THEN

Jo misses the call from Ash when she and Garth are on a hunt in Omaha, checking out a pattern they suspect might point to a nest of vampires. Luckily, the nest was small, only three imprudent vampires who model themselves after characters in an Anne Rice novel (long, buffed nails; loose, old-fashioned linen shirts; mournful expressions and "oh, woe is my (un)life").

They are back in the motel, salt lines in place. Garth is in the shower, cheerfully singing off key (he used to alternate between Bel Biv Devoe, The Police and other songs that he referred to as "the music of my childhood". Jo has made it her mission to bring the man into the twenty-first century and nods in satisfaction when she thinks she hears him sing the words to Pittbull's "Timber".)

When Garth finishes, they switch places. In the bathroom doorway they debate the merits of Indian versus Italian for dinner as she juggles a clean set of clothing and her Ipod while Garth clutches the corners of the towel wrapped around his waist. It's been awhile since she has vindaloo or scampi, so tells him she could go for either one.

Adele sets fire to the rain as she strips and steps into the shower. The tepid temperature is as common as any other budget motel (she only ever gets a hot shower when they stay at Deuce). She has a fleeting image of her room at the Sioux Falls saloon, thinks about how she should have called her mom over a week ago, but soon enough she is already thinking ahead to the next hunt.

The vindaloo smells spicy and delicious and Jo hums in appreciation as she walks out the bathroom. Her phone, set to "silent" when they were closing on the vamps, lights up and she catches sight of it flickering from the corner of her eye.

Curious about the call, she picks up the phone and sees a missed called from Ash. The vinaloo can wait a few more minutes, she decides, as she calls him back.

Less than four minutes later, she is grateful when Garth doesn't protest as she snatches his keys to the platinum Ford Ranger from the top of the motel dresser, thoughts of eating forgotten in their hasty exit.

The ride back to Sioux Falls is long and silent; they only stop to refuel and switch places then Jo dozes restlessly in the passenger seat, waking every quarter hour, anxious about her mother and willing the Ranger to break the laws of physics along with the sound barrier.

(Bad daughter. The self-reprimand circles around in her head, an endless repetition that cements her fear that, had she been able to stay in Sioux Falls and help out around Deuce, her mom would be safe.)

She is awake, though, when they drive across the gravel parking lot, the light from the rising sun not yet strong enough to chase away the shadows surrounding the large building. Before the large Ford can come to a complete stop, she grips the frame of the open door, slingshots out of her seat and sprints toward Deuce's doors.

The interior of the saloon is dusky; the overhead lights off, but the faint glow from the coolers behind the bar counter provide enough light for her to make her way across the wooden floor. She hardly notices the echo of her cowboy boots make across the scuffed floor, all of her attention focused on getting to her mother.

A slight clatter from the back stairs pulls her attention and she quickens her pace.

It would be just like Mama, she thinks as she climbs the narrow stairway, visions of her wounded mom trying to brew herself a cup of that acidic sludge she likes to call coffee dancing before her eyes. Already, a chastisement forms on her lips as she reaches the landing, words spilling out as she makes a sharp turn to the kitchen and a frown furrowing her brow.

(There is a larger kitchen downstairs, but Mama always told her that cooking in the upstairs kitchen makes her feel like she lives in a home, as opposed to living at work.)

"Mama," she does not try to mask her exasperated tone, "I know you aren't trying to make yourself-"

Her words stop as she halts in the open doorway of the kitchen and catches sight of an unfamiliar face and messy tufts of sable-brown hair, which stand out in varying directions, looking over his shoulder toward her.

"You must be Jo." Eyes still on her, he reaches up and pulls down the can of ground coffee beans without looking and she feels a burst of irritation. Who is this guy? And why did he look so damn comfortable in her mother's kitchen?

"I'm Stiles." He continued easily. "I was just-"

"Where's Mama?" she knows it's rude to cut him off, but she doesn't care.

"She's sleeping." He looks away as he scoops the ground beans into a filter and then flips the lid closed. "Finally drifted off less than an hour ago. She fought against it though; your mother is one stubborn lady."

She scowls at the fond chuckle that escapes his lips as he shakes his head, amusement warm in the whisky hue of his eyes.

"I'm going to go see her," she says curtly. She steps backward but freezes when he reaches out toward her.

