Season 1, Episode 1: A Long Way from Home

Bobby Singer made himself wait until he'd picked up dinner, checked into the motel, and cracked open a cold beer before he dialed the phone.  He couldn't stop himself from tensing as the phone rang.  What if she didn't pick up?

Hours away from Bobby's room, Ellen Harvelle stoked the fire.  Summer was scarcely over, too early to need a fire, but it had seemed right to light one, with the others all away from the house.  

She hefted the fire poker in her hand before she put it away, aware of its weight, the fact that it was made of iron.   A potential weapon, one of several within her reach, but the house felt safe in spite of its air of anticipation.  

When the phone rang she hurried to pick it up.

"Bobby.  Good to hear your voice.  I take it Caleb skipped town once he knew you were on to him?"

He pushed aside the relief he felt, impatient with emotions he didn't want to face.  It made his tone sharp when he replied, "That's just it, Ellen, he didn't.  Went right back to work at that tire place the next morning like nothin' happened."

"That's strange.  I was sure he'd run.  Did you confront him?"  Ellen asked.

"Yeah."  Bobby waited a beat.  "That's when he threatened to call the cops on me."  He wasn't disappointed.   She swore, clearly shocked.

"He wouldn't!"

"Caleb wouldn't.  But this 'Blake' feller, he ain't Caleb.  It's like Caleb don't exist anymore."  He took took a steadying breath.  "To tell the truth, Ellen, it's got me spooked.  First Pam Barnes, then Annie Hawkins, now Caleb.   What if I'm next?  Or Rufus, or Missouri?"

"That ain't gonna happen,"  Ellen said firmly.  "Rufus and Missouri both checked in, right on schedule, and so did you, isn't that so?   We're talkin' right now.  You're not gonna run off and forget yourself."

"Damn right I'm not."  Saying it helped him believe it.  "Anything interestin' going on back in the suburbs?"

"Not unless your idea of interesting is going through old deeds and tax records.  House seems to be gettin' ready for another one, though."

"Any idea who?  Any clues?"  Bobby's interest was piqued.  The house seemed almost sentient, coyly dropping hints just before another hunter arrived.  

"Nothing yet, just a feeling,"  Ellen said.  "Did you eat?" she demanded, changing the subject.

"I picked up something from a Chinese take-out place."

"Well, be sure you eat it, before it gets cold,"  Ellen said, responding to what Bobby didn't say.  "And don't you think of startin' back here until you've gotten some sleep."

"Don't you mother hen me, woman."

Ellen chuckled.  "Don't you 'woman' me, you old grouch.  I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow,"  Bobby agreed.  "Goodnight, Ellen."

He grabbed the bottle of beer from the bedside table and finished it off.  Then, in an effort to follow Ellen's advice, he poked at the take-out box of beef and broccoli without enthusiasm.  

Bobby couldn't stomach more than a couple of bites, the unsettling encounter with the thoroughly civilian Blake still gnawing its way through his gut.  Would that be his fate, too, after everything he'd done and seen, to forget it all?   Maybe that was the only way for hunters to rest easy, he thought.

Boots and battered trucker's cap off, and he was as ready as he'd ever be for some shut-eye.

Ellen ended the call and reached for one of the musty old books, but her mind was a million miles away from studying property titles and transfers.  She sat for a long time listening to the quiet, mundane noises of the old house, the book in her hands forgotten.  Someone new was coming.  Soon, the house promised with every faint groan, ping, and creak.  Who would it be?

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