If someone were to call Bobby Singer a paranoid old curmudgeon, he would have grunted out that he was an alive paranoid old curmudgeon. So, when he received an unplanned call on the one phone line he barely used these days, knowing that most the locals in town who weren't in the know considered him a bit too heavy on the sauce to trust with a salvage tow, he was suspicious, to say the least. It didn't help that he was feeling particularly surly after slamming the phone down on a hunter who was abusing his fake FBI line too much today, or that the kid on the other end sounded like he was just past puberty.

He was a second from snapping at the guy when mention of an "aunt" with his card came up. Bobby rolled his eyes, certain that one day they were going to roll out of his head. He'd, lucky him, had precious few encounters with the only local official who was in-the-know about his side job, but he'd kept up with the gossip on the good sheriff. And, maybe he'd even pried a bit of info out of Jim at the hardware shop in her neighborhood, knowing the guy ran his mouth faster than he ran his cash register. Mention of Sheriff Mills' "troubled" nephew staying with her had come up.

"Your aunt?" Bobby groaned. That woman would have his head if he didn't at least stay on the line. "I gave an old card to Jody Mills not long back. Heard she had a boy staying with her now. That you?"

Bobby figured the pause was from surprise.

"Yeah, this is Stiles. Stiles Stilinski."

Jesus, Bobby thought, with a name like that, the boy's parents didn't even give him a chance, did they?

"Stiles, huh? Bobby Singer." He cleared his throat, considering looking the kid's name up while they chatted. Instead he reached across his table, fishing out the keys to his tow truck. He hadn't used it much of late, if he was honest, seeing as he'd been preoccupied with, oh, being in a wheelchair and the apocalypse. Still, he'd been giving it a bit of maintenance just earlier that day. Bills to pay and whatnot. She was gassed ready to roll already.

"Where you at, kid?"

"There's this old cemetery off of Snakesmith…"

Because why wouldn't a teenage boy being at a cemetery at night? Bobby ran his fingers over his eyes and then slapped his trucker hat over his head. And here he'd thought Garth had the monopoly on stupid decisions for the day.

"You're shitting me?"

"I shit you not, sir. I was, um, pulled over, looking at something, and my Jeep wouldn't start."

Bobby swore if this was some sort of demon trick, he was going to kill that bastard to death. "Sure," he snapped. He slammed the land-line down and made sure his cell was on him, as well as a loaded weapon and a tin of holy water.

"Ah Hell," he muttered, realizing that he could need to call Jody Mills on his way. What a rotten day.

Watching the distant headlights from the tow truck, Stiles had been prepared to send a 911 text out the second things went sideways. Instead, he received a text in reply, as if his aunt had suddenly developed a psychic connection with him:

"Singer just called me. You and I need to have a talk later."

Stiles made a face at his phone. That was just great. His tow truck driver had already ratted him out. On the plus side, he highly doubted Bobby Singer was a violent criminal, based on that message.

Hearing the crunch of gravel as the truck pulled in beside him, he popped out of his Jeep and watched as the tow truck was backed up. It was still running when the driver's side door opened, figure hopping down and stomping toward the Jeep in a way that suggested this visit was of great annoyance. Stiles thought the scruffy old guy looked every bit like someone named Bobby Singer should in his dirty trucker hat (despite the fact it was night) and flannel over-shirt (despite the fact that it was still warm out).

Stiles opened his mouth to greet him, but was cut off.

"Pop the hood," a gruff voice ordered.

Stiles hesitated only a moment, deciding not to question the request, before he leaned into his vehicle to find the lever. When he straightened, Bobby was already bracing the hood of the Jeep and muttering what sounded like, "insufferable woman," at the engine.

"Actually, his name is Roscoe," Stiles corrected. At Bobby's baffled expression, he sheepishly cleared his throat. "Uh, the Jeep's name. Roscoe…never mind."

"Isn't that nice."

Stiles decided not to comment on the guy's use of sarcasm being a bit heavy-handed.

Bobby turned his attention back to the engine, swearing under his breath (or Stiles thought it was swearing, despite a bizarre must-be-a-redneck use of "Crisco" thrown in there) before he reached down to yank something free. A weathered strip of duct tape hung from the man's fingertips.

"What the hell is this mess?"

Stiles opened and closed his mouth. Before he could settle on a reasonable answer, Bobby pointed to a spot a few yards away. "Go," he said. "Stand there while I give 'Roscoe' a look."

Uh no. You can't make me. How about I don't. Hit the road Surly McSurlyson.

All were replies Stiles considered giving before he remembered this was someone Jody knew, and he'd probably already pissed her off tonight. He took a two deliberately large steps back away from the salvage yard owner and the Jeep, nearly slipping on the dew-wet grass. Which might have been embarrassing, even without the side-eye he was getting from Grumpy.