"Can it wait? Just for a bit? She put off rest for so long and she only just got to sleep. If she wakes and sees you, she's going to want to get up and…"

"Are you seriously telling me that I can't go see my own mother?" She shrugs off his hand and turns on her heel, furious at the gall of this stranger, "Unbelievable."

At her mother's bedroom door, she takes a steadying breath and cautiously opens the door.

In the few minutes since she has arrived at Deuce the sky has lightened further, however, since the bedroom window faces west, her mother is but a shadowy outline on the bed. As quietly as possible, she crosses the room and stands at the bedside.

A lump forms in her throat as she inspects the slumbering body, Ash's phone call from earlier ringing in her ears. It pains her to remember that when Ash first called, her first thought was that something that had happened to Dean, rather than her mom.

"Hey Jo."

"Hey Ash – so glad you called. Do you have that information on that Vamp nest that was reported near Cleveland? Garth and I will-"

"Jo."

"-head north in the morning–"

"JO."

She paused because Ash had raised his voice. Ash never raised his voice.

"Ash…what's wrong?"

"Your mom didn't want me to call; she didn't want to worry you but…"

There was a silence and Jo felt her heart stop as she gripped the phone tightly.

"Dean…is he…"

"Dean's okay, Jo…he's with Sam at the hospital but he's fine."

Jo exhaled slowly and closed her eyes in relief, then immediately felt guilty because if Sam was in the hospital then something bad must have happened.

"God…Sam? What happened?"

"Rich Stampley shot them."

"Je-sus." She hissed the words.

"Yeah, it was touch-and-go for a bit, but it looks like Sam will pull through. He is conscious and already making noises about checking out against medical advice. The sheriff showed up on the scene after your mother did and made an arrest. Rich is being charged with three counts of attempted murder."

"Damn straight…guy's gone crazy over the last few years – drinking and shooting his mouth off every chance he could get. Even Garth said that – wait….three counts?"

"Yeah. He clipped your mom in the shoulder but-"

"Moth-er fucker!" she hissed, the plastic of her phone crackling in her tight grip as she imagined wrapping her fingers around Rich's neck.

"She's fine Jo. She didn't want to make a fuss and told me not to call, but I thought you would want to know."

Rather than sleeping flat on her back, a stack of pillows placed behind her mother's back keep her propped up. Her breathing is steady and Jo relaxes slightly, unconsciously changing her own breathing pattern to match her mother's.

For the first time in fourteen hours, she feels some of the tension drain from her shoulders. Carefully, she steps backwards to make her way out of her mother's room. One of the wooden floorboards creaks loudly as it takes her weight and Jo cringes when her mother's eyes flutter open.

"Stiles? That you, hon?" her voice sounds hoarse and tired, but Jo tightens her lips in annoyance that her mother's first thoughts would be about a stranger. (Serves you right Joanna-Beth, she chides herself, you should have been here, with mama, not cavorting around the Midwest chasing Lestat-wannabies and urban myths come to life!).

"It's me, Mama."

"Jo? What are you -? Dammit. I told Ash not to bother you."

"You are not a bother, Mama. Of course I came." Tears well in her eyes and she rapidly blinks away the moisture. When did she give her mother the impression that she thought she was a bother?

(In the beginning, she had called her mother every other day; but, the deeper into the job she fell the easier it had been to make excuses, caught in the heady excitement of hunting. She thinks back to the last phone call with her mother and winces when she remembered how distracted she'd been, like speaking with her own mother was a chore to get through as quick as possible.)

There is a rustle of blankets and the bedside light is flicked on just in time for Jo to catch the grimace of discomfort flash across her mother's face.

"No – Mama. You should sleep. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Joanna-Beth," her mother begins, sternly "you are never, nor will you ever be, a disturbance to me. Now, come sit" she pats the side of the bed with the hand of her uninjured arm, "and tell me what you have been up to lately."

She should feel more guilt, she thinks as she kicks off her shoes and curls up next to her mother that she is keeping her mother awake but she needs this reassurance that her mother is alive and safe.

A few minutes later, her eyes are fluttering closed and she hears the door open, the soft clattering of china.

"I made you something to drink." The man (seriously, what kind of name is Stiles?) says and she hears her mother hum in appreciation. For some unknown reason it infuriates her, this stranger and the fondness she hears in her mother's tone. She wants to wake, but then she feels the light drag of her mother's fingers across her eyebrows and she relaxes more into the matress.

"Leave it on the nightstand hon. Jo looks so tired and I don't want to wake her up. I will drink it later, after it has a chance to cool down."

