his arm around her. "This is a nice place you boys have," he said. "Must be nice to not have to do the motel scene."

"We've done our fair share."

"I'm sure you have. So have we, right Rach?" Vance winked down at her; she stiffened, hating the blatant competition she was in the middle of.

"Excuse me," she murmured, slipping away from Vance and heading into the kitchen.

"So, Vance" Castiel said, gaining Vance's attention, "about the other contacts?"

"I'll get on that now," he smiled. "Mind if I step outside to make a couple calls?"

Dean ushered to the door, the three watching as Vance went outside, phone to his ear. Sam growled, taking up his coffee and heading toward the kitchen, Dean watching. "Clusterfuck," he muttered.

Sam stepped into the kitchen, seeing Rachel hunched over the counter. "Hey," he murmured, setting his coffee down and approaching her, "I just … um …"

"Nice pissing contest," Rachel said, keeping her eyes on the countertop.

Sam scoffed. "He's not exactly a choir boy himself."

"No, but you're not exactly being any better than he is, which is what you said you wanted to do."

Sam turned her to himself, tilting her chin up. "Rachel, I'm sorry," he whispered, his fingers running over her face. "Yeah, I feel territorial. Do you blame me?"

"I know that he deserves a better impression of you."

"Fine. But he needs to back off."

She pulled away. "I think I can decide for myself, thanks."

"Please don't tell me you like that dickhead," he begged.

"That 'dickhead' saved my ass a few times," she corrected.

"And that's wonderful. But he's still an asshole."

"Sam—"

Sam stepped closer, his thumb over her lips. "I'm fighting for you," he whispered. "And I'm not going to stop until you tell me to. I know … I know I haven't been at my best, but I meant it when I said you're mine. And I'm not about to let some douchebag like Vance make you settle for less."

"Weren't you the one who decided you couldn't be with me because of my choice?"

"I was. I did. And it was a mistake. But I'll be damned if I lose you to him."

Rachel searched Sam's eyes, unable to help but press into his touch. "Then you need to trust me," she whispered. "You need to believe that I am capable."

"And I do. But I can't stop being afraid for you." He stepped closer. "I won't ever not want to protect you." He kissed her forehead. "I won't ever not want to keep you safe."

He cupped the other side of her face, leaning in and brushing a soft kiss against her lips, a throat clearing behind them making him pause. "Vance has a lead," Castiel said quietly.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sure he does," he growled.

Rachel's eyes narrowed; she pulled away from him. "And by that, you mean what, exactly?"

"I mean that he could've just given you his leads, but instead he's got to have control."

"Gee, I wonder who that reminds me of."

Rachel passed Castiel out of the kitchen with a huff, Sam watching her leave. "Hey Cas," Sam said, his knuckles white on the counter as he gripped it, "can you smite him or something?"

"That would be murder, Sam," Castiel replied with a serious face.

"I'm okay with that."

"Perhaps you should try to get along with Vance. Then Rachel might not be as upset."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Maybe. Or, I could just kill him, which would be more fun."

Before Castiel could object, Sam left, arms folded over his chest as he saw Rachel shrugging on her coat. "We're going to talk to an informant of mine," Vance said, giving Sam a small smile.

Sam smiled back. "Great. I'll come with." He wasted no time grabbing his jacket, not caring about the awkwardness of inviting himself.

"Great," Vance replied stiffly, eyeing Sam as he pushed himself between him and Rachel.

"Dean?" Sam asked, keeping his smile on his face. "You coming?"

Dean's brow arched. "Yep." He swiped up the Impala keys. "I'll drive." He glanced to Sam, giving him a small nod.

"Uh, sure," Vance replied, "sounds good."

Rachel looked up at Sam as Vance walked outside behind Dean. "Can't stand to lose control, can you?" she said.

"He just needs to know his place," Sam shrugged.

She eyed him. "Sam—"

"Rachel, I told you, I'm fighting for you. If you want me to back down, I will. Just say the word." Sam examined her through her silence, watching her hesitantly walk away a few moments later. "Game on, douchebag," he said to himself with a small smile.