He didn't like that he wasn't in his Jeep, but it took him another second to realize the reason why had little do to with the guy under her hood. Reaching to rub the back of his neck, he twisted his head, glancing casually over his shoulder at the not-distant-enough treeline. There was no movement in the shadows, no indicator that there was so much as a squirrel scurrying along. Still, he was convinced something was watching them.

"This isn't Beacon Hills," he muttered to himself. It wasn't as calming a mantra as he'd hoped it would be. Stiles moved a bit closer to the towing truck, just to be on the safe side.

Bobby glanced up at Stiles, craning his head to look past him, at the cemetery, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he went to work, checking the Jeep over, going back to his own truck to look for this or that, despite the fact that the man insisted he was salvage only. Stiles wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but the guy seemed to keep one eye on him at all times, like he was afraid Stiles might suddenly decide to steal his tow truck or something. Though his constant check on his phone assured him that only ten minutes had passed, Stiles felt antsy.

Finally Bobby put the hood down, walking back toward his own truck to back it up further. "Starter's out," he said, over his shoulder. "As well as about a dozen other things. You can't take care of a vehicle, you shouldn't be driving one."

Stiles felt his cheeks flush. "Listen, dude. I don't know if I interrupted you while you were watching Duck Dynasty or whatever, but I can find someone else to tow my Jeep."

Bobby paused in front of his door before reaching inside and pulling out a silver flask. Silently, he took a swig from it before tossing it in Stiles' direction. Stiles fumbled to catch it, realizing a second too late that the cap wasn't screwed on right. Liquid splashed over his hands. He instinctively wrinkled his nose in disgust before realizing he didn't smell any whiskey. If fact, it looked, and smelled, like normal water. He brushed his hand off on his jeans, glaring up at the older man.

Who looked sheepish as he shrugged an apology. There was something about the gesture that left Stiles certain the guy wasn't even a little sorry.

"Thought you might be thirsty," Bobby excused. "Hot out here. Get in the truck, and we'll get movin'. Ain't got all night."

Stiles realized the guy was pretending he hadn't heard the part about calling another tow truck. He huffed but stomped over to the passenger's side, hopping up onto the seat. He was trying, and failing, to ignore the weird vibe Bobby was giving off.

A moment later, the other man slid into his truck, and they moved, precious cargo attached behind them. Turned in his seat, Stiles anxiously watched the baby blue body bounce as they turned out of the barely existent cemetery driveway. At least, he reasoned, if anything was in the trees, it wasn't following them.

He was so caught up in watching Roscoe, it took him a moment longer to realize there was a shotgun strapped in a rack behind the truck's seat. Stiles turned back around, sitting a bit too straight, and reasoning with himself that the weird vibe from Bobby had nothing to do with the shotgun in plain sight. No sirree.

"Dangerous line of business?" Stiles finally asked.

Bobby grunted in reply, then took one hand off the steering wheel to scratch at his cap. His face twisted slightly, as if whatever he was trying to spit out was painful. "Been a long day of dealing with idgits."

"Was that an apology?" Stiles asked.

"Take what you can get," Bobby suggested, giving him a sideways glance. "I don't do much work these days that deals with people. Was…injured for a while. Long recovery. I wasn't expectin' a call from a customer."

Stiles nodded, somewhat surprised. In his experience, the grumpy ones usually weren't this chatty. "Sorry for being a pain in the ass."

Stiles half-expected to feel his dad bop him over the head for that one, despite being a few states away. Instead, Bobby huffed out a chuckle.

"Sorry for being a grumpy old bastard." Bobby's lip twitched with a smile. "Your aunt said you drove that hunk of metal from California."

"I'll have you know that Roscoe is a beautiful piece of machinery." Stiles was barely able to hold on to his offended tone before he deflated. "How much is the repair going to cost?"

"I run a salvage yard," Bobby reminded him. "I'm sure I can rustle you up enough parts to get her-sorry, 'him'-going strong, but you'll need a mechanic to put them in."

Stiles raised a brow. "You can't install a starter?"

"A monkey with a wrench can install a starter," Bobby snapped. "I'm not going to. Not my job." They drove in silence a moment, Roscoe lurching and creaking behind them, before Bobby drummed his fingers against the wheel. "Don't worry about the cost. Jody and I will figure it out."

"I'm not letting Jody pay for it," Stiles answered quickly. "She's already covering food and lodge, and she barely even knows me. I can take care of the cost. How much are the parts?"

"Not much. What do you mean 'she barely knows' you? She's your aunt."

Stiles shrugged one shoulder. "Our family isn't close."

Bobby hummed something in the affirmative. "That the first time you were visiting their graves then?"

Stiles blinked, confused for a moment, before he realized how easy an excuse that was. "Uh, yeah. My uncle and cousin are both there."