"It's not hot. I'll hold it and you drink."

She felt her mother shift and then her mother hummed once more.

"That's …surprisingly good. What did you put in it?"

"That's a secret. I used to make this for my mom…" there is a pause as if he were going to say more, but no more words come forth for a while, gentle slurps are the only sounds in the room.

A long soft sigh and the sound of a cup returning to a saucer signal that the drink is finished. There must have been some type of silent communication because her mother suddenly speaks.

"No, don't wake her. Jo's so busy, I never get to just…it's nice to have her here, like this. Reminds me of when she was young, before Bill died."

Her mother's voice continues softly and it bothers her, this level of comfort that her mother has with this stranger and it may be childish, petulant even but she….she decides she doesn't like him, not one bit.

Of course, it takes less than the space of a week to change her mind.

Now

When she stays at Deuce, she sleeps in one of the more recent additions – an odd room that juts out from the frame of the building and provides shelter from the rain over the back entry to the private quarters. Large bay windows at either end allow the room to catch a view of both sunrise and sunset.

She finds it calming.

(Stiles calls it meditative. Jo tells him to shut his mouth, so of course he repeats it over and over until a grin is tugging at the corner of her mouth and she shakes her head and calls him an idjit.)

One bedroom window overlooks the back of Deuce; to one side, she has a partial view of a large patch of grass mama keeps no higher than an inch in the summer with a smaller, fenced plot of land that contains an herb garden. The other overlooks their personal parking – she has a complete view of Proud Mary, Garth's Ranger, Stiles' tan jeep wrangler and her Ninja that she rides during the summer whenever she stays at Deuce (Mama hates the motorcycle, calls it the Red Ride of Doom whenever she sees Jo about to take off on it. Jo always laughs and corrects her "Not just red, Mama, Jungle Red.").

She has a queen sized bed, its headboard placed against the center of the windowless wall. When she lies on her bed, the flash of starry sky in the evening from either window gives an illusion that civilization has all but disappeared. It is (meditative) relaxing.

Since her mother was shot a few years back, she tries returns to Sioux Falls more frequently and stays longer than an overnight rest. It's easier now, she feels less like an errant teenager being grounded than she did when she first started hunting with Garth. The last hunt was grueling; she's got a new scar that cuts diagonally across her back and Garth took a hit to his knee that has him limping around Singer Salvage as he works the phone lines.

The cut on her back, a souvenir from a hunt two weeks past, has scabbed over enough that it an annoying itch as she ties the waitress apron around her waist and clears abandoned beer bottles from the tables near the pool tables in the back room. She nods at Bryce, the sheriff's deputy, and hooks her forefinger around an abandoned MGD long-neck at a nearby table. She pauses at his table and hides her smile at how long it takes him to take his gaze away from Stiles to look at her.

"What's your poison, tonight, Bryce?"

In reply, he turns his bottle until she can see the Coors logo and tilts it slightly so the light hits the bottle enough for her to see that it is still mostly full. She nods and offers a smile.

"Let me know if you need another."

His attention, though, is focused back on Stiles, who is laughing at something Sam just said. She's taken a few steps when she hears the deputy ask in a hesitant voice. "Does he…is he…with one of them?"

"Stiles? With Sam or Dean?" She looks over and considers for a moment. Dean has a journal out on the bar counter, Stiles had walked around and stands between Sam and Dean. All three men have their heads down, close together. She can see where someone could easily get the wrong impression but without a detailed narrative that outlines the hunter lifestyle, Sam and Dean's childhood and what little she has been able to piece together about Stiles' history, all she can do is shake her head.

"No. They are just …family."

Bryce nods, relief apparent on his face and Jo wants to shake her head in resignation. Bryce and Stiles had dated for a while after the young hunter had moved in with Ellen, but when Bryce began to push for a more serious commitment, Stiles broke things off.

It had been half a year since the break-up, but Bryce shows up at Deuce occasionally, hoping Stiles will change his mind.

Two hours later, she bumps the swinging kitchen door with her hip and slides two plates across the bar counter toward the Winchesters. Dean looks at his plain veggie burger and hearty spinach salad with a resigned sigh; Sam hardly glances at the food, absently stabs his fork into the salad as he flips a page in the journal.

She would stop to chat, but business gets heavier than usual and by the time she has a chance to take a break, the Winchesters are gone. She pulls a tray of bar glasses from the dishwasher in the kitchen and carries them behind the bar. Her attention on the tray, she doesn't notice when the redhead walks in.