"Might I suggest you plan your next visit during daylight hours," Bobby said.

Stiles sunk a bit in his seat. "Probably a good idea," he noted. He perked up after a second, eyes narrowing. "Hey, how much do you know about that cemetery? I heard someone in town say that it was kind of creepy." A lie, but Stiles was used to giving them, and he was ninety percent sure he wasn't riding beside a werewolf who could read his heartbeat. "Like, they mentioned something about weird happenings. Maybe it's haunted."

"Nope," Bobby said, a bit too quickly. "Fairly certain it's not. Why, you interested in that kind of stuff?"

Stiles snorted. "No, of course not," he said, laying on the absurdity a bit heavy. "I mean, I just thought, it might be, like, a local hangout for bad elements or something. Not, you know, anything weird really. Just totally normal stuff. Which, is what I find interesting. The normal."

He finally managed to shut his mouth.

"And that made you want to go visit it at night?" Bobby asked.

From his tone, Stiles was sure the man was poking fun. He screwed up is face. "About that…did you mention where I was to Jody?"

"Oh, that's the least of your problems, kid," Bobby assured. "I might not know the good sheriff all that well, but I know her enough. You try passing off those piss poor lies with her, and you'll find yourself on the opposite end of an interrogate. That woman is downright irritating when she thinks she knows something."

Stiles might have imagined it, but he thought the old man sounded fond of that attribute. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, trying for genuine.

Stiles didn't realize they were slowing until the truck pulled under the metal sign for Singer Salvage. The place was a mess, a zoo of automobiles in looming stacks and scattered at odd angles. Down the drive was the shadowy outline of a house and a separate garage. What caught his eye most, though, was the sheriff's vehicle parked in front of the porch, its owner leaning against the back, arms crossed over her chest as she watched them pull in.

Bobby came to a stop further down the drive and gave Stiles a glance that was almost pitying. "I won't do all the work. Got too much on my plate. But if you want to give me a hand, we can at least get that hunk of metal off my property this week."

Stiles' eyes widened. He grinned brightly. "You'll fix it?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Don't make me regret this." From the sound of his voice, he already did. "Have the sheriff drop you off in the morning and prepare to work. Nothing's free, so I'll expect you to put in the labor, understand? I figure you can help me pull a few parts for an order or two, and we'll call it even. Shouldn't take a couple days."

"Yeah, yes, I can do that," Stiles replied. He tried to hold down his excitement. Fixing Roscoe, even with a grumpy old guy as company, sounded almost preferable to another day of cat-villa with Ms. Rose. "Thanks?"

Bobby looked uncomfortable but nodded his chin toward the passenger's window, where Jody was standing, not too far away, her face oddly blank. "Yeah, well. Would you get out before that woman gets in here with us?"

Stiles frowned, sliding out of the truck. "Honestly, I have no idea what she could be mad about," he muttered.

He could of sworn he heard Bobby laughing behind him.

Jody drove to the end of the driveway and stopped, waving once back at Bobby Singer, who glanced their way, shaking his head, before he headed into his house. If Stiles wanted to know why she didn't turn onto the main road, he didn't ask. Instead he moved, fidgeting in his seat, as if he couldn't find a comfortable spot as he tugged at his seatbelt, fingers opening and closing around the strap. It reminded her of Owen, after he'd had too much sugar.

"Have you eaten?" she asked.

Stiles scratched at his cheek, giving her a fleeting look of surprise before schooling his features. She could tell from his expression that he thought he might get out of answering questions. Not a chance, kid.

"Uh, no. Actually I'm kind of hungry, now that you mention it. Famished really," he replied, straightening. "Which. You know. Famished, sounds a bit like famine, and I'm only just now realizing that those two are related, probably through the latin 'fames', I guess, though now I'm wondering if the…" He trailed off, and Jody wasn't sure what expression she was wearing, but the look on her face made his mouth snap closed. "I probably should have mentioned I was going out," he said.

"Text, e-mail, voice mail, note on the fridge," she agreed. She shook her head slightly, then sighed, deciding now was as good a time as any for a confession. "I did something I shouldn't have done, because your dad is an idiot."

Stiles opened his mouth, as if defend his father, and Jody raised a hand to cut him off.

"It's a family trait," she assured. She sucked on her bottom lip a moment longer before deciding to rip the band-aid off. "After Bobby called, I was planning to pretend I was angry with you, go all 'protective aunt', maybe ground you. Then say that was too extreme, and un-ground you after about fifteen minutes. I didn't plan to tell you what I was doing this evening."

Stiles raised a brow, slowly asking, "And what were you doing this evening?"