Margaret, one of Deuce's cocktail waitresses, walks up to the bar.

"Stiles, honey, got a new one for you tonight," she is clearing the round cocktail tray, placing the dirty glasses into a bin and then washing her hands. "Bet you have never heard of this one before, I know it's a first for me."

Stiles flashes a grin at Margaret as he places clean pint glasses into the freezer under the counter for frosting. "Lay it on me."

"A dirty martini, but" she draws out the vowel in the word and holds up a finger in the universal "wait for it" sign "but instead of gin, the customer wants tequila!"

She grins and smacks her hands playfully down on the bar.

"But that's not all! She doesn't just want any tequila, she wants-"

"Patron." Stiles finishes, his voice is flat enough that Jo looks at him, her curiosity quickly morphing into alarm. His eyes are darting around the bar until they land on a woman sitting at a table near the back. He stills.

"Stiles? What's wrong? You look…" her voice fades off, because she doesn't know how to describe how he looks.

His face is pale, his movements jerky as he pulls the expensive tequila down and adds the liquor to a metal martini shaker. He makes noises under his breath that she can't quite make out but it is clear that he is trying to work through some internal argument.

"…thinks she can just…like she…no, like they" he practically snarls the word and both she and Margaret widen their eyes as he continues to mutter. There is color back on his face, his eyes snapping with fire as he covers the shaker and violently shakes it as he continues with his verbal rant. "…can't just fucking just waltz in here…thinking I would just…just...what? what?"

He stops the ranting and takes a martini glass from the rack. He adds in a splash of Triple Sec and swishes it around in the glass, then dumps the liquid out. Finally he strains the tequila, adds in a half ounce of vermouth, two olives and a few splashes of olive juice.

"Tell her this one is on the house." He pulls out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from his back pocket and tells Margaret to keep the change.

His hands are trembling and Jo reaches out, but he pulls away.

"I need some air." He says and walks out.

She gives him two minutes then treks through the kitchen to find him, but she is too late, Stiles is gone.

Two minutes later she gets two texts.

Jo, can you cover me? Had been the first, followed quickly by the next. Please, no questions.

The air outside is muggy, but she takes a moment to lean back against the brick exterior of Deuce as she stares down at his text.

Take all the time you need, she replies. She shifts her weight and she can feel the rough brick scratch against her back, the material of her t-shirt too thin to offer much of a barrier. The itch from the healing wound on her back has been persistent of late and she resists the wild impulse to use the brick wall as a scratching post.

With a sigh, she straightens and texts as she walks back into Deuce's kitchen.

No questions. I promise.

Margaret picks up the slack on the floor while Jo bartends. She lacks the flair which seems to come naturally to Stiles; the bar counter isn't quite as tidy, gets sticky from spillage as she mixes the drinks and she thinks her tips for the second half of the evening tend to have more to do with her tight t-shirt and less to do with her skills behind the bar.

(The redhead orders another dirty tequila-tini and Jo spitefully uses the house tequila and doesn't measure the olive juice that she splashes into the drink. When Margaret carries the drink to the corner table, Jo stops moving to watch. After a minute, the redhead turns and looks toward the bar, eyes skipping over as she searches. Jo isn't sure what she expects to see, anger or perhaps annoyance. It is neither. It takes her the rest of the shift to place the expression, but at the end of the night, the redhead gathers her belongings and is the last customer to exit the saloon, Jo recognizes the set expression on her face.

Determination.

The next morning, she wakes to two more texts. The first allowed her to heave a sigh of relief (I'm okay.); the second caused her to lift an eyebrow (I'm with Bryce.).

Later, after Deuce opened, she saw two more.

Is she still there?

Followed by:

No, don't answer that.

The tone of his text has a million questions rising to the forefront of her mind.

The next day, when she walks down the stairs to begin her shift, Jo scowls when she sees the redhead sitting in the corner of the bar. She admits that she is burning with curiosity, but her thoughts are focused on Stiles as she busies herself with her bartending duties. Traffic into the bar might be slower than usual, but it allows Jo to do other tasks like cleaning dust from the shelves, taking inventory and marking down supplies that will need to be ordered. She doesn't notice when the redhead leaves the table, but she spies the empty seat just as a particularly boisterous gentleman knocks a glass of beer to the floor.

She needs to walk by the table on her way to grab the mop and sees the laptop and books neatly arranged, waiting to be used, which tells her the redhead is nearby. The cleaning supplies are located near the restrooms, which are adjacent another room that holds four large pool tables, walls lined with narrow counters and a variety of stools. The room is empty, save the redhead, who is speaking on her cell phone.

The redhead's voice rings loud in the quiet of the room, and her words are audible as Jo unlocks the door to the supply closet.

"...don't know what you expected, Scott."

There is a brief silence, then she continues. "Yeah, well he left before I could talk to him and hasn't returned tonight. I think-"

Another silence. Jo has the mop in her hand now and closes the door to the closet then locks it. She has no reason to linger, but finds herself hesitating on the other side of the wall, staining to hear her words. There was a sharp rise in her voice and she spoke faster, her tone argumentative.

"Yeah, well, he doesn't know that. All he knows is what Peter told him and then - well you remember the rest -goddammit, Scott! ...Stop it. Look. You don't have to convince me. I was there, remember? Mortuus es mihi."

The last words are a choked sob. The woman draws a few shaky breaths, then continues.

"No. Haven't seen any sign of him. I don't think he knows Stiles is alive, let alone here. Are you sure you want to meet him - it could put him in more danger-okay. I'll talk to him. However long it takes."

There is another pause, when she speaks again, her voice is soft.

"Yeah, Scott. He seemed really happy here. It's what we wanted for him, it's why we stayed away, after all...yeah, I know. I didn't think it would hurt this much either."

Chewing her lip, she mulls over the words as she returns to clean up the spilled beer on the floor.

Later that evening, the crunch of tires upon gravel waken her, which is no surprise as she slept lightly that night. The dark sky has faded to a deep, soft gray, a signal that dawn is not far away. With a slight rise, she places a palm on the bed to get enough leverage to look out one window just as she hears the muffled thump of a car door being closed. Or Jeep door in this case.

Quickly, she swings her feet off of the mattress foregoing the slippers in her haste to leave her room. Lightly, she pads down the hallway and the back stairs. Wordlessly, Stiles shuffles by, makes a beeline for the bar counter, lined with a row of upside down stools.

He doesn't speak until after he pulls down a stool and sits. With his elbows on the counter, he holds his head in his hands, turns his head slightly and looks at her through the space created by his arm.

"You get my texts?" his voice is gravelly and raw and worry bubbles within her gut as she crosses the bar.

She nods, taking the last few steps until she is behind the bar. He sighs and looks at her.

"I'm sorry. For leaving like that. I promise, I won't disappear like that again."

"Stiles, are you-"

"No questions, Jo. You promised. Okay?" she nods and his hard tone softens slightly. "Not now, at least. I'm tired. I'll see you when my shift starts."

He slides off the chair and turns to walk away. That evening, he confronts the redhead. Their conversation is hushed but a few words carry clearly across the room. When the redhead leaves, she has a tight feeling in her chest that this is only the beginning. Ash bets her the woman will be back. She takes the bed and desperately hopes to win, though she suspects he is right.

The tight feeling lessens over the next few weeks. Stiles starts to smile a little more and things appear to go back to normal.

Until the night Bryce gets a call about an abandoned tan jeep parked on the side of the highway. The fabric on the seats is torn, the passenger door is dented and hangs haphazardly, like something was trying to tear it from the jeep. There is an alarming amount of blood and Stiles is...gone.

Hands shaking as she dials the number, she calls the Winchesters. Bryce has organized a manhunt and has towns people searching the wooded area near the highway. She is at Bobby's where he and Garth are unhooking the jeep from the tow truck. The dents and blood are alarming enough to make her dizzy, but it is the deeply gouged marks on the side of the that have her feel like throwing up.

When Dean answers, she can hardly speak.

Stiles is gone. The jeep was abandoned. There is blood. Stiles is gone.

Dean assures her they are on their way and she is about to disconnect the call when she realizes the scratches on the jeep aren't just scratches. They are words.

"Dean," she asks, her fingers griping the phone tightly, "what does 'Morduus es mihi' mean?"

"Why do you ask" his tone is low, cautious..

"The words are scratched on Stiles' jeep."

"Son of a bitch!" he growls. "It means we need to find him. Fast."

He hangs up before she can ask further.

Jo closes her phone and gets on her motorcycle to join the hunt for Stiles.

Had she stayed on the phone a few seconds longer, she would have heard the distinct sound of a third party disconnecting from the call as well.