"Research." Jody considered keeping her mouth shut one last time. "When your dad called me and asked me if it would be okay for you to spend some time with me this summer, he wasn't exactly forthright with information. He told me you were in trouble. Told me about the night you were beaten up. But I could tell he was holding back. Honestly, I…I made the choice not to ask for more. Maybe because I felt a bit guilty, like I didn't deserve to know, because I wasn't a person in your life. Maybe because I was too caught up in the idea of you staying with me to go looking for reasons why you shouldn't."

Jody stole a glance at Stiles. His eyes were trained ahead, moonlight leaving them bright. She could see the movement in his throat as he swallowed hard.

His voice sounded hoarse. "Not really much to know."

"I think there is, Stiles. I think Noah should have told me how much you saw in the station, when those deputies were murdered. I think he should have mentioned finding the dead mechanic. I think he should have given me some idea of what was really going on with you."

"I didn't-"

"And the janitor, at your school," she continued. "Seeing that much death…I know what that does to a person. I know it leaves you more alert and more numb than you've ever been before. I know you don't just get over it. You keep going, but it catches up with you eventually."

She could see it on the tip of his tongue, the unspoken 'you don't know anything.' But instead of saying it, he frowned, and she knew that next look was one of guilt. Jody winced, certain that he'd suddenly remembered who she was, who she'd loss. He wasn't there when it happened, but he knew, from his own experience, what it felt like. Jody was almost proud he had the state of mind not to hurt her by questioning her own grief.

"I don't want to talk about this," he said, after a long minute.

"Ok." Jody gifted him with a crooked grin, forcing him to meet her eye. "You don't have to talk. And I'm not going to look into it anymore. No more solving the mystery of Stiles Stilinski."

There it was again, that guilt in his eyes, but, she reasoned, probably there for a different reason. Jody knew she wasn't imagining it, and she was almost certain it meant that something was still going on with Stiles. Something he was purposely hiding from her.

"You're a lot like your dad," she said, examining him.

"An idiot?"

Jody snorted, not disagreeing. "So, if Noah didn't tell me about you, I'm guessing he didn't tell you all that much about me. Am I right?"

"I know about your family. Owen and Sean."

Jody tried to hide the way the names cut into her. If she thought about them too hard, if she thought about how only a few short months ago, Sean had been a living, breathing part of her world. About how for a fraction of a moment, she'd thought they'd have their baby boy back, right before fate slapped her across the face. If she thought about that, she'd lose it, and she'd promised herself, and her memory of them, that she'd stay sane. So, she tried not to show Stiles how much the casual mention hurt.

"That's not…" She cleared her throat, the sound more needy that she'd intended, and started over. "I mean Noah and me, our parents. How we grew up."

"Grandpa's a dick," Stiles supplied.

Maybe that was all he knew about the situation, but it was a nice summary, Jody thought. She huffed out a broken laugh, pretending that he wouldn't notice that it sounded a bit like a sob.

"Aside from that?" Jody asked. At Stiles' frown, she nodded to herself. "At the risk of revealing my age, Noah and I are seven years apart. When you're an adult, seven years is nothing. When you're a kid, it's eternity. Noah was nineteen when Mom passed, and you weren't exactly wrong about Dad. Our parents had been separated for a while, so I didn't think of him as an option, and Noah had always promised me, even before Mom's accident, that we'd never have to stay with that man again. So, me, I thought the answer was obvious after Mom. I thought my big brother would be taking care of me, like he'd always done."

Jody shifted in her seat, facing the front. Out here at Bobby's place, city lights were far away and the sky was huge through the windshield. She hoped Stiles was still staring at the sky and not her.

"We had a great aunt out here. A nice enough woman, but we were never really close. I never let myself be close to her. I spent way too many years bitter. It's hard to flip that switch, even when you're no longer a kid, and you can see the big picture. Noah tried to visit, but I made it difficult for him. I thought that if he didn't want me around all the time, then I didn't want him around at all. Stupid is genetic, right? Even after I was grown and realized that Noah had made the right decision, I had a hard time turning that part of me off." Jody took a shaky breath. "You get how complicated it can be, right? To try and fix something like us?"

"You don't have to fix anything," Stiles said, quietly. "You just…"

Whatever he was going to say was left hanging. She smiled to herself. It wasn't easy to put into words, but she'd heard him. And maybe if she could hear what he wanted to say, he could hear her just as easily. With a little work, he might even open up, tell her what she couldn't read in Noah's reports, before it caught up with him, because as much as she wanted to believe that Stiles' involvement in that many bizarre cases was coincidence, she honestly didn't.

Shifting the car into gear, they rolled out onto the road.

"Text me next time," she said. An order. "I can't believe you called Bobby Singer before me," she muttered. "I'm the sheriff, in case you forgot."

"Yes, ma'am. And while we're de-railing the conversation, can we move back to the subject of food?"

Jody huffed out a chuckle, heading home.